And then he remembered . . . Franco is waiting. . .
The old Saturday Night Live running gag about General Franco still being alive flashed through his brain, then fled in terror.
When the damage gets done, Franco will want to do it. . .
A two-way radio squawked. Joe saw Barrett unclip it from his belt. He turned away and spoke into it. Joe looked around for an escape route, but even if he could break away from the pair who held him, the lobby area was acrawl with Vichy.
After Barrett finished his call, they led him past the remnants of metal detectors that had been kicked down and smashed, past a newsstand with outdated papers and magazines, a ruined souvenir shop, a deserted Au Bon Pain, then to a bank of elevators with black and chrome doors. Only two cars seemed to be working. The others stood open, dark, and empty. After a short ride with the suit, the beard, and two others to the third floor, Joe was propelled down a hallway to a large, desk-filled room lined with computers and monitors. A few scurvy Vichy lounged around, but three other men, older, more conventionally dressed, worked the equipment. They appeared to be under guard.
"Search him," Barrett said. "And I don't mean just pat him down. Search him. Confiscate any contraband here and dispose of it."
He was hiding nothing, of course. He'd been armed with his silver cross back in Lakewood but that had been stripped from him and left behind.
Barrett's words filtered through to his muddled brain. Confiscate? Contraband? Barrett didn't fit the typical Vichy mold. He dressed like a Wall Street broker and spoke like an educated man. What was he doing here?
BARRETT . . .
James Barrett watched Neal search the priest, making sure he didn't miss anything. Neal was not the brightest bulb in the box.
But he did a good job this time, turning all the priest's pockets inside out, removing his socks and shoes.
"He's clean," Neal said.
"You'd better be sure."
"I'm sure."
They hustled him back down to the first floor for a swift, ear-popping ride toward the top of the building. The red numbers on the readout counted the passing floors by leaps of ten. Barrett had always liked that. It was the way he'd planned his career at Bear Stearns to go: to the top by leaps and bounds. But being a hotshot investment banker these days was like being a poster boy for obsolescence.
He heard Neal chuckle. He was grinning through his beard at the priest and shaking his head. "I'm glad I ain't you. Holy shit, am I glad I ain't you. I don't know what Franco's got planned but it ain't gonna be pretty, I can tell you that."
Barrett watched the priest clench his fists. He was scared. Doing a decent job of hiding it, but not perfect. He looked like he wanted to ask who Franco was but said nothing. Probably afraid his voice would crack or waver and betray his terror.
When the elevator stopped on the eightieth floor, Neal shoved him out.
"Come on, god-boy," Barrett said. "Still one more leg to go."
They guided him around a corner to the other bank. This ride was short— only six floors. At the eighty-sixth they pushed him out into the green marble atrium.
"Hold it right there!" said a voice.
The atrium held half a dozen undead. One of them stepped toward them.
"Ah, shit," Neal muttered. "Fuckin Artemis."
"Who's this?" said the vampire, tall and lean with a ruined left eye that was little more than a lump of scar tissue.
Artemis was head honcho of Franco's security and no one—at least no one living—knew what had happened to that eye. Whatever it was, Barrett hoped it had hurt. Artemis was a grandstanding prick.
"It's the one Franco's been waiting for," Barrett told him.
Artemis's face contorted in fury. "The vigilante priest?" he shouted. "And you bring him here like this?"
"He's been searched, and Franco—"
"I don't give a damn if he's been searched! You don't bring a terrorist up here and leave him a single place to hide anything! Here's how you bring a terrorist to Franco!"
And with that he began tearing at the priest's clothing, ripping it off him. The priest tried to fend him off but Artemis was too strong. Less than a minute later he stood naked in the atrium.
Barrett admired the priest's musculature. Especially his low back. Lots of good meat there. Big filets.
Artemis tossed the shredded clothing at Barrett.
"Now he can see Franco! I'll take it from here. You two get back to your posts."
"We want him when Franco's through with him," Neal said.
Artemis laughed. "Oh, I doubt that. Not in the condition he'll be in."
"Shit," said Neal as the doors pincered closed. "I hate that fuck."
Barrett said nothing. Who knew if the elevator camera was on and this little scene was being taped. Say or do the wrong thing now and you could face repercussions later.
Neal banged his fist against the side wall of the elevator car. "And I hate takin his shit."
So did Barrett. But sometimes that was what you had to put up with to get where you wanted to go. And Barrett knew where he wanted to go: to the top. He'd been on the fast track for advancement at Bear Stearns and he was looking for a way to fast-track himself with the undead. He needed a lever to convince Franco to turn him now instead of later.
He glanced at Neal. Just like the rest of the cowboys. Never a thought past his next meal and his next trip out to one of the cattle farms where he could screw anything in sight. Maybe he occasionally thought of someday, ten years from now, being turned and joining the ranks of the undead.
But ten years was too long for Barrett. He wanted an express route to undeadland. Once he was one of them he knew he could rocket through the ranks. They were all lazy sons of bitches. He'd show them how to get things done. If he could get himself turned, he'd have Franco's job within a year. He knew it.
"Treats us like fuckin dogs," Neal said.
No argument there. But that didn't mean you had to live in a kennel and eat dog food.
Most of the cowboys had moved mattresses into the offices and stayed right here in the Empire State Building. It was convenient, had light and power, and was safer than living outside where you could be bushwhacked by some angry living or one of the more feral undead who wouldn't be deterred by your earring.
James Barrett deserved better. He had an elegant Murray Hill brownstone all to himself. He'd hooked up a generator to power lights, a refrigerator, and an electric stove. The stove was important. It allowed him to indulge in his new passion: cooking.
Barrett had recognized long ago that there were two ways of living your life: as predator or as prey. He'd decided early on that he'd be a predator. And predators ate meat. One problem, though, was the lack of meat since the undead had taken over. Or so he'd thought until he realized that there was plenty of fresh meat to be had. Every night he and the cowboys were called upon to dispose of a new round of bloodless corpses. It had occurred to him what a shame it was to waste all that good red meat.
Long pork, as human flesh was known in certain parts of the world, was really quite tasty. He'd learned to butcher the meatier corpses and now had a good supply of steaks in his freezer.
But meaty corpses were harder and harder to come by these days. That was why it was such a shame to let someone like that priest go to waste.
But who knew? Maybe there'd be something salvageable left after Franco got through with him.
Somehow, though, he doubted it.
JOE . . .
Joe's knees felt soft and he almost stumbled as the scar-faced vampire pushed him up a short flight of steps. What were they planning for him? He wanted to shout that he wasn't a vigilante and didn't know who they were, but that would simply give them a good laugh.
He stepped into a glassed-in space that had once been a souvenir-snack bar area—nothing but blackness beyond that glass—then was shoved through a door onto the Observation Deck. Cool night air, propelled by a gusty wind, raised gooseflesh on his bare skin, bu
t the sight of dozens of pairs of undead eyes watching him weakened his knees again.
He was a goner. He could see that now. As good as dead. Or worse. Fear crowded his throat, but he swallowed it. He straightened his shoulders. At least he could go out with dignity ... as much as he could muster without a stitch of clothing.
The crowd of undead, all armed with pistols and machetes, grinned and pointed to him. The scarred one grabbed one of his arms and hauled him before another of their kind standing by the Observation Deck wall, staring out into the night. He turned at their approach, and smiled when his cold gaze came to rest on Joe.
"So . .. this is the man who has chosen to vex me."
He was almost as tall as Joe, with broad shoulders, a blond leonine mane and mustache. A jutting nose and aggressive chin dominated his face.
His excellent English did not completely hide an Italian accent. Joe noted that he was the only undead on the deck who wasn't armed.
"A big one, this vigilante priest"—he glanced at Joe's genitals—"but not exactly built like a stallion, is he."
This brought a laugh from his guards or retainers or whatever they were.
Joe stared past him, focusing on the impenetrable darkness over Franco's right shoulder, and said nothing.
The vampire clucked his tongue in mock concern. "Chilly? Under different circumstances I might relish your discomfiture, but not tonight." He turned to one of the undead holding Joe. "Find him a blanket or something to wrap about him."
The one-eyed guard said, "But Franco—"
"Do it." His dead eyes lit briefly with an inner fire.
The underling stood firm. "Just hours ago he killed Gregor."
The other undead milling around nodded and murmured, as if this were a telling fact.
That name again ... Gregor. The second time he'd heard it tonight. Joe stood there wondering who Gregor was. The only thing he knew was that he hadn't killed him—at least not knowingly. "Just hours ago" he'd been searching for Lacey. Had the same thing happened to her? Whisked away into the night. No. Lacey had disappeared during the daylight hours. Where was she then? He prayed her circumstances were better than his.
"I don't care!" Franco said. "It will be our blanket, you dolt! It won't conceal a cross, so you'll have nothing to worry about! Move! I've already wasted too much time waiting for his arrival."
A few moments later some sort of fabric was roughly thrown over Joe's shoulders. Apparently they couldn't find a blanket; this was like a window drape. He pulled it close around him, grateful for the shelter it provided from the wind.
"Thank you," he said, deciding to play this as cool as he could.
"Oh, don't think I did it for your sake. I did it for mine. I want your complete attention." He motioned Joe to the wall. "Come. Let me show you my domain."
Something had been nagging at Joe since he'd stepped out on the deck ... something wrong . . . something missing . . . and now he realized what it was.
He'd been up here once in his life, in his teens, when his father had brought him. The reason for the trip had been a French exchange student staying with them for the summer. They'd gone to the Statue of Liberty that summer too. Strange. He'd grown up only a short distance from these American landmarks but probably never would have visited them if not for the presence of a foreigner.
He remembered that on his one and only visit here there'd been high safety fencing all around the Observation Deck, with tall, pointed steel tines curving inward like fishhooks. Now most of that was gone, torn away. It made sense, though: The undead weren't worried about one of their own becoming a suicide jumper, and the fence would only hinder the fliers.
Joe approached the wall, eyeing its upper edge. It ran about mid-chest high. Eternity—and perhaps salvation—waited on the other side.
As he came up beside Franco, the vampire waved his arm at the darkness. "There it is: mine, as far as I can see."
Joe's heart broke as he took in the vista, not for what he could see—moonlight glinting off the crown of the Chrysler Building off to the left—but for what he couldn't.
Darkness. The city was dark. Any light he saw was reflected from the moon or this building. Everything else was dead and dark. This wasn't the New York he'd known. This was its corpse.
"The first thing we did was kill the power," Franco said. "It has a numbing psychological effect, especially in a place like Manhattan. People here were so used to light everywhere, all the time, and then it was gone. It serves another purpose. It makes the few who are left light fires to cook, to stay warm on the cooler nights. We home in on those fires. They're like beacons to us. Manhattan is pretty well cleaned out now, but the other boroughs still teem with survivors. We hunt them judiciously, preserving them like a natural resource."
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
"But I keep this building alight. More psychological warfare. The tallest building in this fabled city, its most recognizable landmark, and we have it. I live here with some of my get, just one floor down. Why should I hide in a basement when I can seal off windows in this magnificent building that affords me such a unique view of my domain. I wish those Islamic thugs had left the Trade Towers alone. They were even taller. How I'd love to be standing atop one of them now."
So full of himself, Joe thought, wondering how he could turn that to his advantage.
Franco shrugged resignedly. "But I suppose the Empire State will do. Its generators power everything in the building." He pointed to the cameras ringing the deck. "It has an excellent security system to help our serfs protect us during the day. No one moves in this building without being watched and taped. I like to review the tapes now and again, and punish any slackers I catch. As an extra security measure, we've cut the power to all but two of the elevators."
He held his hand over the edge of the wall. A red glow lit his palm from below.
"But my favorite accessory is the filters they have for the spotlights that bathe the upper floors. Red, white, and blue for July Fourth, red and green for Christmas. We use only red now. It's our color. The color of blood. More psychological warfare." He turned to Joe and smiled. "You're pretty adept at psychological warfare yourself."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Joe said, tearing himself away from the dark vista.
Franco stared at him. "I can't tell whether you're being obtuse or coy. I'm talking about your campaign against the serfs in your area."
"Serfs?"
"Oh, I forget. They like to call themselves cowboys, you people like to call them collaborators—"
"Vichy," he said, thinking with a pang of Zev. "Some of us call them Vichy."
"Vichy." Franco nodded. "I like that. It shows a sense of history, though it gives them more cachet than they deserve." He waved his hand as if shooing a fly. "But my point is, you and your minions have caused more trouble than anyone I can remember."
Again the temptation to tell this beast that Joe had no idea what he was talking about, but he suppressed it. He was good at suppressing temptation.
"It was the terrorist aspects of your campaign that worked. The serfs are such disloyal scum, and so very susceptible to fear. You had the local contingent quaking in their boots. But you made a grave tactical error when you revealed yourself and took back your church. That gave you a face, and you weren't so terrifying anymore. Or so I thought. But when you sent Gregor into true death I decided I wanted to meet you."
Joe had to ask—because he wanted to know and because he sensed that the question might unsettle Franco—"Who the hell is Gregor?"
Franco stared at him a moment. "I suppose it's possible you didn't know his name. Same with Angelica, I imagine. But you and yours have sent two important subordinates to true death in a matter of a few days. No one has ever done that."
Angelica . . . could that be the flying undead that Zev told him about?
"Those winged ones," Joe said, taking a stab in the dark. "They always give me the creeps."
"Of course they do.
They're supposed to. Psychological warfare again. Strike terror into the hearts of the cattle." He sighed. "I never cared for either of them. Angelica was too impetuous and Gregor too grasping, but the fallout from their deaths has been, well, vexing. But only temporarily."
He turned back to the night with another grandiose wave of his arm.
"My kingdom. We're facing east, you know. Long Island is out that way. We're well established there."
Joe stretched up on tiptoe, leaned over the top of the parapet, and looked down instead of out. Red light from the banks of spotlights bathed his face. Beyond them, far below and out of sight, empty pavements beckoned.
Not yet, he thought. The guards were too close. They'd stop him before he got over. He eased back and watched his host.
"We've already started the cattle ranches," Franco was saying. "We fenced off large sections of Levittown and populated them with females fifteen to thirty years old. As a reward to the serfs, we set them loose in there to impregnate the cows. Soon we'll have crops of calves to raise." He swiveled his head and smiled. "More psychological warfare."
"More like rape and brutality," Joe said, reflexively raising a fist. How he wished—
His arm was grabbed and twisted backward. A glance showed the scar-eyed one behind him. All around he heard pistols being cocked and machetes drawing from belts.
"Will you stop!" Franco snapped at his guards. "He is a lone, naked, unarmed man! What can he possibly do to me? Now get back, all of you and give us some room!"
"But Franco—"
"Now, Artemis! I won't say it again!"
With obvious reluctance, one-eyed Artemis and the other guards moved off. Not too far, but far enough to give Joe a chance to do what he needed to do ... if he had the nerve. All he needed was a way to distract Franco.
The vampire turned his gaze eastward again. "We made so many mistakes in the Old World. We failed to control the undead population. We just rolled through, letting our numbers spread geometrically. The Middle East was the easiest. Hardly a cross to be found. Same with India and China. We did what no president or shuttling diplomat ever could. We brought peace to every place we've touched. Indian undead now sup with Pakistanis, Greeks with Cypriots, North Koreans with South, and most amazing of all, Israeli and Palestinian undead hunting together." He smiled. " 'Blessed be the peacemakers.' Isn't that how it goes. I think I should be sainted. What's the term the Church uses? Canonized. Yes, I should be canonized, don't you think?"
F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 Page 22
