"Talk on. I'm listening."
Joe had certainly changed for the worse. Morose, bitter, apathetic, self-pitying.
"They've taken over your church, just as they've taken over my temple. But the temple they use only for a dormitory. Your church, they've desecrated it. Each night they further defile it with butchery and blasphemy. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"It's Palmeri's parish. I've been benched. Let him take care of it."
"Father Palmeri is their leader."
"He should be. He's their pastor."
"No. He leads the undead in the obscenities they perform in the church."
Joe stiffened and the glassiness cleared from his eyes.
"Palmeri? He's one of them?"
Zev nodded. "More than that. He's one of the local leaders. He orchestrates their rituals."
Zev saw rage flare in the priest's eyes, saw his hands ball into fists, and for a moment he thought the old Father Joe was going to burst through.
Come on, Joe. Show me that Cahill fire.
But then he slumped back.
"Is that all you came to tell me?"
Zev hid his disappointment and nodded. "Yes."
"Good." He grabbed the Scotch bottle. "Because I need a drink."
Zev wanted to leave, yet he had to stay, had to probe deeper and see how much of his old friend was left, and how much had been replaced by this new, bitter, alien Joe Cahill. Maybe there was still hope. So they talked on.
* * *
Zev looked up at the window and saw that it was dark.
"Gevalt! I didn't notice the time!"
Father Joe seemed surprised too. He stepped to the window and peered out.
"Damn! Sun's down!" He turned to Zev. "Lakewood's out of the question for you, Reb. Even the retreat house is too far to risk now. Looks like we're stuck here for the night."
"We'll be safe?"
He shrugged. "Why not? As far as I can tell I'm the only one who's been in here for weeks, and only in the daytime. Be pretty odd if one of those leeches decided to wander in here tonight."
"We'd have to invite it in, right?"
He shook his head. "Doesn't seem to work that way with stores. Only homes."
Zev's guderim twisted. "That's not good."
"Don't worry. We're okay if we don't attract attention. I've got a flashlight if we need it, but we're better off sitting here in the dark and shooting the breeze till sunrise." Father Joe smiled and picked up a huge silver cross, at least a foot in length, from atop one of the crates. "Besides, we're armed. And frankly, I can think of worse places to spend the night."
He stepped over to the case of Glenlivet and opened a fresh bottle. His capacity for alcohol was enormous.
Zev could think of worse places too. In fact he had spent a number of nights in much worse places since the Lakewood holocaust. He decided to put the time to good use.
"So, Joe. Maybe I should tell you some more about what's happening in Lakewood."
COWBOYS . . .
King of the world.
Al Hulett leaned back in the passenger seat of the big Cadillac convertible they'd just driven out of somebody's garage, burning rubber all the way, and let the night air mess with his spiky black hair.
As usual, Stan was driving with Jackie riding shotgun. Al and Kenny had the back seat with Heinekens in their fists, Slipknot's Iowa CD in the slot, and "Skin Ticket" blasting through the speakers. Al finished his Heinie and tossed the empty over his shoulder so it landed on the trunk top. He heard a faint, frightened yelp from within, then a crash as the bottle bounced off and shattered on the asphalt behind them.
He leaned back and pounded a fist on the trunk. "Ay, shuddup up in there! You're messin with my meditation!"
This brought a howl of laughter from Kenny, which didn't necessarily mean it was real funny, just that Kenny was always a good audience.
He and the Kenman had been together since grammar school. How many years was that now? Ten? Twelve? Couldn't be more than a dozen. No way. Whatever, the two of them had stuck together through it all, never breaking up, even when Kenny pulled that short jolt in Yardville on a B&E. Even when the whole world went to hell.
But they'd come through it all like gold. They'd hired out to the winners. Joined the best hunting pack around.
Coulda turned out different. He and Kenny coulda had their throats chewed out and their heads ripped off just like a bunch of guys they knew, but they happened to be the right guys in the right place at the right time.
The right place was a bar they'd broken into, and the right time had been Easter morning—didn't know it was Easter then, only learned that later.
Al and Kenny and some friends had started partying Friday afternoon in this old shotgun shack back in the pines. By Sunday morning they'd run out of booze, so they rode their Harleys out to Route 9. That was when they learned about all the shit that had went down the past two nights. So they'd broke into this bar-package store and were helping themselves to some liquid refreshment when this dude in a cowboy hat walked in. Said his name was Stan. Said he saw their Harleys outside and was wondering if they was the kinda guys who might like to go to work for the winners.
Al and Kenny weren't too sure about that at first, so Stan said the chai-slurpin, Chardonnay-sippin, Gap-wearin, hummus-dippin, classic-rock-listenin world that had thought "loser" every time it looked at them and had never given them a chance was on its knees now and did they want to help bust a coupla caps in its fuckin head to put it down for good?
That Stan, man, he had a way with words.
Still. . . workin for the vampires . . .
Then Stan had made them an offer they couldn't refuse.
So that was why Al was riding in a Caddy tonight 'stead of on a Harley.
King of the fucking world.
Well, not king, really. But at least a prince ... when the sun was up.
Night was a whole different story.
If you could get used to the creeps you were working for, it wasn't too bad a set-up. Could have been worse, Al knew—a lot worse.
Like being cattle, for instance.
Pretty smart, those bloodsuckers. America thought it was ready for them but it wasn't. They hit high, they hit low, and before you knew it, they was in charge of the whole East Coast.
Well, almost in charge. They did whatever they damn well pleased at night, but they'd never be in charge around the clock because they couldn't be up and about in the daylight. They needed somebody to hold the fort for them between sunrise and sunset.
That was where Al and Kenny and the other cowboys came in. They'd all been made the same offer.
They could be cattle, or they could be cowboys and drive the cattle.
Not much of a choice as far as Al could see.
You see, the bloodsuckers had two ways of killing folks. They had the usual way of ripping into your neck and sucking out your blood. If they got you that way, you became one of them come the next sundown. But once they had the upper hand, they changed their feeding style. Smart, those bloodsuckers. If they got too many of their kind wandering around, they'd soon have nobody to feed on—a world full of chefs with nothing to cook. So after they were in control, they got the blood a different way, one that didn't involve sucking it out. You died unsucked, you stayed dead. Something they called true death.
But they'd offered Al and Stan and the guys undeath. Be their cowboys, herd the cattle and take care of business between sunrise and sunset, be their muscle during the day, do a good job for ten years, and they'd see to it that you got done in the old-fashioned way, the way that left you like them. Undead. Immortal. One of the ruling class.
"Ay-yo, Al," Kenny shouted over the howl of "Disasterpiece."
"What kinda vampire you gonna be?"
Not again, Al thought. They'd worked this over too many times for Al's taste. It was getting real old. But Kenny never seemed to tire of gnawing this particular bone.
Kenny had this pale cratered skin. Eve
n though he was in his twenties he still got pimples. Looked like the man in the moon now, but in the old days he'd been a real pizza face. Once he almost killed a guy who'd called him that. And he had this crazy red hair that used to stick out in all directions when he didn't cut it, but even when he did it Mohican style, like now, all shaved off on the sides and showing the ugly knobs on his skull, it looked crazier than ever. Made Kenny look crazier than ever. And Kenny was pretty crazy as it was.
"I can tell you what kind I ain't gonna be," Al said, "and that's one of them ferals."
"Ay, I'm down wit that. I'm gonna be a pilot, man. Get me some wings."
Jackie turned down the music and swiveled in the front seat. She was thin and blonde, with a left nostril ring and a stud through her right eyebrow, and she had this tat of a devil face sticking out a Gene Simmons-class tongue on her left delt. She dangled an arm over the back near Al's knees and sneered.
"Wings? You'll be lucky if you get a plate of Buffalo wings."
Stan seemed to think this was real funny. Even Al had to laugh a little.
Kenny made this sour face. "Funny. Real fuckin funny."
"How many kinds of vampires are there, anyway?" Al said.
He wasn't just trying to take the heat off Kenny, he really wanted to know. In the weeks since he'd joined the posse he'd noticed that some of the bloodsuckers could sprout wings and fly. Most just walked around like everybody else—only at night, of course—and looked like everybody else, although some had faces that seemed to turn uglier and uglier as time went on.
Then there was the kind that were pretty much like animals. These were scary. Al had only seen a couple of them from a distance and that was plenty close enough. Hardly nothing human left in their faces or the way they moved. Couldn't even talk. The other bloodsuckers called them "ferals" and they were like vampire shock troops. These were the guys they let loose when they first blew into a town. Al gathered they must be kinda hard to control because the other vampires kept them locked up pretty much of the time.
Good thing. Al had a feeling if he ran into a feral at night the thing would be on him and chompin on his windpipe before it noticed he was wearing a cowboy earring.
That special earring—a dangly silver crescent-moon thing—said you were working for them. It gave you a free pass if you ran into one of them at night.
Because the night was theirs.
Being a cowboy wasn't so bad, really. You could be assigned to keep an eye on their nests, make sure no save-the-world types—Stan liked to call them rustlers—got in there and started splashing holy water around and driving stakes into their cold little hearts. Or you could be part of a posse, which meant you spent the day riding around hunting strays. One good way to earn brownie points with the bloodsuckers was to have a stray cow or two ready for them after sundown.
They had a cow in the trunk right now. Some old bitch who'd scratched and clawed at them when they rounded her up. Deserved what she had comin to her. Plus she was good for brownie points.
Those points weren't nothing to sneer at. Earn enough of them and you got to spend some stud time on one of their cattle ranches—where all the cows were human. And young.
Neither Al or Kenny or any of their pack had been to one of the farms yet, but they'd all heard it was like incredible. You came back sore, man.
Al didn't particularly like working for the vampires. But then he couldn't remember ever liking anybody he'd worked for. The bloodsuckers gave him the creeps, but what was he supposed to do? If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Plenty of guys felt the same way.
Another thing that didn't set too well was being at the bottom of the pecking order. Seemed he had to take orders from everybody except Kenny. Stan said that would change. Told them how he'd started at the bottom too. Learned the ropes and soon got to be leader of his own posse.
Stan and Jackie was some sorta team. A good one. Al looked at Jackie. Not the greatest looking piece with that wild bottle-blond hair all black at the roots, but considering the severe lack of poontang around these parts lately, she was starting to look drop-dead gorgeous. Al could've really used a piece of her, but he knew if he went for it he'd wind up on the wrong end of that Bowie knife Stan kept strapped to his belt.
Jackie might cut him too. Just for fun. One tough broad, that Jackie. But her real talent was smoking out the ladies. Like the old bitch in the trunk. Jackie pulls out her piercings, gets dressed up in clothes that hide her tats, then goes knocking door to door, pretending to be looking for her little girl. Nobody figures a broad's gonna be working for the bloodsuckers, so sooner or later one of them answers the door and then blammo, the posse's there like coons on an open garbage can.
Al just wished the old bitch was younger. Then he coulda had a little fun with her before—
"Hail, hail, the gang's all here," Jackie said as they rounded a corner and pulled up before St. Anthony's. "And there's Gregor." She grinned at Kenny. "Maybe you should go ask him what you gotta do to earn your wings. I'm sure he'll be glad to sit down and chat about it."
Kenny didn't say nothing.
The old church was like the unofficial meeting place for Stan's posse and Gregor, the numero uno bloodsucker in charge of the Jersey Shore. One mean son of an undead bitch, that Gregor. Even the other vampires seemed to be like afraid of him. He was big, with these wide shoulders, long dark hair, ice cold blue eyes, and square pale face. But then all the bloodsuckers had pale faces. It was his smile that got to Al. Most times it looked painted on, but with all those sharp teeth of his it managed to make him look both happy and very, very hungry at the same time.
The posses had to meet with Gregor every night and tell him how things had gone while he was cutting his Z's or whatever it was the bloodsuckers did when the sun was up. It was part of the job. Al's least favorite part of the job. He didn't know what it was that made his skin crawl every time he got near one. Wasn't their looks, their dirty clothes, their stink. Something else, something you couldn't see or smell. Something you felt.
Al spotted Gregor by the church steps with his guards. He was dressed as usual in a dark suit, white shirt, no tie. Always the same, like he was going to a business meeting or something. Which put him a cut above most vampires, who never changed their clothes. Ever.
Hey, this was weird. Usually he had one or two undead goons guarding him. Tonight he had four. What was up?
Al didn't get the bodyguard thing. Like who'd ever mess with Gregor? But he didn't seem to go anywhere without them. They didn't look like the typical pumped-up guard dog types, but all four carried Glocks and razor-sharp machetes on their belts.
The local undead bigshots stood around Gregor: Mayor Davis, Council-woman Ellis, Rabbi Goldstein, and the only black face in sight, big fat Reverend Dalton.
Al had lived around Lakewood for years and never knew any of these peopie's names—like he needed to know who was mayor, right?—but he knew them now.
He looked around for the priest, Palmeri, who was usually with Gregor, but didn't see him. Just as well. There was a bad dude. Almost as creepy as Gregor.
As Stan eased the car into the curb, one of the bodyguards came over. He wore black jeans, a black shirt crusted with old blood, and a worried expression.
"No report tonight," he said in some sort of fag British accent. "Do you 'ave something for Gregor?"
Here was another thing not to like about the vampires. All the high-ups were one kind of foreigner or another. Gregor looked like John Travolta but sounded like Bela Lugosi. His guard here sounded like Mick Jagger.
"Yeah," Stan said. "Got a cow in the trunk. What's up?"
"Not your concern. I'll bring 'er to Gregor."
"Okay. Al, you and Kenny wanna get her out?"
They did that. The ride in the trunk seemed to have taken most of the fight out of the old broad. She had to be sixty-five or seventy and she didn't look so hot at first, but she came to life, screaming and yelling when she saw the bloodsuckers.
The bodyg
uard made a face when he saw her. " 'Ere now, what's this? She the best you could do?"
"We hit a dry neighborhood. We'll do better tomorrow."
"See that you do." He grabbed the old broad's arm and she fainted. He barely seemed to notice. "Move on. Get to your 'omes and stay inside. We'll wake you at the usual time."
As Gregor's guard dragged the unconscious broad toward the church, Stan peeled away from the curb.
"Somethin's up," Jackie said.
Stan nodded. "Wonder what's eatin them?"
"You don't think another one of us bought it, do you?" Kenny said looking all nervous.
Al knew how he felt. Someone had been offing cowboys lately. Nothing big scale, just one here, one there, but enough to make you start looking over your shoulder.
"Nah," Stan said. "They'd tell us that. This is somethin else."
As Stan cranked up Slipknot again, Al looked back at the receding church.
The local undead were carrying the old broad up the church steps. Gregor stayed on the sidewalk, his guards tight around them.
What could get vampires shook up enough that they didn't want their own posses near them? It gave him a crawly feeling in his gut.
As they turned a corner Al thought he saw a female vampire with her own set of bodyguards step out of the shadows and move toward Gregor.
GREGOR . . .
His get-guards tensed and turned at Olivia's approach but Gregor did not acknowledge it. He'd been informed of her arrival from New York an hour ago and had been aware of her presence in the shadows, watching him. He waited till she spoke.
"Good evening, Gregor," she said with a light French accent.
He whirled and smiled. "Why, Olivia. What a wonderful surprise!"
It appeared she'd dressed for the occasion: a red gown—plucked from the window of a Fifth Avenue designer shop, no doubt—and an elaborate Marie Antoinette wig over her own hair which Gregor knew to be short and mousy brown.
Their guards—she'd brought six with her—stood around and between them.
She smiled. "I'm sure." She waved her hand. "Step back, gentlemen. Gregor and I have private matters to discuss."
F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 Page 7
