F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 Read online

  Midnight Mass

  F Paul Wilson

  F. PAUL WILSON

  MIDNIGHT MASS

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  MIDNIGHT MASS

  Copyright © 2004 by F. Paul Wilson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  This book is printed on acid-free paper.

  Edited by David H. Hartwell

  Book design by Milenda Nan Ok Lee

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Wilson, F. Paul (Francis Paul)

  Midnight Mass / F. Paul Wilson.—1st ed.

  p. cm. "A Tom Doherty Associates book." ISBN 0-765-30705-7 EAN 978-0765-30705-7

  1. Vampires—Fiction. 2. New Jersey—Fiction. 3. New York (N.Y)—Fiction. 4. Clergy-Fiction. 5. Rabbis—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3573.I45695M53 2004 813'.54—dc22

  2003065048

  First Edition: April 2004

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  - 1 -

  - 2 -

  - 3 -

  - 4 -

  - 5 -

  - PART TWO -

  - 6 -

  - 7 -

  - 8 -

  - 9 -

  - 10 -

  - 11 -

  - 12 -

  - 13 -

  - 14 -

  - 15 -

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  Midnight Mass was born out of my dissatisfaction with the tortured romantic aesthetes who have been passing lately for vampires. Stephen King gave us the real deal in 'Salem's Lot, but what gives since then? I wanted to get back to the roots—go retro, if you will—and write about the soulless, merciless, parasitic creatures we all knew and loved.

  My premise going in was that all the legends about the undead were true: they feared crosses, were killed by sunlight (all right, I'm told that one originated with F. W. Murnau's Nosferatu, so it's not really legend, but it has become part of the lore), were burned by holy water and crucifixes, cast no reflection, etcetera. You know them as well as I do.

  I also adopted the position that all the Catholic Church's mythology is true as well. Vampire lore has been inextricably entwined with Catholic imagery. I was raised a Catholic and, though now in recovery, I feel very much at home with its icons.

  Then I took Ted Sturgeon's advice and started asking the next question. The mythic power of the cross over the undead led me to a concept I'd touched on in The Keep, and I decided to explore it further.

  I've known since I began writing in the early 1970s that some day I'd have to do one, so here it is: my vampire novel. (No, The Keep was a pseudovampire novel. This one's the real deal.)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Kim Newman for allowing me to borrrow his usage of the word "get" as it pertains to vampires and those they've transformed into their own kind (though I've burdened the concept with more plot weight here). There are equivalent terms in the language, but certainly none with such a perfect Old World feel. If you haven't read Kim's wonderful Anno Dracula novels, you are missing a rare treat.

  And, of course, a special nod to Richard Matheson, who first tilled this soil with I Am Legend.

  - 1 -

  ZEV . . .

  Gasping in horror and revulsion, Zev Wolpin stumbled away from St. Anthony's Church. He stretched his arms before him, reaching into the dark for something, anything, to support him before he fell.

  Leaves slapped his face, twigs tugged at his graying beard as he plowed into foliage. His bike.. . where was his bike? He thought he'd left it in a clump of bushes, but obviously not this clump. Had to find it, had to get away from this place. But the dark made him disoriented ... the dark, and what he'd just witnessed.

  He'd heard whispers, stories he couldn't, wouldn't, believe, so he'd come to see for himself, to prove them wrong. Instead .. .

  Zev bent at the waist and retched. Nothing but a bubble of bile and acid came up, searing the back of his throat.

  The whispers were only partly true. The truth was worse. The truth was unspeakable.

  He straightened and looked around in the darkness. Wan light from the crescent moon in the cloud-streaked sky made the shadows deeper, and Zev feared the shadows. Then he spotted a curving glint of light from the chrome on his bike's front wheel. He ran to it, yanked it by the handlebars from its hiding place, and hopped on.

  His aging knees protested as he pedaled away along dark and silent streets lined with dark and silent houses, heading south when he should have been going west, but away was all that mattered now.

  Lakewood was a small town, maybe ten miles from the Atlantic Ocean; a place where the Rockefeller family was said to have vacationed. So it didn't matter much if he headed south or north, he wouldn't be far from the place he now called home. The town was once home to fifty thousand or more before the undead came. Now he'd be surprised if there were a thousand left. He'd heard it was the same all up and down the East Coast.

  The exertion helped clear his mind. He had to be careful. Prudent he hadn't been. In fact, he'd been downright reckless tonight, venturing out after sundown and sneaking up on St. Anthony's. Schmuck! What had he been thinking? He prayed he didn't pay for it with his life. Or worse.

  He shuddered at the thought of ending up the victim in a ceremony like the one he'd witnessed tonight. He had to find temporary shelter until dawn. Even then he wouldn't be safe, but at least there wouldn't be so many shadows.

  The blue serge suit coat that had once fit rather snugly now hung loose on his half-starved frame and flapped behind him as he rode. He'd had to punch new holes in his belt to hold up the pants. He'd complained so often about not being able to lose weight. Nothing to it, really. Simply don't eat.

  His ever-hungry stomach rumbled. How could it think of food after what he'd just seen?

  A shadow passed over him.

  A blast of cold dread banished any concern about his next meal. His aging neck protested as he glanced up at the sky, praying to see a cloud near the moon. But the glowing crescent sat alone in a clear patch of night.

  No! Please! He increased his speed, his legs working like pistons against the pedals. Not a flying one!

  Zev heard something like a laugh above and behind him. He ducked, all but pressing his face to the handlebars. Something swooped by, clawing at the back of his coat as it passed. Its grip slipped but the glancing impact was enough to disrupt Zev's balance. His front wheel wobbled, the bike tipped to the left and hit the curb, sending him flying.

  Zev landed hard on his left shoulder, his lungs emptying with a grunt. His momentum carried him onto his back. What he saw circling above him made him forget his pain. He rolled over and struggled to his feet. He instinctively checked the yarmulke clipped to his thinning gray hair, then gripped the cross dangling from a string around his neck. That might save him in close quarters, but not from a creature that could swoop down from any angle. He felt like a field mouse under the cold gaze of a hawk.

  He started running. He didn't know where he was going but knew he had to move. The bike was no good. He needed a tight space where his back was protected and he could use the cross to keep his attacker at bay. One of these houses, maybe. A basement, even a sewer drain—anyplace but out here in the open
where—

  "Here! Over here!"

  A woman's voice, calling in a stage whisper to his left. Zev looked across an overgrown lawn, saw only a large tree, a pine of some sort with branches almost brushing the ground.

  "Quick! In the tree!"

  A trap maybe. A team this could be—a winged one driving prey into the arms of another on the ground. He'd never heard of anything like it, but that meant nothing.

  A glance over his shoulder showed him that the creature had half folded its wings and was diving his way from above. No choice now. Zev veered left for the tree and whatever waited within its shadowed branches.

  He was almost there when the woman's voice shouted, "Down!"

  Zev obeyed, diving for the grass. He heard a hiss of rage, felt the wind from the creature's wings as it hurtled past no more than a foot or two above him. He lurched back to his feet and staggered forward. Pale hands reached from the branches and pulled him into the shadows.

  "Are you all right?" the woman said.

  He couldn't see her—she was a shadow among the shadows—but her voice sounded young.

  "Yes. No. If you mean am I hurt, no."

  But all right? No, he was not all right. Never again would he be all right.

  "Good." She grabbed his hands and pressed them against a tree limb. "Hold on to this branch. Steady it while I try to break it. Quick, before it makes another pass."

  The dead branch sat chest high and felt about half an inch in diameter. With Zev steadying it, the woman threw her weight hard against it. The wood snapped with a loud crack.

  "What are you—?"

  She shushed him. "It's coming back."

  She moved to the edge of the trees, carrying the branch with her. Zev watched her, silhouetted against the moonlit lawn. Average height, short dark hair were all he gained about her looks. He saw her crouch, then hurl her branch like a spear at the creature as it swooped by on another pass. She missed and high-pitched derisive laughter trailed into the sky.

  She returned to Zev, stopped on the other side of the broken branch, and patted the front of his shirt. She pulled him close and whispered in his ear.

  "Your cross—tuck it away."

  "No! It will—"

  "Do as I say. They can see in the dark. And try to look frightened."

  Try? Who had to try?

  She put an arm around him to hold him close, keeping the branch between them.

  Another whisper: "Pull out that cross when I tell you."

  Zev had no idea what she was up to but had nowhere else to turn, so . . .

  Her grip on him tightened. "Here it comes. Ready ..."

  Zev could see it now, a dark splotch among the shadows of the branches, wings spread, gliding in low, arms stretched out before it.

  ". . . ready . . ."

  Suddenly it folded its wings and shot at them like a missile.

  "Now!"

  As Zev pulled out the cross he felt the woman shove him away. He lost his balance and tumbled back, saw her fall in the other direction, felt a clawed hand grip his shoulder, heard the creature's screech of triumph rise into a wail of shock and agony as it slammed against the trunk of the tree.

  Zev regained his feet amid the frantic and furious struggling of the hissing creature. Its charging attack had opened a passage through the branches, lightening the shadows. As he ducked its thrashing wings he realized it had impaled itself on the broken branch. It flopped back and forth like a speared fish, then pushed away from the trunk, trying to dislodge itself from the wood that had pierced its chest.

  Zev turned to run. Now was his chance to get away from this thing. But what of the woman? He couldn't abandon her.

  He spotted her standing behind the creature. She'd hiked up her already short skirt and kicked at the thing's back, shoving it further onto the branch. The creature howled and thrashed, and in its struggles broke the branch off the trunk with a gunshot crack.

  Free now, it whirled and staggered out into the moonlight. Its wings flapped but couldn't seem to lift it. Perhaps ten feet beyond the branches it dropped to its knees. The woman was right behind it, giving it another kick. It rolled onto its back, clawing at the wooden shaft that jutted two or three feet from its chest. Its movements were weaker now, its wings lay crumpled beneath it. Howling and writhing in agony, it gripped the branch and started to slide it out of its chest.

  "No, you don't!" the woman cried.

  She gripped the upper end, shoving it back down and leaning on it to hold it in place.

  "This is for Bern!" she screamed, naked fury rawing her voice. "This is what you made me do to her! How does it feel? How does it feel?"

  For an instant Zev wondered who was more frightening, this screeching woman or the struggling monster she held pinned to the earth.

  The creature clawed and kicked at her, almost knocking her over. He had to help. If that thing got free ...

  Mouth dry, heart pounding, Zev forced himself from the shadows and added his own weight to the branch. He felt it punch deeper into the thing's chest. Then a sickening scrape as it thrust past ribs and into the ground beneath.

  The creature's struggles became abruptly feebler. He saw now that it was a female. It might have been beautiful once, but the sickly pallor and the bared fangs robbed it of any attractiveness.

  Finally it shuddered and lay still. Zev watched in amazement as its wings shriveled and disappeared.

  "Gevalt!" he whispered, although he didn't know why. "You did it! You killed one!"

  He'd heard they could be killed—all the old folk tales said they could be - but he'd never actually seen one die, never even met anyone who had.

  It was good to know they could be killed.

  "We did." She finally released her grip on the branch but her gaze remained locked on the creature. "If you have a soul," she said, "may God have mercy on it."

  What was this? Like a harpy, she screeches, then she blesses the thing. A madwoman, this was.

  She faced him. "I'm sorry for my outburst. I... it's just..." She seemed to lose her train of thought, as if something had distracted her. "Anyway, thank you for the help."

  "You saved my life, young lady. It's me who should be thanking."

  She was staring at him. "You're Rabbi Wolpin, aren't you."

  Shock stole his voice for a few heartbeats. She knew him?

  "Why ... yes. But I don't recognize ..."

  She laughed. A bitter sound. "Please, God, I hope not."

  He could see her now. Nothing familiar about her features, no particular style to her short dark hair. He noticed a tiny crescent scar on the right side of her chin. Heavy on the eye makeup—very heavy. A tight red sweater and even tighter short black skirt hid little of her slim body. And were those fishnet stockings?

  A prostitute? In these times? Such a thing he never would have dreamed. But then he remembered hearing of women selling themselves to get food and favors.

  "So, you know me how?"

  She shrugged. "I used to see you with Father Cahill."

  "Joe Cahill," Zev said, feeling a burst of warmth at the mention of his friend's name. "I was just over at his church. I saw ..." The words choked off.

  "I know. I've—" She waved her hand before her face. "She's starting to stink already. Must be an older one."

  Zev looked down and saw that the creature was already in an advanced state of rot.

  "We'd better get out of here," the woman said, backing away. "They seem to know when one of their kind dies. Get your bike and meet me by the tree."

  Zev continued to stare at the corpse. "Are they always so hard to kill?"

  "I don't think the branch went all the way through the heart at first."

  "Nu? You've done this before?"

  Her expression was bleak as she looked at him. "Let's not talk about it."

  When Zev wheeled his bike back to the tree he found her standing beside a child's red wagon, an old-fashioned Radio Flyer. A book bag emblazoned with St. Anthony's School lay i
n the wagon. He hadn't noticed either earlier. She must have had them hidden among the branches.

  She said, "You mentioned you were at St. Anthony's. Why?"

  "To see if what I'd heard was true." The urge to retch gripped Zev again. "To think that was Father Cahill's church."

  "He wasn't the pastor."

  "Not in name, maybe, but they were his flock. He was the glue that held them together. Someone should tell him what's going on."

  "Oh, yes. That would be wonderful. But nobody knows where he is, or if he's even alive." I do.

  Her hand shot out and gripped his arm, squeezing. "He's alive?"

  "Yes," Zev said, taken aback by her intensity. "At least I think so."

  Her grip tightened. "Where?"

  He wondered if he'd made a mistake telling her. He tried not to sound evasive. "A retreat house. Have I been there? No. But it's near the beach, I'm told."

  True enough, and he knew the address. After Joe had been moved out of St. Anthony's rectory to the retreat house, he and Zev still shared many phone conversations. At least until the creatures came. Then the phones stopped working and Zev's time became devoted more to survival than to keeping up with old friends.

  "You've got to find him! You've got to tell him! He'll come back when he finds out and he'll make them pay!"

  "A mensch, he is, I agree, but only one man."

  "No! Many of his parishioners are still alive, but they're afraid. They're defeated. But if Father Joe came back, they'd have hope. They'd see that it wasn't over. They'd regain the will to fight."

  "Like you?"

  "I'm different," she said, the fervor slipping from her voice. "I never lost the will to fight. But my circumstances are special."

  "How?"

  "It's not important. I'm not important. But Father Joe is. Find him, Rabbi Wolpin. Don't put it off. Find him tomorrow and tell him. When he hears what they've done to his church he'll come back and teach them a lesson they'll never forget!"

  Zev didn't know about that, but it would be good to see his young friend again. Searching him out would be a mitzvah for St. Anthony's, but might be good for Zev as well. It might offer some shape to his life ... a life that had devolved to mere existence, an endless, mind-numbing round of searching for food and shelter while avoiding the creatures by night and the human slime who did their bidding during the day.