The 1000 Souls (Book 1): Apocalypse Revolution by Michael Andre McPherson

death.
    A snap and a sharp pain—a vibrating shock—on Bertrand's shoulder broke his concentration on his struggle. The women with the knife collapsed on the floor, jerking spasmodically as if in an epileptic fit. There was another snapping noise, and a new shock radiated through Bertrand's back where it was in contact with the man who held him prisoner.
    The room tipped away, and Bertrand couldn't free his arms to save himself from the fall. His head slammed the wood floor, dazing and confusing him, only the body underneath cushioning his fall and sparing him other injury.
    People screamed and let go of him, which allowed him to turn and shove up to his hands and knees, fighting to regain control of his muscles. Why wasn't his body obeying commands? Why was it hard to breathe?
    Joyce's shout penetrated the throbbing music. "Get up, Bert. Quick! We have to get out of here!"
    A hand heaved under his arm, pulling and struggling to help him rise. He fought his spasmodic muscles into a semblance of control and staggered to his feet. Joyce held his arm and brandished a wicked-looking Taser at a circle of angry faces, several of the dancers now brandishing short knives and one man aiming a handgun.
    Joyce kept turning them, hauling Bertrand around with her to threaten different parts of the crowd. "Stay back!" she shouted. "Stay back or I'll put forty-thousand volts through you!"
    On the floor near them lay the man and the woman, both still writhing. When it looked like the woman might gain enough control over her muscles to crawl, Joyce lunged in, leaving Bertrand to stand on his own, and tasered the woman again with a snap of the weapon. The woman screamed and convulsed, the word "Bitch!" the only clear curse.
    Joyce grabbed Bertrand's arm. "Crap, we're so doomed. I'm sorry, Bert."
    Bertrand shouted more for the crowd that threatened them than to Joyce.
    "Well we won't go down without one hell of a fight!" He felt a thrill—a relief. After years of loneliness and purposelessness, after months of sensing an enemy but not being able to bring it to battle, he could finally do something. He could take as many of these cultist sickos with him as possible. They might drink his blood in the end, but not without a price. He was free to fight.
    He pulled away from Joyce's grasp and put his back to hers so that they faced opposite sides of the threatening circle of people. "I can stand!" he shouted to her, putting up his fists as Fish had taught him, one by his hip, the other extended to hold back his opponent. "You wouldn't have another of those Tasers, would you?"
    "No. I'll do my best with this one."
    "Try and cut a path through to the stairs. I've got your back."
    The music shut down as if the power had failed, but the disco balls and the lasers proved this wasn't the case.
    A loud voice called from the bar: "Wait!"
    Several more voices took up the call, and the young bartender, trailing his broken chain from his collar, came rushing into the circle, brandishing a sawed-off shotgun, taking up a position with Bertrand and Joyce, his back to them and the gun threatening the crowd.
    "The boss says wait!" He shouted. "Everybody just fucking chill. No evolutions in his club! Clear over there. Here he comes!"
    Several people looked where the bartender had gestured with the shotgun. Three big men in heavy black cloaks parted the crowd, shoving and pushing those who were slow to clear. No one argued or complained, and the people closer to the circle had enough warning to draw aside, creating a human-walled corridor.
    The bodyguards took up positions on either side of the path they had cleared, staying back with the circle and not threatening the three in the center. A man walked between them, obviously the boss.
    His height didn't exactly proclaim his authority, for he was a little on the short side, but he walked with an air of confidence—a man used to command. His stocky build spoke of tough old muscle, a life of hardship, but it was his