F Paul Wilson - Novel 10

by Midnight Mass (v2. 1)

  "Yes!" Palmeri hissed. "He's going to lose and we're going to win. We'll win for the same reason we always win. We don't let anything as silly and transient as sentiment stand in our way. If we'd been winning below and situations were reversed—if Joseph were holding one of my nest brothers over that wooden spike below—do you think I'd pause for a moment? For a second? Never! That's why this whole exercise by Joseph and these people is futile."

  Futile. . . Zev thought. Like much of his life, it seemed. Like all of his future. Joe would die tonight and Zev might live on ... as what? A cross-wearing Jew, with the traditions of his past sacked and in flames, and nothing in his future but a vast, empty, limitless plain to wander alone.

  Footfalls sounded on the balcony stairs and Palmeri turned his head.

  "Ah,Joseph," he said.

  Zev couldn't see the priest but he shouted anyway.

  "Go back, Joe! Don't let him trick you!"

  "Speaking of tricks," Palmeri said, leaning further over the balcony rail as an extra warning to Joe, "I hope you're not going to try anything foolish."

  "No," said Joe's tired voice from somewhere behind Palmeri. "No tricks. Pull him in and let him go."

  Zev could not let this happen. And suddenly he knew what he had to do. He twisted his body and grabbed the front of Palmeri's cassock while bringing his legs up and bracing his feet against one of the uprights of the brass balcony rail. As Palmeri turned his startled face toward him, Zev put all his strength into his legs for one convulsive backward push against the railing, pulling Palmeri with him. The undead priest was overbalanced. Even his enormous strength could not help him once his feet came free of the floor. Zev saw his undead eyes widen with terror when his lower body slipped over the railing. As they fell free, Zev wrapped his arms around Palmeri and clutched his cold and surprisingly thin body tight against him.

  "What goes through this old Jew goes through you!" he shouted into the vampire's ear.

  For an instant he saw Joe's horrified face appear over the balcony's receding edge, heard his faraway shout of "No!" mingle with Palmeri's nearer, lengthier scream of the same word, then came a spine-cracking jar and in his chest a tearing, wrenching pain beyond all comprehension. In an eyeblink he felt the sharp spire of wood rip through him and into Palmeri.

  And then he felt no more.

  As roaring blackness closed in he wondered if he'd done it, if this last desperate, foolish act had succeeded. He didn't want to die without finding out. He wanted to know—

  But then he knew no more.

  JOE . . .

  Joe shouted incoherently as he hung over the rail and watched Zev's fall, gagged as he saw the bloody point of the pew remnant burst through the back of Palmeri's cassock directly below him. He saw Palmeri squirm and flop around like a beached fish, then go limp atop Zev's already inert form.

  As cheers mixed with cries of horror and the sounds of renewed battle rose from the nave, Joe turned away from the balcony rail and dropped to his knees.

  "Zev!" he cried aloud. "Good God, Zev!"

  Forcing himself to his feet, he stumbled down the back stairs, through the vestibule, and into the nave. The undead and the Vichy were on the run, as cowed and demoralized by their leader's death as the parishioners were buoyed by it. Slowly, steadily, they were falling before the relentless onslaught.

  But Joe paid them scant attention. He fought his way to where Zev lay impaled beneath Palmeri's already decomposing corpse. He looked for a sign of life in his old friend's glazing eyes, a hint of a pulse in his throat under his beard, but found nothing.

  "Zev, Zev, Zev, you shouldn't have. You shouldn't have."

  He stiffened as he felt a pair of arms go around him, then saw it was Lacey. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she leaned against him and sobbed. She reached out and touched Zev's forehead.

  "Oh, Uncle Joe... Uncle Joe..."

  Suddenly they were surrounded by a cheering throng of St. Anthony's parishioners.

  "We did it, Fadda Joe!" Carl cried, his face and hands splattered with blood. "We killed 'em all! We got our church back!"

  "Thanks to this man here," Joe said, pointing to Zev.

  "No!" someone shouted. "Thanks to you!"

  Amid the cheers, Joe shook his head and said nothing. Let them celebrate. They deserved it. They'd reclaimed a tiny piece of the world as their own, a toehold and nothing more. A small victory of minimal significance in the war, but a victory nonetheless. They had their church back, at least for tonight. And they intended to keep it.

  Good. But there would be one change. If they wanted their Father Joe to stick around they were going to have to agree to rename the church.

  St. Zev's.

  Joe liked the sound of that.

  GREGOR . . .

  "I was wrong, wasn't I!" Olivia raged, waving her arms and she stormed back and forth across the main floor of the Post office. Her get-guards flanked her, watching the windows, trying to cover her as she moved. Gregor's guards clustered near him, warily watching the others. "Yesterday, when I heard that more than one of your serfs had been killed in a single night, I thought it couldn't get any worse. But now this! This!"

  Gregor, still too numb with shock, said nothing.

  He and his guards had been on the other side of town, roaming the streets, hunting the vigilantes, when he'd heard the news. He'd rushed back to the church, not believing it could be true. But it was. He'd found St. Anthony's aflame with searing light, too bright to look at. Crosses blazed from every window and door, the corpses of his cowboys and his get lay in a tangled pile on the front steps, and from within ... the voices of the cattle raised in hymns.

  Olivia stopped her pacing and glared at him. "You allowed this to happen, didn't you, Gregor. You're trying to humiliate me, aren't you."

  That did it.

  "You bitch!" Gregor shouted.

  He raised his fist and took a step toward her. Her guards reacted by reaching for their machetes, and Gregor's guards followed suit. As much as he wanted his hands around her throat, crushing it, twisting until her head ripped free, this was not the time or place for a pointless melee. Gregor opened his fist and stabbed a finger at Olivia.

  "You conniving, self-centered bitch! Humiliate you? I'm the one whose local get has been virtually wiped out! If anyone's pride has been damaged tonight it is mine!"

  "And you've nobody to blame but yourself," she snarled. "Your serfs and your get failed you, failed all of us. They deserved what they got. I see only one solution. I will have to bring in my own serfs and get to clean up your mess."

  "This is what you've wanted all along, isn't it. For all I know you engineered this yourself!"

  "Don't talk like a fool! I—" She stopped, held up a hand, and closed her eyes. "Wait. Wait." She opened her eyes and stared at him. "Do you see what is happening? A few of the cattle make a move against us and what do we do? We turn on each other. This is not the way."

  Realizing she was right, Gregor stepped back. But he said nothing. The sting of her words remained. His get had not deserved to die.

  "We have a situation," Olivia said. "One that must be kept quiet and crushed immediately. If word of what happened here tonight gets around, insurrections like this could spread like wildfire."

  Gregor watched her. He didn't trust this suddenly reasonable Olivia.

  "The thing to do is retake the church," he said. "Immediately."

  "But we can't, Gregor. The slow attrition of your serfs to these vigilantes over the past weeks plus their wholesale slaughter tonight leaves us short of manpower. Of the ones we have left, half are ready to bolt. We'd better hope these vigilantes are so happy to have their church back that they'll stay there tomorrow, because we now have barely enough serfs to guard us during the sunlit hours. If these vigilantes should decide to put together a hunting party..."

  Gregor suppressed a shudder. "They won't. They're not the vigilantes."

  "You so dearly wish. Then the blame would not be on you for allowi
ng them to roam free for so long. In fact, as I remember, you were supposed to solve the vigilante problem before this coming sunrise."

  Did she have to bring that up? He'd been searching since sundown.

  "It seems we've had a slight, unanticipated distraction."

  She waved her hand, brushing him off. "Unlike you, I am not going to sit on my hands. I've already contacted Franco."

  The word bitch rose to Gregor's lips again but he bit it back. Pointless to call names now.

  "I'm sure you gave him a scrupulously evenhanded account of the night's events."

  She offered him a tight smile. "Certainly. I requested a detachment of ferals and a group of tough, seasoned serfs. The plan is simple: tomorrow night they will firebomb the church and let the parishioners run out into the arms of the ferals."

  Gregor had to admit it was a good plan: simple, direct. It would work.

  "And what did Franco say?"

  Her smile faltered. "He said he'd take it under consideration."

  Gregor's mind reeled in shock. Franco is hanging me out to dry! Is this what I get for my loyalty, my efforts?

  "Is he telling us to clean up our own mess?"

  Olivia's eyebrows shot up. "Our mess?"

  "Yes, Olivia. You were here when it happened. No matter how you spin it to Franco, he's still going to see it as our mess."

  Gregor didn't know if that was true, but it didn't hurt to make Olivia squirm, get her working with him instead of against him.

  "The vigilantes were your problem long before I arrived."

  "And I'm telling you these are not the same people."

  "A very self-serving theory."

  "Their methods are different. I've been gathering information since it happened. One of my cowboys—serfs—walked in on them in the church earlier today. They didn't kill him, just pushed him around and sent him on his way. If it had been the vigilantes they would have slit his throat and hung him from a pole just like all the others."

  "Maybe they've changed tactics."

  Gregor shook his head. "The church problem was started by a priest and a rabbi."

  "Working together? Maybe this is more of a problem than I thought."

  "It is. But these two are not the vigilantes. They're worse. They're visible, and they've provided a base of operations, a rallying point for the cattle. They're doing everything the vigilantes did not do."

  "This will not get you off the hook, Gregor."

  "Will you listen to me? I'm trying to tell you there are two groups to deal with now, separate and distinct. And if they should band together we will be in even bigger danger."

  "As I said, Gregor: theory. A theory needs proof. If you're so convinced the vigilantes are not in that church, then prove it by finding them and bringing them in. I hope you succeed."

  "I find that hard to believe."

  "I'm quite serious. Your serfs are becoming afraid to move about in the day. They sense a foundering ship and, like the rats they are, they're ready to jump. We can't have that. We need them to hold the day. If these people take back the day, then we might lose the night as well."

  That will never happen, Gregor thought. I will not allow it.

  "I will bring in these vigilantes as promised. And when I do, I'll bleed them—just enough to weaken them. Then I'll give them to the cowboys to finish. I'll let them take as long as they like to exact their revenge. And then they'll see that we take care of our helpers. And the rest of the cattle will see that resistance is futile."

  He had to succeed, had to prove that the vigilantes were not connected with the church rebels, otherwise the blame for the fall of the church would rest on his shoulders. His whole future depended on finding those damn vigilantes.

  "Let's hope so," Olivia said. "Meanwhile, I won't be idle while waiting to hear from Franco. I'm going to have that church watched closely in case this priest or rabbi or anyone else from inside steps out." Her eyes blazed. "I want one of them."

  "For what?" Gregor asked.

  "For answers. For leverage. For.. . fun." Olivia smiled. "I can be very inventive."

  - 5 -

  JOE . . .

  Father Joe gave the dirt on Zev's grave a final pat with his shovel, then turned away. He didn't know any of the Jewish prayers for the dead, so he'd made up a prayer of his own to send his old friend on his way.

  Lacey walked beside him, a shovel across her shoulder. "You were really close to him, weren't you."

  "Like a brother. Closer than a brother. Brothers drag all sorts of baggage into their relationship as adults. We had none of that. We didn't even share the same culture."

  "He seemed like a good man."

  "He was. He had a kind, generous, gentle soul. I will miss him terribly."

  Joe's throat clenched. He still couldn't believe Zev was gone. He'd feared him dead after the vampires invaded, but hadn't really believed it. Now he had no choice.

  He looked around. Rifle- and shotgun-toting men stood at the corners of the little church graveyard. Joe had found spots in the crowded soil for Zev and the four parishioners who'd died during last night's fight, and this morning a crew of volunteers—Lacey among them—had started digging.

  He glanced at his niece, noting the sheen of perspiration on her bare arms, the nasty-looking bruise below her shoulder. It didn't seem to be bothering her much this morning. She was in good shape and surprisingly strong. She'd held her own with that shovel.

  The midday sun hung high and hot as they followed the walk around to the front of the church where half a dozen women were busy scrubbing the steps. Two more armed men patrolled the sidewalk behind them.

  "Good job, ladies," Joe said.

  The women smiled and waved.

  "Sure looks better than it did this morning," Lacey said.

  Joe nodded. They'd hurled the bodies of the vampires and the dead Vichy out the front door last night. In hindsight, that had been an error, because the morning sunlight created a terrible mess, reducing some of the undead cadavers to a foul, brown goo that stained the steps and coated the Vichy bodies.

  Carl had found a front-end loader and the men used that to haul the stinking mess to a vacant lot where it was buried in a mass grave.

  Lacey stared at the stains. "Lots of death last night." She turned to Joe, her eyes troubled. "Why don't I feel bad?"

  "Maybe because this is war. A war like never before. In past wars the enemy gets propagandized into monsters, subhuman creatures. In this war we don't have to do that. They are subhuman monsters."

  "And the Vichy?"

  "They're just subhuman."

  She continued to stare at him. "This is not the Uncle Joe I knew."

  How right she was. He sensed that memories of last night's carnage and bloodshed would keep him awake for months, maybe years. But he couldn't allow himself to dwell on it. He had to move on.

  "Thank God I'm not. The old Father Joe would have tried to reason with them. But I worry that many more scenes like last night will change us, make us more like them."

  "So? Maybe we need to become more like them if we're to survive. In a war you have to submerge a lot of the decent impulses and empathy that made you a good partner or spouse or parent or neighbor. Especially in this war, because we're dealing with an enemy that has lost all decent impulses. You offer an olive branch and they'll shove it down your throat. Will we be changed by this? Look around you, Unk: we already are."

  He nodded. "We'll all be either dead or permanently scarred when this is over. And so, in the unlikely event that we win, we'll still lose." He managed a smile for her. "How's that for optimism?"

  She shrugged. "One thing's for sure. The Uncle Joe who used to say, 'Just have faith and everything will turn out fine' is gone."

  Yes, he is, Joe thought with a deep pang of regret. Gone forever.

  "Do you miss him, Lacey?"

  "Yes and no. He was a great, easygoing guy, but he's not what we need now. And speaking of now, here comes the big question: what next?
"

  Good question. Joe had been thinking about that. He closed his eyes, lifted his face to the sun, and watched the glowing red inner surface of his lids.

  The sun ... their greatest ally. As long as it was out, he and the parishioners had a fighting chance. The Vichy, what remained of them, seemed cowed. A few had shown their faces in the vicinity but were quickly chased off without offering even token resistance. Every so often Joe would spot one skulking in the shadows a few blocks away, watching the church, but none ventured close.

  But once the sun set, the balance would shift to the undead and their collaborators.

  "I think we should start a compound," he said.

  "You mean, like a fort?"

  "Not so much a fort as a consolidation. Gather everyone close for mutual protection and pooling of resources."

  Lacey nodded. "The Ben Franklin approach."

  "Ben Franklin?"

  "Yeah. What he said at the signing of the Declaration of Independence: 'We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately.' "

  "Declaration of Independence ... I guess we did that last night."

  "Damn right. But with deeds instead of words on paper."

  "But as for hanging together, that's the plan—and I don't mean by our necks. The living are scattered all over town now. That leaves us vulnerable to being picked off one by one. But if we use the church as a hub and bring everybody toward the center—"

  "Circle the wagons, in other words."

  "Exactly. As of now we've got the rectory, the convent, and the church itself. That'll house some people, but it's not enough. We need to expand."

  "You got that right."

  By word of mouth and who knew how else, the news that someone was fighting back had spread. A steady stream of newcomers, anxious to join the fight, had been flowing to the church all morning. Many of them were not even Catholic. Jews, Protestants, even Muslims were showing up, wanting to know how they could be part of what was happening. Joe had passed the word to welcome everyone. This was not a time for divisions. The arbitrary walls that had separated people in the past had to be knocked down. There could be only one belief system now: the living versus the undead and those who sided with them.