F Paul Wilson - Novel 10

by Midnight Mass (v2. 1)

  "There's an empty office building across the street from the back of the church," Joe said, remembering the night he and Zev had spent there. Had it been only two nights since then? "That should hold a lot of folks. We'll start there."

  "I passed a couple of furniture stores on the way here," Lacey said. She pointed south. "If I remember, they're just a few blocks that way."

  "You're right," Joe said. "I know the places."

  "We can raid them for bedding."

  "Great idea. Once we set that up, we'll take over the surrounding houses— assuming they're unoccupied."

  "Pretty safe assumption," Lacey said. "If the owners somehow survived, I can't see them hanging around for long, considering what's been going down in the church."

  "But first I want to start blocking off the surrounding streets—get old cars, line them up in the intersections. That'll fend off or at least slow down any blitzkrieg-style counterattacks."

  He felt Lacey's hand on his arm and turned to find her staring at him.

  "You've given this a lot of thought, haven't you."

  "That's just it. I haven't. I'm making it up as I go along. As I told you last night, my original intent was to hold the place for one night, say Mass, then move on."

  Lacey smiled. "I was wondering what happened to that idea."

  "It got lost in the crowd."

  Joe hadn't counted on drawing a crowd. Now that he had, what did he do with them? He couldn't perform the loaves-and-fishes miracle. How was he going to feed them? But seeing the desperate hope gleaming in their eyes this morning, he couldn't simply walk out on them.

  "So ..." Lacey said slowly. "Beyond a compound .. . what?"

  "I wish I knew."

  "You realize, don't you, that we can't win."

  "I don't realize any such thing."

  "Hey, Unk," she said, her grip tightening on his arm. "We're only a hundred people and there are millions of them. They've got Europe, the Middle East, India, and most of Asia."

  "But they haven't got the U.S. They hold the East Coast but the rest of the country is still alive."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "I was talking to one of the newcomers this morning. His name's Gerald Vance and he's got a battery-powered shortwave radio. He told me he's been talking to people all over the country. Philadelphia's gone but Harrisburg and Pittsburgh have only seen an occasional vampire. Same with Rochester. Atlanta fell but Alabama's fine. The Midwest and the West Coast are still in the hands of the living. So you see, it's not over."

  Lacey looked away. "After seeing what's happened to the rest of the world, you could argue that it's just a matter of time."

  Joe lowered his voice. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't talk like that. Last night was the first good thing that's happened to these people in a long time, so if you don't mind ..."

  Lacey held up a hand. "Okay. 'Never is heard a discouraging word.' But if that's true about the rest of the country, then instead of staying here maybe we should be thinking about throwing a convoy together and heading west."

  Joe shook his head. He'd already thought of that.

  "We're being watched. We start to assemble dozens of cars, they'll know what we're planning. They'll be waiting for us. We'll be sitting ducks on the road."

  He'd seen it play out in his mind's eye. He'd envisioned a line of cars racing down Route 70 at dawn. But he'd also envisioned a Vichy roadblock, gunfire, bloodshed, disabled cars, the convoy stalled, blocked fore and aft, the sun going down, and then . . . massacre.

  "We've got a better chance here. I told Vance to get on his radio and spread the word of what we're doing here. Maybe it will spur others to do the same. Right now we've set a fire. If we remain the only bonfire, I agree: we're doomed. But if we can start a trend, inspire a hundred, a thousand fires along the coast, we'll no longer be the center of attention. We might have a chance."

  Lacey was nodding. "And if the rest of the country gets the message that there is hope, that resistance is not futile ..." She grinned and raised her fist. "I always wanted to be a revolutionary."

  "Well, you're going to get your wish." Joe yawned. When was the last time he'd slept? "My wish is for forty winks."

  "Why don't you bed down for a while in the rectory? You catch your forty while I take some people over to that office building and check it out. We'll see how we can divide it up for living arrangements."

  Joe stared at her. Where did she get her energy?

  "Aren't you tired?"

  She shrugged. "I've never needed much sleep. Besides, I had a nap."

  "When?"

  She smiled. "While you were saying Mass."

  Joe sighed. "When are you going to face facts and admit—?"

  "Hush." She put a finger to her lips. "I'm still not on board, but we'll argue about this some other time. Right now, there's too much work to do."

  Joe watched her stride off, thinking that whoever said there are no atheists in foxholes obviously hadn't met Lacey.

  LACEY . . .

  Lacey gazed out the window at the lengthening shadows and rubbed her burning eyes.

  Tired. She hadn't found time for another nap yet. All she needed was twenty minutes and she'd be good for hours more of activity.

  Her uncle and the rest were in the process of working out a sleep schedule, assigning shifts. Some of them were going to have to live undead style, sleeping in the day, up all night, while others would keep a more normal schedule.

  Lacey figured she'd volunteer for the undead shift since she tended to be a night person anyway.

  She turned away from the window and checked out the room behind her. The desks had been pushed into a corner and a mattress and box spring placed in the center of the floor. Not fancy but functional, and a helluva lot more comfortable than trying to sleep on the church's stone floor.

  She stretched her aching muscles. A good workout today, driving pickup trucks to the furniture stores, hauling bedding back, and lugging it up the steps to the upper floors. Toward the end of the afternoon she would have given anything for a generator to power up the elevator.

  Back to the window for another look at the grand old Victorian next door. Janey had been so into Victorians, dragging Lacey around the city, pointing out this Second Empire and that Italianate until she'd caught the bug too. They'd planned someday to come down to Asbury Park, buy a place like the three-story affair next door and renovate it, dress it up like those fabulous painted ladies they'd salivated over on their trip to San Francisco last year.

  Lacey felt a lump grow in her throat. Janey . . . they'd had such good times together ... the best years of her life. She missed her. Losing her had left an cavity where she'd once had a heart.

  Where are you, Janey? What did they do to you?

  Lacey knew in that instant which building she wanted added next to Uncle Joe's "compound."

  Why not suggest it to him now?

  She ducked into the hall and started down the stairwell, only to have to back up to allow a couple of the parish men to pass with a queen-size mattress.

  "I'm heading over to the church to see Father Joe," she told them.

  "Give us a minute and I'll escort you back," said a red-faced, heavyset man in a plaid shirt.

  Lacey waved him off. "Don't be silly. It's a hundred feet away. And the street's blocked."

  Probably just wants a break from all the lifting and hauling, she thought as she stepped outside.

  She checked up and down the street. Nothing moving. No one in sight.

  As she started across the street she glanced again at the old house and figured, why not check it out first? If it wasn't habitable—say, a big hole in the roof or something like that—why waste her time?

  But she wasn't going in there alone. No way. She'd seen enough horror movies to know you don't go into empty houses alone when there are bad guys about.

  She looked around, saw a short, muscular guy in a sleeveless T-shirt crossing the street, heading from the church toward
the office building. What was his name? Enrico. Yeah, that was it.

  "Hey, Enrico. Want to help me check out this place next door? See if we can move people in there?"

  "Sure," he said, grinning. "Let's go."

  She waited for him to catch up, then together they headed for the front steps and climbed onto the porch. She tried the door, hoping it was unlocked—she hated the thought of breaking one of those old windows to get in—and smiled as the latch yielded to the pressure of her thumb. All right!

  Enrico hung in the living room while Lacey hurried through the cool, dark, silent interior. The decor was not authentically Victorian—nowhere near cramped and cluttered enough—but the place hadn't been vandalized. The two upper floors held five small bedrooms and one larger master bedroom, all furnished with beds and dressers. The couch in the first-floor sun room could sleep another, once all the dead house plants were removed.

  Perfect, she thought, feeling the best she had all day. This is a definite keeper. And I've got first dibs on the master bedroom.

  She came down the main staircase—the house had a rear servants' stairway as well, running to and from the kitchen—and found the living room empty.

  "Enrico?"

  Maybe he'd done a little exploring on his own. She headed for the kitchen and stopped cold when she saw a pair of feet jutting toes-up from behind a counter. She wanted to run but knew she had to check. She hurried forward, took a look at the kitchen carving knife jutting from Enrico's bloody chest, at his dead, glazed eyes staring at the ceiling, then spun and ran.

  She didn't head for the front door. Instead she sprang for the French doors and leaped onto the verandah. There she ran into three waiting Vichy and had no time to react before something cracked against her skull, sending lightning bolts through her suddenly darkening vision. She lashed out with her booted foot but struck only air, and then another blow to her head sent her down.

  She had flashes of faces, one clean-shaven, one bearded, one with braided hair, snatches of voices . . .

  "Got one!" . . . "Hey, she's fine! She's really fine!"

  A feeling of being carried, then an impact as she was tossed into the rear of a van, the van starting to move, then more voices...

  "We get major points for this—major!" . . . "Man, she's so fine! Shame to hafta give her to the bloodsuckers." . . . "Ay, yo, they only said they wanted a live one. Didn't say nothin 'bout havin to be a virgin, know'm sayin?"

  Laughter.

  "Right! Fuckin-ay right!"

  And then the feeling of her clothes being torn from her body . . .

  CAROLE . . .

  Sister Carole watched a beat-up old van race along the street. She couldn't see who was driving but it was coming from the direction of St. Anthony's.

  St. Anthony's . . . how she'd wanted to step inside when she'd passed by this morning. She'd heard the voices drifting through the open front doors, responding to Father Joe during Mass, and they'd tugged her up the steps to participate and ... to see Father Joe's face once more. But she couldn't allow it. She was unworthy . . . too unworthy.

  She'd seen the stains on the steps—blood and fouler substances—and had asked one of the armed men guarding the front about them. He'd told her about what had happened during the night, how Father Palmeri and other undead had been routed and killed along with their living helpers, how the church was now a holy place again.

  Carole had walked on with her heart singing. Maybe what she'd been doing was not all for naught. Maybe there was a Divine Plan and she was part of it.

  Then again, maybe not.

  Most likely not.

  The song in her heart had gasped and died.

  And so she'd spent most of the rest of the day working around the house. She figured it was only a matter of time before she was caught and wanted to be ready when the undead or their cowboys came for her.

 

  "That makes two of us," Sister Carole said.

  She didn't want to go out again tonight but knew she had to.

  Her only solace was the certainty that sooner or later it going to end—for her.

  She set a few more wires, ran a few more strings, then headed up to the bedroom to change into her padded bra, her red blouse, her black leather skirt.

 

  "When they're all dead and gone," Sister Carole said aloud to the stranger in the bedroom mirror. "Or when I am. Whichever comes first."

  GREGOR...

  Gregor frowned as he smeared makeup on his face to hide his pallor. He hoped it looked all right. Since he couldn't use a mirror he had to go by feel. It would have made more sense to have one of his get apply it, but he wanted to keep his plan to himself.

  He sprayed himself with Obsession cologne. The living said the undead carried an unmistakable odor. He couldn't detect it himself, but this should mask it. He rose and looked down at himself. A long-sleeved work shirt, scruffy jeans, a crescent-on-a-chain earring, and now, a passably—he hoped—ruddy complexion.

  "Hey there," he said in the drawl he'd been practicing since sundown, hoping to disguise his own accent with another. "Ahm new in these here parts."

  He slipped a cowboy hat onto his head to complete the picture.

  A good enough picture, he hoped, to decoy these vigilantes into picking on him as their next cowboy victim.

  Gregor smiled, baring his teeth. Then they'd be in for a surprise.

  He could have sent someone else, could have sent out a number of decoys, but he wanted this hunt for himself. After all, Franco had his eye on the situation, and that mandated bold and extraordinary measures. Gregor needed to prove without a doubt that the vigilantes were separate from the insurgents in the church.

  He stepped over the drained, beheaded corpse of the old man who'd been brought to him earlier—what had happened to all the young catde?—and checked the map one last time. He'd marked all six places where the dead cowboys had been found. The X's formed a rough circle. Gregor's plan was to wander the streets within that circle. Alone.

  An hour ago he'd sent his get-guards upstairs to the main floor of the synagogue, telling them he wanted to sup alone and be left undisturbed here in the basement while he planned the night's sortie. Now he crept up the steps and let himself out a side door and into the dark.

  Gregor took a deep, shuddering breath of the night air. Too long since he'd done this. Not since he'd migrated out of Eastern Europe with the others. It felt wonderful to be on the hunt again.

  JOE . . .

  Joe realized with a start that he hadn't seen Lacey since this morning.

  "Has anybody seen my niece?" he said to a group of men standing guard on the front steps.

  "Niece?" one of them said, a big black man with gray stubble on his cheeks. "I didn't know you had one. What's she look like, Father?"

  "Dark hair, tattoo on her arm about here, and she's—"

  "Sure," said another fellow. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "She was with us back there across the street in the office building most of the day. Some kinda worker, that girl."

  "That she is," Joe said, trying not to sound too obviously proud. "But when did you last see her? "

  "Late afternoon," said a big, red-faced man. "Said she was coming back here to see you about something."

  A jolt of alarm lanced though Joe. "I haven't seen her. She never got to me!"

  He tore back into the church, scanning expectant faces as he hurried through the nave—expectant because he was supposed to start saying evening Mass just about now. He ducked through the sanctuary and into the sacristy where he found Carl, getting ready for his altar boy duties.

  "Carl! Have you seen Lacey?"

  He shook his head. "No, Fadda. Something wrong?"

  "She's missing. Gone." Joe's gut crawled. "Get your gun and a couple of the men. We've got
to find her."

  "But what about Mass?"

  "Forget about that. Lacey comes first."

  "Y'gotta say Mass, Fadda. Everyone's out there waiting for you." He stepped to the door and looked out into the nave. "Let's do this: I'll tell some of the non-Catholic guys to look for her during Mass. They can look just as good as us. They'll find her. Chances are she's probably conked out in the convent or rectory catching up on her sleep."

  Joe prayed that was true. It seemed logical. Lacey could take care of herself, probably better than most of the men. She'd made it all the way down here from New York on her own, hadn't she?

  Still. . . not knowing where she was gnawed at him.

  GREGOR . . .

  Where are you? Gregor wanted to shout. I'm right here in your kill zone. Come and get me!

  He had been walking these empty streets for what seemed like hours. It hadn't been nearly that long, but his gnawing impatience made it feel that way. He'd seen no one, living or undead. He fought the discouragement he sensed creeping up on him, preparing to pounce on his back. He would not give up. He refused to return empty handed again.

  He was wondering if perhaps he should set himself up as bait in another area when he heard a woman's voice call from the shadows.

  "Hey, mister. Got any food?"

  He jumped, not having to fake his surprise. How had she sneaked up on him like that? She was downwind, he realized, and had been hiding behind a thick tree trunk. Still, he should have sensed her presence.

  His senses were on full alert now. Were the prey taking the bait? Was this woman bait herself, placed here to lure an unsuspecting cowboy into a trap?

  He saw her clearly—a young woman in provocative clothes. Not that it provoked him. Only one thing could do that, and it wasn't made of cloth. It was red and warm and flowed and spurted.