F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 Page 20

  Gregor made a show of squinting into the darkness. No sense in giving his night vision away and scaring off her backup—if indeed she had backup. He sensed no other living human nearby.

  "Come on out where ah can see you, honey," he said, remembering to add the drawl.

  The cow stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight.

  "My, my, you sure are a purty one. What you doin out here alone?"

  "L-looking for some food. You got any you can spare?"

  "I might. What's in it for me?" Didn't want to sound too anxious.

  "What do you think?" the woman said.

  Gregor nodded. "I guess that's fair. Where do we make the trade?"

  He felt his excitement fading. This was sounding more and more like some tawdry little sex-for-food deal. Not at all what he was looking for. Where were those vigilantes? Damn them!

  "Anywhere you want," the cow said. "I just have to check on my little girl first."

  Little girl? That renewed Gregor's interest. If it were true, well, he hadn't had really young blood in too long. And if it was a lie to entice some hapless cowboy looking to earn some bonus points, that was fine too. That was why he was here.

  "I'll follow you home, then we'll go to my place."

  Her house was only a block and a half away. Gregor felt his tension mount as she led him up the front steps to the door. He wouldn't be able to cross the threshold uninvited. If he hesitated too long, she'd guess the truth.

  He waited until she'd opened the door. As soon as she stepped inside he said, "This ain't some kinda trap, is it?"

  She turned and faced him. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, guys like me been dyin left and right lately. I don't wanna step through that door and get jumped."

  "Stop being silly and come in."

  Gregor stifled a laugh as he stepped forward. Stupid cow.

  She was already heading for the stairs when he crossed the threshold.

  "Let me just take a quick peek," she said as she bounded up the steps, "and then we can get going."

  Gregor watched her go, then closed his eyes, trying to sense other living presences. He found none. His disappointment mounted. This cow wasn't connected to the vigilantes. She was here alone.

  Wait. Alone? What about the daughter she'd mentioned? Why didn't he sense her?

  Curious, Gregor moved toward the stairs.

  OLIVIA . . .

  Olivia stared at the woman captured near the church and wanted to scream. If they weren't so short of serfs she would have bled out the three who'd brought her here.

  Look at her. Crumbled in the corner like a discarded mannequin. Naked, battered, bleeding from the mouth, nose, vagina, and rectum. And worst of all, unconscious. How could she get any information from this cow if she couldn't speak? Had they beaten her into a coma? What if she never woke up? Olivia would then have to wait until they picked up another. And that would be much harder now because the church fold would be watching for it.

  This is what you get when you have to depend on scum.

  And what do you get when you depend on an egomaniac like Franco? Just as much. Maybe less.

  Wasn't anything going to go right down here in this wasted little section of the coast?

  Word had come from New York that Franco was refusing her request for a contingent of ferals and more experienced serfs. Franco was going to handle this matter himself, in his own way, whatever that meant.

  What it meant was a slap in the face not just to Gregor, but her as well. Damn him. Damn them all. If just once she could—

  One of her get-guards returned then with the bucket of water she'd ordered. Olivia pointed to the cow on the floor.

  "Pour it on her. See if that wakes her."

  The guard did as he was bid. The cow stirred and shivered but didn't open her eyes.

  "Damn! Get more!"

  Just then one of the serfs, a tawdry blond woman, tried to step through the Post Office door. Olivia's guards restrained her.

  "That's her!" the woman screamed. A deep purple bruise ringed her left eye. "That's the one who suckered me! Let me at her! Just five minutes!"

  "Get her out of here," Olivia said.

  "No!" the woman shrilled as she was shoved back into the night. "I got a score to settle with her. She owes me!"

  "Out!" Olivia screamed.

  With help like that, she thought, who needs enemies? How we came this far I'll never know.

  Another commotion at the door.

  "If it's that serf cow again, slit her throat!"

  "It's Gregor's get," one of her guards said. "All his guards."

  "What does he want now? He's supposed to be hunting his beloved vigilantes."

  Her guard looked puzzled. "He's not with them."

  Olivia stiffened with shock. Gregor's get without Gregor? What on—?

  And then she smiled. Had Gregor gone off and done something foolish? Something reckless? Oh, she hoped so. It would look all the worse for him when he showed up empty handed again.

  "By all means, send them in. But keep close watch on them."

  CAROLE . . .

  As Sister Carole changed out of her slutty clothes she had a feeling something was wrong. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she sensed something strange about this one. He wore the earring, he'd reacted just the way all the others had, but he'd been stand-offish, keeping his distance, as if afraid to get too close. That bothered her. Could there be such a thing as a shy collaborator? The ones she'd met so far had been anything but.

  God willing, she thought, in a few moments it would be over.

  She'd followed her usual routine, dashing upstairs, being sure to take the steps two at a time so it wouldn't look strange hopping over the first.

  Now she began rubbing off her makeup, all the while listening for the clank of the bear trap when it was tripped.

  Finally it came and she winced as she always did, anticipating the shrill, awful cries of pain. But none came. She rushed to the landing and looked down. There she saw the cowboy ripping the restraining chain free from its nail, then reaching down and opening the jaws of the trap with his bare hands.

  With her heart pounding a sudden mad tattoo in her chest, Sister Carole realized then that she'd made a terrible mistake. She'd expected to be caught some day, but not like this. She wasn't prepared for one of them.

 

  Shaking, panting with fear, Sister Carole dashed back to the bedroom and followed the emergency route she'd prepared.

  GREGOR . . .

  Gregor inspected the dried blood on the teeth of the trap. Obviously it had been used before.

  So this was how they did it. Clever. And nasty.

  He rubbed the already healing wound on his lower leg. The trap had hurt, startled him more than anything else, but no real harm done. He straightened, kicked the trap into the opening beneath the faux step, and looked around.

  Where were the rest of the petty revolutionaries? There had to be more than this lone woman. Or perhaps not. The empty feel of the house persisted.

  One woman doing all this damage? Gregor could not believe it. And neither would Olivia. There had to be more to this.

  He headed upstairs, gliding this time, barely touching the steps. Another trap would slow him. He spotted the rope ladder dangling over the win-dowsill as soon as he entered the bedroom. He darted to the window and leaped through the opening. He landed lightly on the overgrown lawn and sniffed the air. She wasn't far—

  He heard running footsteps, a sudden loud rustle, and saw a leafy branch flashing toward him. Gregor felt something hit his chest, pierce it, and knock him back. He grunted with the pain, staggered a few steps, then looked down. Three metal tines protruded from his sternum.

  The cow had tied back a sapling, fixed the end of a pitchfork to it, and cut it free when he'd descended from the window. Crude but deadly—if he'd been human. He yanked the tines free and tossed them aside. Around the rea
r of the house he heard a door slam.

  She'd gone back inside. Obviously she wanted him to follow. But Gregor decided to enter his own way. He backed away a few steps, then ran and hurled himself through the dining room window.

  The shattered glass settled. Dark. Quiet. She was here inside. He sensed her but couldn't pinpoint her location. Not yet. Only a matter of time—a very short time—before he found her. He was making his move toward the rear rooms of the house when a bell shattered the silence, startling him.

  He stared incredulously at the source of the noise. The telephone? But how? The first things his nightbrothers had destroyed were the communication networks. Without thinking, he reached out to it—a reflex from days gone by.

  The phone exploded as soon as he lifted the receiver.

  The blast knocked him against the far wall, smashing him into the beveled glass of the china cabinet. Again, just as with last night's explosion, he was blinded by the flash. But this time he was hurt as well. His hand . . . agony he couldn't remember ever feeling pain like this. Blind and helpless ... if she had accomplices, he was at their mercy now.

  But no one attacked him, and soon he could see again.

  "My hand!" he groaned when he saw the ragged stump of his right wrist. The pain was fading, but his hand was gone. It would regenerate in time but—

  He had to get out of here and find help before she did something else to him. He didn't care if it made him look like a fool, this woman was dangerous!

  Gregor staggered to his feet and started for the door. Once he was outside in the night air he'd feel better, he'd regain some of his strength.

  CAROLE . . .

  In the basement Sister Carole huddled under the mattress and stretched her arm upward. Her fingers found a string that ran the length of the basement to a hole in one of the floorboards above, ran through that hole and into the pantry in the main hall where it was tied to the handle of an empty teacup that sat on the edge of the bottom shelf. She tugged on the string and the teacup fell. Sister Carole heard it shatter and snuggled deeper under her mattress.

  GREGOR . . .

  What?

  Gregor spun at the noise. There. Behind that door. She was hiding in that closet. She'd knocked something off a shelf in there. He'd heard her. He had her now.

  Gregor knew he was hurt—maimed—but even with one hand he could easily handle a dozen cattle like her. He didn't want to wait, didn't want to go back to Olivia without something to show for the night. And the cow was so close now. Bight behind that door.

  He reached out with his good hand and yanked it open.

  Gregor saw everything with crystal clarity then, and understood everything as it happened.

  He saw the string attached to the inside of the door, saw it tighten and pull the little wedge of wood from between the jaws of the clothespin that was tacked to the third shelf. He saw the two wires—one wrapped around the upper jaw and leading back to a dry cell battery, the other wrapped around the lower and leading to a row of wax-coated cylinders standing on that third shelf like a collection of lumpy, squat candles with firecracker-thick wicks. As the wired jaws of the clothespin snapped closed, he saw a tiny spark leap the narrowing gap.

  Gregor's universe exploded.

  LACEY . . .

  Lacey had been conscious for a while but kept her eyes closed, daring every so often to split her lids for a peek. It had taken all her reserve to keep from screaming when that bloodsucker had splashed a bucket of water on her.

  At least they'd kept that Vichy broad, the one from under the boardwalk, from getting to her. Lacey didn't think she could handle any more pain.

  She hurt. .. oh, how she hurt. Everywhere. In places and in ways she'd never imagined she could hurt. She didn't remember the details, but she knew those three Vichy must have worked her over good. Raped her every possible way.

  Lacey ground her teeth. Goddamn human animals ... male human animals, using their dicks as weapons.

  Then she remembered Enrico. They'd used a knife on him. Maybe he was the lucky one. He'd gone quickly. She'd been brought here to be someone's meal. After she was drained they'd rip off her head and toss her body on a pile somewhere to rot. But that was better than becoming one of them.

  But why were they trying to wake her? They didn't need her conscious to drain her blood. Did they have another use for her in mind? Like using her to find out what was going on inside the church?

  A shiver ran through her. She was freezing here on this puddled marble floor and couldn't keep her limbs from quaking. Had anybody seen? She split her lids and took a peek.

  Not much light. Only a few candles sputtering but it was enough to make out faces. The female vampire with the big hair had been ranting in French before, but now she stood silent with her six armed attendants. Guards? Lacey had heard that some of the higher-up undead traveled around with what looked like bodyguards, but this was the first time she'd seen it. Why did the undead think they needed guards, especially when everyone else around was undead?

  Four new undead males wearing machetes and pistols entered. They addressed the female as Olivia and spoke in English.

  " 'Ave you seen Gregor, Olivia?" said a dark-haired guard with a British accent. He looked dirty, all in black, his shirtfront crusted with old blood.

  Olivia replied in English. "Not since before sunrise." A small smile played about her lips. "Don't tell me you've misplaced him."

  "Bloody bastard gave us the slip. We found makeup and cologne in his quarters. 'E's gone out on 'is own to find those vigilantes."

  Vigilantes? Lacey thought. This was interesting. She hadn't heard anything about vigilantes. But then, she'd only arrived in town yesterday. Who was this Gregor and why was he hunting them?

  "That seems rather reckless, don't you think?" Olivia said.

  The Brit snarled at her. "I'm sure 'e'd never be out there if you 'adn't driven 'im to it. We were 'oping 'e'd come to see you first and we could intercept 'im 'ere, but I see we're in the wrong place."

  "You certainly are."

  "Look, Olivia," the Brit said, his tone becoming conciliatory. "If you've any idea where 'e might be, please tell us. We've got to find 'im. 'E could be in grave danger."

  Lacey was struck by the concern in the Brit's voice. The undead supposedly cared about only one thing: blood. But the Brit seemed genuinely worried about this Gregor. Lots more than Olivia.

  "Well, if he is, it's his own doing."

  The Brit snarled again. "If anything happens to Gregor ..."

  "You'll be the first to know." She laughed, showing her sharp teeth.

  "Bitch!" the Brit said and reached for the handle of his machete.

  Olivia's guards closed around her, reaching for their own. And then a thunderous boom rattled the windows and shook the floor beneath Lacey.

  As the sound of the blast faded, the Brit and the three other undead who'd arrived with him cried out and clutched their chests. One by one they dropped to their knees.

  Olivia's smile had vanished, replaced by a look of horror. Her voice rose in pitch, somewhere between a shout and a wail, as she rattled off a barrage of French too rapid for Lacey to follow. Lacey recognized the name "Gregor" but that was it.

  Her guards looked as terrified as she as they encircled her, facing outward, machetes and pistols drawn. They were speaking French too, and again Gregor was mentioned.

  What were they saying? Lacey wished now she'd taken French instead of Spanish.

  The Brit's friends lay writhing, kicking, and gasping on their backs and bellies, but he was still on his knees, glaring at Olivia.

  "You!" His voice was faint, and sounded as if someone were strangling him. "You did this! You're responsible!" He began a faltering crawl toward her.

  "Keep him away!" Olivia said.

  The Brit pulled his machete from his belt and tried to use it as a crutch to regain his feet. "I'll see you—"

  One of Olivia's guards stepped forward then and, holding his machete
like a baseball bat, took a two-handed swing. The blade sliced through the Brit's neck with an indescribable tearing sound, sending the head flying. But no gout of blood sprayed the room as the body flopped forward onto its chest and lay still next to the other three fallen undead, now equally still.

  And the head ... the head rolled toward Lacey's face. She shut her eyes, bracing herself if it rolled against her. She couldn't allow herself to move, couldn't give herself away, no matter what.

  What was happening here? Undead dropping dead, fighting and killing each other. What the hell was going on? It had something to do with someone named Gregor, but what?

  Lacey opened her eyes again and stifled a gasp as she found herself almost nose to nose with the Brit. His eyelids blinked and his lips were moving, as if he was trying to tell her something.

  Bile rose in Lacey's throat and she squeezed her eyes shut again.

  GREGOR . . .

  I'm awake! Gregor thought. I survived!

  He didn't know how long it had been since the blast. A few minutes? A few hours? It couldn't have been too long—it was still night. He could see the moonlight through the huge hole that had been ripped in the wall.

  He tried to move but could not. In fact, he couldn't feel anything. Anything. But he could hear. And he heard someone picking through the rubble toward him. He tried to turn his head but could not. Who was there? One of his own kind—please let it be one of his own kind.

  When he saw the flashlight beam he knew it was one of the living. He began to despair. He was utterly helpless here. What had that explosion done to him?

  As the light came closer, he saw that it was the woman, the she-devil. She appeared to be unscathed .. .

  And she wore the headpiece of a nun.

  She shone the beam in his face and he blinked.

  "Dear sweet Jesus!" she said, her voice hushed with awe. "You're not dead yet? Even in this condition?"

  He tried to tell her how she would pay for this, how she would suffer the tortures of the damned and beg for death, but his jaw wasn't working right, and he had no voice.