F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 Read online

  Whatever it was, it had mauled and murdered Bernadette. Rage bloomed again within Carole like a virulent, rampant virus, spreading through her bloodstream, invading her nervous system, threatening to take over. She fought the urge to batter the corpse.

  She choked back the bile rising in her throat and stared at the inert form prone before her. This once had been a man, someone with a family, perhaps. Surely he hadn't asked to become this vicious night thing.

  "Whoever you were," Carole whispered, "you're free now. Free to return to God."

  She gripped the shaft of the crucifix to remove it but found it fixed in the seared flesh like a steel rod set in concrete.

  Something howled again. Closer.

  She had to get back inside, but she couldn't leave Bern out here.

  Swiftly she returned to Bernadette's side, worked her hands through the grass under her back and knees, and lifted her into her arms. She staggered under the weight. Dear Lord, for such a thin woman she was heavy.

  Carole carried Bernadette back to the convent as fast as her rubbery legs would allow. Once inside, she bolted the door, then tried to carry her up the steep stairway. She stopped on the third step. She'd intended to take Bern's body back to her room, but who knew when the poor girl would be buried?

  Might be days. And the second floor got warm during the day. Better to lay her out in the cellar where it was cooler.

  With Bernadette in her arms she struggled down the narrow stairwell to the cellar, almost falling twice along the way. She stretched her out on an old couch. She straightened Bern's thin legs, crossed her hands over her blood-splattered chest, and arranged her torn nightgown and raincoat around her as best she could. She adjusted the wimple on her head. Then she ran up to Bernadette's room and returned with her bedspread. She draped her from head to toe, then knelt beside her.

  Looking down at that still form under the quilt she had helped Bernadette make, Carole sagged against the couch and began to cry. She tried to say a requiem prayer but her grief-racked mind had lost the words. So she sobbed aloud and asked God why? How could He let this happen to a dear, sweet innocent who had wished only to spend her life serving Him? WHY?

  But no answer came.

  When Carole finally controlled her tears, she forced herself to her weary feet and made her way back to the main floor. When she saw the light on in the front foyer, she knew she should turn it off. She stepped over the still form of Rosita under the blood-soaked blanket. Two violent deaths here on the church grounds, a place devoted to God. How many more beyond these grounds?

  She knew she should carry Rosita to the basement as well, but lacked the strength—of either will or body.

  Tomorrow . .. first thing tomorrow morning, Rosita. I promise.

  She turned off the light and raced through the dark back up to her own room where she huddled shivering in her bed.

  CAROLE . . .

  Carole awoke in a cold sweat. Good Friday again. How many times must she relive that night?

  She pushed herself up from the mattress and stumbled to the bathroom. She poured an inch of water from the tap into a glass and drank it down. Didn: t want to risk drinking too much without boiling it first.

  At least the water was still running. Was that the vampires' doing? Carole wouldn't be surprised. Water was one of the necessities of life. It seemed to her the vampires wanted a certain number of the living to survive, but not to communicate. Which would explain why the electricity and the telephones went out that first weekend. Keep people isolated and insulated from any message of hope.

  She found her way back to the bed and buried her head under the pillow. She needed sleep—dreamless sleep that would allow her to wake up refreshed instead of exhausted. She didn't want to dream of Good Friday again, or worse, the following day . . . the worst day of her life.

  HOLY SATURDAY . . .

  Carole awoke to the wail of sirens. She sat up in bed, blinking in the morning light.

  A dream . . . please, God, show me that last night was all a dream.

  But her throat tightened at the sight of Bernadette's empty mattress on the floor beside her bed. No ... not a dream. A living nightmare.

  She'd stayed up till dawn, then she'd pulled the bedspread from the window and fallen into exhausted sleep.

  The sirens. . . closer now. She crept to the window and peeked at the street below. Two police cars, red and blue lights flashing, roared past the front of the convent and made squealing turns into the church parking lot.

  The police! They've come!

  Carole rose and hurried across the hall to Bern's room in time to see them slow to a stop before the church.

  Thank you, God, she thought. All is not lost. The police are still on the job.

  Before pushing away from the window she searched the lawn to the left of the church for the remains of the vampire she'd killed last night. A bright, clear, unconscionably beautiful morning, with a high trail of brown smoke drifting from the east. She couldn't find the vampire, but she spotted Bernadette's wooden cross lying in a man-shaped puddle of brown ooze on the grass. Could that be all that remained of—?

  Can't worry about that now, she thought as she dashed back into the hall and down the rear stairs. She had to get to the police, tell them about Bernadette. They'd take her to a morgue or a funeral home where Carole could arrange for a proper burial.

  She reached the rear door and had just turned back the deadbolt when she glanced through the glass. The sight of a lean, wolfish man, all in denim, uncoiling from the front passenger seat of the first car froze her heart. He settled a cowboy hat over his long brown hair and looked around, smirking as if he owned the world. A tattooed blond woman in a leather vest got out of the driver seat while two more men in rough clothes slithered from the second car. The first wore his long black hair in a single braid down the middle of his back; the second was sandy haired and balding, wearing a scraggly beard to compensate for what he'd lost on his scalp. All four wore wraparound sunglasses and had silvery earrings dangling from their right lobes.

  Carole ducked away from the door and jammed her hands against her mouth. She'd seen these people before, last night, leading the caravan of trucks carrying the undead into town. It seemed so long ago, a lifetime. But this could only mean that the police had lost. The undead and their caretakers were in control now.

  But what were they doing here at St. Anthony's?

  She crept away from the door and down the hall toward the kitchen. The windows over the sink looked out toward the church. She could watch from there and see without being seen. She needed to know what they were up to. She leaned over the big double sink and cranked the window open an inch or two, just enough to hear what they were saying.

  She sniffed the air that wafted through the opening. Something burning somewhere. .. smelled like some sort of meat. She glanced at the brown smoke trailing across the sky. Could that be—?

  A car door slammed. She watched the one in the cowboy hat heft a crowbar as he walked from his police car to the side door of the church. Swinging it like a baseball bat he started bashing the hooked end against the doorknob. The clang of metal on metal echoed like a church bell through the eerie silence of the morning. Then he reversed his grip and rammed the tip of the long end between the door and the frame. A few hard yanks and the door popped open.

  The woman and the two other men ran inside while the cowboy returned to the police car. He leaned against the fender and lit a cigarette; he carelessly bounced the crowbar against the hood, denting it with every bounce.

  A few minutes later the two other men emerged, dragging Father Palmeri between them. The priest had a bloody nose and was blubbering in fear, begging them to let him go.

  The sandy-haired man laughed. "Found him hiding in the basement! Lookit him! Peed his pants!"

  Carole shook her head in dismay when she saw the darker stain on Father

  Palmeri's black cassock. God forgive her, she'd never liked the man, and after last n
ight when he could have saved Bernadette simply by letting her into the church, well, she liked him even less. He was a man of God. He was supposed to set an example.

  Then the woman appeared. She'd draped herself in Father Palmeri's long white chasuble and came out dancing and skipping behind the whimpering priest.

  Carole felt her anger begin to boil. How dare this . . . this tramp sully holy vestments like that. It was sacrilege.

  "You like basements, priest?" the cowboy said, grinning. "Good. 'Cause you're gonna be seeing a lot of them from now on."

  Carole's stomach dropped. What did that mean? Were they going to turn him into a vampire? Oh, no. They couldn't do that. Not to a priest.

  She had to help him, but what could she do? She was one woman and there were four of them. She watched as they locked Father Palmeri in the caged rear compartment of one of the cars. Then they started toward the convent, the cowboy in the lead, the crowbar on his shoulder.

  No! Not here! Not now! And she'd unlocked the door.

  Hide! The basement? No. She had to pass the rear door to reach it. They'd see her for sure. She could make it to the second floor but couldn't think of anyplace to hide up there.

  She did a quick turn and her gaze came to rest on the big institutional-size oven to her left. She yanked down the door and looked inside. Could she fit? Maybe, maybe not. But even if she did fit, the plate glass window in the door would give her away. But no. A closer look showed that it was fogged with baked-on grease. Bless old Sister Mary Margaret's bad eyes. Last week was her turn to clean the oven. She never did a good job, for which Carole was now grateful.

  Moving as quickly as she could without causing a racket, she slid out the two metal racks and slipped them between the oven and the neighboring cabinet. She pulled a long-handled metal spatula from the wall rack and bent the end into an acute angle. Then she sidled into the close space, her flannel nightgown sticking to the grease-splattered surfaces, and tucked her knees against her chest.

  She fit. Barely. Now to get the door closed. She reached out with the spatula, hooked its bent end around the upper edge of the oven door, and pulled. It barely budged. These old oven doors were heavy. Straining her muscles, she managed to pull it a quarter of the way closed when the spatula slipped off. The door fell back with a clank.

  She felt her heart kick into a higher gear as she tried again. The cowboy and his gang would be walking in any—

  She heard the back door slam open and a woman's voice say, "Nice of them to leave the place unlocked."

  "Probably means it's empty," said a voice she recognized as the cowboy's. "Check it out anyway. See if we can put a nun on Gregor's plate, too"

  The woman snickered. "Yeah! A priest-and-nun combo platter!"

  "A three-way!" someone else said.

  Lots of laughter at that. But for Carole, only terror clawing at her gut. She had to close this door. Now.

  She stretched out and again hooked the spatula end over the edge. The handle slipped in her sweaty palm. She tightened her grip and began to pull.

  "I'll take this floor," said the cowboy's voice. "Al, you and Kenny check out upstairs. Jackie, you take the basement."

  Carole heard feet moving, some away, some pounding up the stairs, and one set moving closer, toward the kitchen. The oven door was a third of the way up now. Her arm was aching. If only she could use both hands. She set her teeth and gave the door a yank. To her shock it snapped toward her once it passed the halfway mark and she had to release the spatula to keep it from slamming shut. She eased it closed just as someone walked into the room.

  Carole closed her eyes and shuddered with relief, but that vanished when she opened them again and saw the spatula still hooked on the door.

  She stifled a bleat of terror. The business end was sticking outside.

  She looked through the grimy glass and saw a pair of denim-clad legs enter the kitchen and stop directly before the oven. The cowboy—had he spotted the spatula?

  Sweet Jesus, don't let him see it!

  Carole almost wept when the legs moved on.

  "Let's see what we got here," she heard him say.

  She heard cabinet doors swing open, heard their contents hit the floor, heard drawers pulled from their slots and dropped. He couldn' t be looking for a person—not in those spaces. What was he after?

  "Ay, here we go."

  More footsteps. Father Palmeri's white chasuble stopped in front of the oven. The woman.

  "Whatcha got there, Stan?"

  "First, whatcha find in the basement?"

  "Dead nun. Least I'm pretty sure she's a nun. She's wearin a tore-up nightie and a raincoat, but she's got one of those veil hats on her head. And she was bit."

  "And she still got her head?"

  "Yeah. Think she ran into that dead feral outside?"

  "Dunno, but someone sure kicked his ass, huh?"

  "True that." The woman moved out of view of the oven glass. "So whatcha got there?"

  "Homemade chocolate chip cookies. Still fresh."

  "Ooh, gimme!"

  Carole bit back a sob. She and Bernadette had baked those yesterday afternoon, and now these human slime were eating them.

  "Yo, Stan," said a male voice. "Nobody upstairs but we got a dead goth chick in the front hall."

  "Was she bit?"

  "Nah. Some kinda steel pipe stickin from her gut."

  "Whoa! What kinda weird shit went down here last night? Sounds like my kinda party."

  They laughed and then went silent. Stuffing their faces with her cookies, Carole supposed.

  Finally the cowboy said, "All right. The priest house is next. We'll take these with us. Somebody remind me we gotta come back for the bit one. We should toss her on the pile before sunset."

  With that they shuffled out, leaving Carole alone and cramped and sweating in the oven. She closed her eyes and pretended she was sitting on a pew in the cool open spaces of St. Anthony's, savoring the peaceful air as she waited for mass to begin.

  * * *

  Carole waited more than an hour before she dared to leave the oven. After slowly straightening her cramped back, the first thing she did was peek through the kitchen window. She sagged against the sink with relief when she saw the police cars gone.

  Next she ran up to her room and exchanged her grease-spotted nightgown for a plaid blouse and khaki slacks. Usually she'd wear a skirt, but not today.

  She looked around. Now . . . what?

  She couldn't stay here in the convent. She had to move somewhere else. But where? And how could she leave Bernadette here to be hauled off by those human animals so they could "toss her on the pile," whatever that meant?

  Carole knew she had to do something. But what?

  Since joining the convent a dozen years ago, straight out of high school, all important decisions had been taken out of her hands. The Sisters of Mercy had put her through college at Georgian Court where she'd earned her teaching degree. All along she'd followed the instructions of Sister Superior. A calm, contemplative existence of poverty, chastity, and obedience, devoted to prayer and study and doing the Lord's work.

  Now she had to decide. She wanted to hide Bernadette's body, but couldn't think of a single safe place. She wanted to move Rosita's body down to the basement but didn't dare: The cowboy would know someone was here.

  So she spent the day in a state of mental and emotional paralysis. She prayed for guidance, she walked the halls, she sat on her bed and stared out the window, watching for the cowboy and his gang, dreading the moment they returned.

  The only decision she made was to hide under her bed when they did.

  But they didn't return. The afternoon dragged into evening, and then the sun was down. Carole allowed herself the faint hope that they'd forgotten about Bernadette or had become involved in more pressing matters.

  She draped her window, lit a candle, and began to pray.

  She didn't know what time the power went out. She had no idea how long she'd been kneeli
ng beside her bed when she glanced at the digital alarm clock on her night table and saw that its face had gone dark.

  Not that a power failure mattered. She noticed barely an inch of the candle left. She held her watch face near the flame. Only 2 A.M. Would this night ever end?

  She was tempted to lift the bedspread draped over the window and peek outside, but was afraid of what she might see.

  How long until dawn? she wondered, rubbing her eyes. Last night had seemed endless, but this—

  Beyond her locked door, a faint creak came from somewhere along the hall. It could have been anything—the wind in the attic, the old building settling—but it had sounded like floorboards creaking.

  And then she heard it again.

  Carole froze, still on her knees, hands still folded in prayer, elbows resting on the bed, and listened. More creaks, closer, and something else ... a rhythmic shuffle ... in the hall. . . approaching her door . . .

  Footsteps.

  With her heart punching frantically against the wall of her chest, Carole leaped to her feet and stepped close to the door, listening with her ear almost touching the wood. Yes. Footsteps. Slow. And soft, like bare feet scuffing the floor. Coming this way. Closer. Right outside the door now.

  Carole felt a sudden chill, as if a wave of icy air had penetrated the wood, but the footsteps didn't pause. They passed her door, moving on.

  And then they stopped.

  Carole had her ear pressed against the wood now. She could hear her pulse pounding through her head as she strained for the next sound. And then it came, more shuffling outside in the hall, almost confused at first, and then the footsteps began again.

  Coming back.

  This time they stopped directly outside Carole's door. The cold was back again, a damp, penetrating chill that reached for her bones. Carole backed away from it.

  And then the nob turned. Slowly. The door creaked with the weight of a body leaning against it from the other side, but Carole's bolt held.

  Then a voice. Hoarse. A single whispered word, barely audible, but a shout could not have startled her more.