F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 Page 12

  Before Joe could get to the truth, however, the bishop had stepped in and removed Joe from the parish. Joe left under a cloud that had followed him to the retreat house in the next county and hovered over him till this day. The only place he'd found even brief respite from the impotent anger and bitterness that roiled under his skin and soured his gut every minute of every day was in the bottle—and that was sure as hell a dead end.

  So why had he agreed to come back here? To torture himself? Or to get a look at Palmeri and see how low he had sunk?

  Maybe that was it. Maybe seeing Palmeri wallowing in his true element would give Joe the impetus to put the whole St. Anthony's incident behind him and rejoin what was left of the human race—which needed all the help it could get.

  And maybe it wouldn't.

  Getting back on track was a nice thought, but over the past few months Joe had found it increasingly difficult to give much of a damn about anyone or anything.

  Except maybe Zev. The old rabbi had stuck by him through the worst of it, defending him to anyone who would listen. But an endorsement from an Orthodox rabbi hadn't meant diddly in St. Anthony's.

  Yesterday Zev had biked all the way to Spring Lake to see him. Old Zev was all right.

  And he'd been right about the number of undead here too. Lakewood was crawling with the things. Fascinated and repelled, Joe had watched the streets fill with them shortly after sundown.

  But what had disturbed him more were the creatures he'd seen before sundown.

  The humans. Live ones.

  The collaborators. The ones Zev called Vichy.

  If there was anything lower, anything that deserved true death more than the undead themselves, it was the still-living humans who worked for them.

  A hand touched his shoulder and he jumped. Zev. He was holding something out to him. Joe took it and held it up in the moonlight: a tiny crescent moon dangling from a chain on a ring.

  "What's this?"

  "An earring. The local Vichy wear them. The earrings identify them to the local nest of undead. They are spared."

  "Where'd you get it?"

  Zev's face was hidden in the shadows. "The previous owner ... no longer needs it.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Zev sighed. He sounded embarrassed. "Some group has been killing the local Vichy. I don't know how many they've eliminated, but I came across one in my wanderings. Not such a pleasant task, but I forced myself to relieve the body of its earring. Just in case."

  Joe found it hard to imagine the old pre-occupation Zev performing such a grisly task, but these were different times.

  "Just in case what?"

  "In case I needed to pretend to be one of them."

  Joe had to laugh. "I can't see that fooling them for a second."

  "Maybe a second is all I'd need. But it will look better on you. Put it on."

  "My ear's not pierced."

  A gnarled hand moved into the moonlight. Joe saw a long needle clasped between the thumb and index finger. "That I can fix," Zev said.

  * * *

  "On second thought," Zev whispered as they crouched in the deep shadows on St. Anthony's western flank, "maybe you shouldn't see this."

  Puzzled, Joe squinted at him in the darkness.

  "You lay a guilt trip on me to get me here, you make a hole in my ear, and now you're having second thoughts?"

  "It is horrible like I can't tell you."

  Joe thought about that. Certainly there was enough horror in the world outside St. Anthony's. What purpose did it serve to see what was going inside?

  Because it used to be my church.

  Even though he'd been an associate pastor, never fully in charge, and even though he'd been unceremoniously yanked from the post, St. Anthony's had been his first parish. He was back. He might as well know what they were doing inside.

  "Show me."

  Zev led him to a pile of rubble under a smashed stained glass window. He pointed up to where faint light flickered from inside.

  "Look in there."

  "You're not coming?"

  "Once was enough, thank you."

  Joe climbed as carefully, as quietly as he could, all the while becoming increasingly aware of a growing stench like putrid, rotting meat. It was coming from inside, wafting through the broken window. Steeling himself, he straightened and peered over the sill.

  For a moment he felt disoriented, like someone peering out the window of a Brooklyn apartment and seeing the rolling hills of a Kansas farm. This could not be the interior of St. Anthony's.

  In the flickering light of dozens of sacramental candles he saw that the walls were bare, stripped of all their ornaments, including the plaques for the Stations of the Cross; the dark wood was scarred and gouged wherever there had been anything remotely resembling a cross. The floor too was mostly bare, the pews ripped from their neat rows and hacked to pieces, their splintered remains piled high at the rear under the choir balcony.

  And the giant crucifix that had dominated the space behind the altar— only a portion remained. The cross pieces on each side had been sawed off so that an armless, life-size Christ now hung upside down against the rear wall of the sanctuary.

  Joe took in all that in a flash; then his attention gravitated to the unholy congregation that peopled St. Anthony's this night. The collaborators—the Vichy humans—made up the periphery of the group. Some looked like bikers and trailer-park white trash, but others looked like normal, everyday people. What bonded them was the crescent-moon earring dangling from every right earlobe.

  But the rest, the group gathered in the sanctuary—Joe felt his hackles rise at the sight of them. They surrounded the altar in a tight knot. He recognized some of them: Mayor Davis, Reverend Dalton, and others, their pale, bestial faces, bereft of the slightest trace of human warmth, compassion, or decency, turned upward. His gorge rose when he saw the object of their rapt attention.

  A naked teenage boy—his hands tied behind his back, was suspended over the altar by his ankles. He was sobbing and choking, his eyes wide and vacant with shock, his mind all but gone. The skin had been flayed from his forehead—apparently the Vichy had found an expedient solution to the cross tattoo—and blood ran in a slow stream across his abdomen and chest from his freshly truncated genitals. And beside him, standing atop the altar, a bloody-mouthed creature dressed in a long cassock. Joe recognized the thin shoulders, the graying hair trailing from the balding crown, but was shocked at the crimson vulpine grin he flashed to the things clustered below him.

  "Now," said the creature in a lightly accented voice Joe had heard a thousand times from St. Anthony's pulpit.

  Father Alberto Palmeri.

  From the group a hand reached up with a straight razor and drew it across the boy's throat. As the blood sprang from the vessels and flowed down over his face, those below squeezed and struggled forward like hatchling vultures to catch the falling drops and scarlet trickles in their open mouths.

  Joe fell away from the window and vomited. He felt Zev grab his arm and lead him away. He was vaguely aware of crossing the street and heading back toward the ruined legal office.

  ZEV . . .

  "Why in God's name did you want me to see that?"

  Zev looked across the office toward the source of the words. He could make out a vague outline where Father Joe sat on the floor, his back against the wall, the open bottle of Scotch in his hand. The priest had taken one drink since their return, no more.

  "I thought you should know what they were doing to your church." He felt bad about the immediate effect on Joe, but he was hoping the long-term consequences would benefit him and others.

  "So you've said. But what's the reason behind that one?"

  Zev shrugged in the darkness. "I'd gathered you weren't doing well, that even before everything else began falling apart, you had already fallen apart. So when this woman who saved me urged me to find you, I took up the quest and came to see you. Just as I expected, I found a man who
was angry at everything and letting it eat up his guderim. I thought maybe it would be good to give that man something very specific to be angry at."

  "You bastard!" Father Joe whispered. "Who gave you the right?"

  "Friendship gave me the right, Joe. I should know that you are rotting away and do nothing? I have no congregation of my own anymore so I turned my attention on you. Always I was a somewhat meddlesome rabbi."

  "Still are. Out to save my soul, ay?"

  "We rabbis don't save souls. Guide them maybe, hopefully give them direction. But only you can save your soul, Joe."

  Silence hung in the air for a while. Suddenly the crescent-moon earring Zev had given Father Joe landed in the puddle of moonlight on the floor between them. He noticed a speck of crimson on the post.

  "Why do they do it?" the priest said. "The Vichy—why do they collaborate?"

  "The first ones are quite unwilling, believe me. They cooperate because their wives and children are held hostage by the undead. But before too long the dregs of humanity begin to slither out from under their rocks and offer their services in exchange for the immortality of vampirism."

  "Why bother working for them? Why not just bare your throat to the nearest bloodsucker?"

  "That's what I thought at first," Zev said. "But as I witnessed the Lakewood holocaust I detected their pattern. After the immediate onslaught—and the burning of the bodies of their first victims—they change tactics. They can choose who joins their ranks, so after they've fully infiltrated a population, they start to employ a different style of killing. For only when the undead draws the life's blood from the throat with its fangs does the victim become one of them. Anyone drained as in the manner of that boy in the church tonight dies a true death. He's as dead now as someone run over by a truck. He will not rise tomorrow night."

  "So the Vichy work for them for the opportunity of getting their blood sucked the old-fashioned way."

  "And joining the undead ranks."

  Zev heard no humor in the soft laugh that echoed across the room from Father Joe.

  "Great. Just great. I never cease to be amazed at our fellow human beings. Their capacity for good is exceeded only by their ability to debase themselves."

  "Hopelessness does strange things, Joe. The undead know that. So they rob us of hope. That's how they beat us. They transform our friends and neighbors and leaders into their own, leaving us feeling alone, completely cut off. Some can't take the despair and kill themselves."

  "Hopelessness," Joe said. "A potent weapon."

  After a long silence, Zev said, "So what are you going to do now, Father Joe?"

  Another bitter laugh from across the room.

  "I suppose this is the place where I declare that I've found new purpose in life and will now go forth into the world as a fearless vampire killer."

  "Such a thing would be nice."

  "Well screw that. I'm only going as far as across the street."

  "To St. Anthony's?"

  Zev saw Father Joe take a swig from the Scotch bottle and then screw the cap on tight.

  "Yeah. To see if there's anything I can do over there."

  "Father Palmeri and his nest might not like that."

  "I told you, don't call him Father. And screw him. Nobody can do what he's done and get away with it. I'm taking my church back."

  In the dark, behind his beard, Zev smiled.

  COWBOYS . . .

  Al had the car out on his own. He wasn't supposed to, gas being hard to come by and all, but he needed to be alone, or at least away from Kenny. Yeah, sure, they'd been friends forever but they'd never been together 24-7. Usually the four of them played cards and did some drinking before turning in. But Jackie was out of commission and Stan was still pissed and wasn't playing cards with nobody, so that left Al with just Kenny.

  They all lived together in one of the big mansions off Hope Road. Stan liked to brag that one of the Mets used to live there. Big deal. The place had all the comforts of home: electricity from a generator, videotapes and DVDs—with a good selection of porn—and a fridge full of beer. But sometimes Kenny could wear you out, man. Big time. Like tonight.

  Al was feeling better already, banging his head in time to Insane Clown Posse's "Cemetery Girl" as he cruised the dark streets.

  He looked up. Clouds hid the moon. He wished it was out and full. Amazing how dark a residential street could be when there was no traffic, no street lights. At least he had his headlights and—

  Whoa. He hit the brakes. He'd just passed someone on the sidewalk. Someone female looking. And not too old.

  He quick took off his earring and flipped the Caddy into reverse. He kept the earring palmed, ready to flash it if the lady turned out to be one of the bloodsuckers, but otherwise keeping it out of sight just in case this was somebody looking for a new cowboy to kill.

  He did a slow backup while he searched the shadows and moonlit patches. Nothing. Shit. Either he was seeing things or he'd spooked her.

  He was just about to slam back into DRIVE when he heard a voice. A woman's voice.

  "Hey, mister."

  Al grabbed his flashlight from the passenger seat and beamed it toward the voice.

  A woman half hiding behind a tree in the bushes. Not undead. Maybe thirty, skinny but not bad looking. He played the light up and down her. Short dark hair, lots of eye makeup, a red sweater tight over decent-size boobs, a short black skirt very tight over black stockings.

  Despite the alarm bells going off in his brain, Al ignored them as he felt his groin start to swell. He left the car in the middle of the street—like he had to worry about getting a ticket, right?—and walked over to her.

  "Who're you?"

  She smiled. No, not bad looking at all.

  "My name's Carole," she said. "You got any food?"

  "Some." Yeah, she looked like she could use a few good meals. "But not a whole helluva lot."

  Actually, he had a lot of food, but saw no reason to let her know that.

  "Can you spare any?"

  "I might be able to help you out some. Depends on how many mouths we're talking about."

  "Just me and my kid."

  The words jumped out of his mouth before he could stop them: "You got a kid?"

  She waved her hands in quick, nervous moves. "Don't worry. She's only four. She don't eat much."

  A four-year-old. Two kids in one day. Almost too good to be true.

  His brain kicked into overdrive. How to play this? For a while now he'd had this little scheme of keeping a piece on the side, with neither the bloodsuckers or the posse knowing nothing about her. He'd get her a house, keep her fed, keep her protected. But it sounded like this Carole already had herself a house. Even better. She could stay where she was and he'd visit her whenever he could get away. She treated him right, they could play house for a while. She gave him any trouble, like holding out on him, she and her brat became gifts to Gregor. That was where they were going to wind up anyway, but no reason Al couldn't get some use out of her before she became some bloodsucker's meal or wound up on a cattle farm.

  And maybe he'd get real lucky. Maybe she'd get pregnant before he turned her in.

  "Well... all right," he said, trying to sound reluctant. "Bring her out where I can see her."

  "She's home asleep."

  "Alone?" Al was like immediately pissed. He already considered that kid his property. He didn't want no bloodsucker sneaking in and robbing him of what was rightfully his. "What if—?"

  "Don't worry. I've got her surrounded by crosses."

  "Still, you never know." He paused, thinking. "Here's the deal. I got food but I got this tiny little rundown place that ain't fit for the cockroaches that live there. Maybe I could like spend some time at your place. That way I could guard you and your kid from those cowboys. They'd love nothing better'n hauling a little kid into the bloodsuckers."

  Did that sound concerned enough?

  A hand flew to her mouth. "Oh dear!" Her voice softened. "You
must be a good man."

  "Oh, I'm the best," he said.

  And I've got this friend behind my fly who's just dying to meet you.

  "I'll show you my place," she said. "It's not much but there's room for you."

  Yeah, babe. Right on top of you.

  She got in the car and directed him to the corner and around to the middle of the next block to an old two-story colonial set back among some tall oaks on an overgrown lot. He nodded with growing excitement when he saw a child's red wagon parked against the front steps.

  "You live here? Hell, I musta passed this place a couple of times already today."

  "Really?" she said. "We usually stay hidden in the basement."

  "Good thinkin."

  He followed her up the steps and through the front door. Inside there was a couple of candles burning but the heavy drapes hid them from outside.

  "Lynn's sleeping upstairs," she said. "I'll just run up and check on her."

  Al watched her black-stockinged legs hungrily as she bounded up the bare wooden stairway, taking the steps two at a time. He adjusted his jeans for a little more comfort. Man, he was hard as a rock. Couldn't wait to get her out of that miniskirt and himself into—

  And then it hit him: Why wait till she came back down? What was he doing standing around down here when he could be upstairs getting himself a preview of what was to come?

  "Yoo-hoo," he said softly as he put his foot on the first step. "Here comes Daddy."

  But the first step wasn't wood. Wasn't even a step. His foot went right through it, like it was made of cardboard or something. As Al looked down in shock he saw that it was made of cardboard—painted cardboard. His brain was just forming the question Why? when a sudden blast of pain like he'd never known in his whole life shot up his leg from just above the ankle.

  He screamed, lunged back, away from the false step, but the movement tripled his agony. He clung to the newel post like a drunk, weeping and moaning for God knew how long, until the pain eased for a second. Then slowly, gingerly, accompanied by the metallic clanking of uncoiling chain links, he lifted his leg out of the false tread.