Joe ignored the question. "You can't survive without the living, and there'll never be peace between the living and the undead."
"Oh, but there will. We'll control our population here in the Americas and we'll control yours, and eventually Pax Nosferatu will embrace the whole world. Here in the New World we will do things right, right from the beginning. The Old World and the Third World are now full of starving and dying undead." He glanced at Joe. "Yes, dying. We need very little blood to survive, but we need it every night. Go two nights without it and you are weak; go two more nights and your are prostrate, virtually helpless. Unless someone comes on the fifth or sixth night and feeds you blood—a very unlikely event—you will enter true death and never awaken."
"May it be ever so," Joe said, "unto the last generation."
Franco frowned. "Don't push me, priest."
"Or what?" Joe said, finding courage in the realization that he had nothing to lose. "You'll show me no mercy? I'm not expecting any."
"You don't want to plead, offer me a deal?"
Joe shook his head. He knew there'd be no deals for him. He wouldn't deal with these things.
"Then kindly stop interrupting my story. I'm getting to the good part—my part. The task of taking the New World fell to me. I decided to learn from recent history and not repeat it. As I'm sure you know, we struck on December twenty-first, the longest night of the year. I started with Washington, loosing the ferals on Camp David and the Pentagon and Langley first, then the senate and congressional office buildings next."
"Ferals?" Joe said. "What are they?"
Franco smiled, broadly, cruelly. "In time, dear priest. In a very short time you shall learn more than you wish to know about ferals."
The prospect sent a shudder through Joe. He eyed the top of the parapet again.
"I wanted to strike at the heart of the country's defenses—drive a stake through it, as I like to say—but more than anything I wanted the president. We found him. I turned him, personally, and a few days later we had him on
TV, live, via satellite, putting on a show for his nation. Did you happen to catch it?"
Joe shook his head. He'd been banished to the retreat house by then. He'd seen the beginning of the broadcast but had left the room, sickened. He hadn't seen, but he'd heard . . .
"Such a shame. You missed a psychological knockout punch. The president of the United States on his knees before a menstruating White House intern, lapping her blood. Clever, don't you think? Too bad Clinton wasn't still in office—turn around being fair play and all—but apparently he's holed up on the West Coast. Your current president did a good job, though. Really got into the part, if you know what I mean. And much more effective because he is—or rather, was—a bit more dignified than Clinton."
Joe glared at him. "You sicken me. All of you."
"But that's the whole point, priest. Physical, spiritual, and civic malaise. It's a pattern I've perfected: Go for the political and religious leaders first. See to it that they are turned early in the infiltration. It does terrible things to the morale of the citizenry when word gets around that the local mayor and congressman, along with the ministers, priests, and rabbis, are out hunting them every night. They stop trusting anyone, and when there's no trust, there's no organized resistance." He looked at Joe. "Somehow we missed you when your area was invaded. Lucky you."
"Funny," Joe said, hoping he sounded brave. "I don't feel lucky."
"But you should. You've been very lucky, and you've proven yourself quite adept at turning my game back on me. I try to hammer home that resistance is futile, then you come along and show that it can work, however briefly."
"More than briefly," Joe said. "You're going to see a lot more of it, especially if you try moving west."
"Am I? Somehow, I don't think so. Not after I'm through with you. And as for moving west, I'm in no hurry. I'm going to consolidate the East Coast, get the cattle farms established"—he wagged his finger—"all the while keeping the undead population interspersed among the living to prevent any bombing attacks. Then I may skip the Midwest altogether and take California next. I haven't decided. That's not to say I haven't been active. I regularly send trucks into the hinterlands, dropping off a few ferals here and there as they go, to wreak sporadic havoc. I don't want anyone out there feeling safe. I want them looking over their shoulders, suspicious of their neighbors, jumping at the slightest noise. As I said, I'm in no hurry, and I have all the time in the world." He shook his head. "But when I do make a move, you'll be part of it."
Joe went cold inside. "If you think ..." He paused, choosing his words. Let Franco think he'd given into the inevitability of becoming one of his kind. "If you think I'm going to help you, even after you turn me into one of you, think again."
"I sense an arrogance in you, priest. And I will see it brought down. You are mere cattle to me, yet you look at me as vermin. I won't tolerate that."
"Who do you think you're kidding?" he said, wondering if he could provoke Franco into lashing out and killing him. "You and your kind are ticks on the ass of humanity, and you know it."
But Franco appeared unruffled. "Perhaps we were, but the anatomy has changed now: we're the ass and rebellious cattle like you are the biters." He leaned closer, staring into Joe's eyes. His breath stank of old blood. "I'll bet you think that even after we make you one of us you'll be able to resist the blood hunger."
Joe couldn't help blinking, stiffening—he'd said as much to Zev just the other day—and that let Franco know he'd struck a nerve.
"You do, don't you? You really think you could resist!" He tilted his head back and laughed. "Your naivete is almost charming. You have no idea what you face. You change when you turn, priest. Everything turns inward. You awake from death and there's only one being in the world that matters: you. All your memories will be intact but devoid of feeling. The people you loved and hated will run together and redivide into two critical categories: those who can supply you with blood and those who can't. You'll have to sate that thirst. You'll have no choice. That hunger above all. The world exists for you. All the other undead around are inconveniences you must endure in order to secure a steady supply of blood. For the red thirst is insatiable. As I told you, we need very little blood to survive but would spend our waking hours immersed in it if we could. We're lazy, we're petty, and we don't want anyone to have more blood than we do."
Please, God, Joe prayed, if You're listening, don't let me end up like that. I beg You. He peeled his tongue away from the roof of his dry mouth and managed to speak.
"Sounds like you've got a lock on the seven deadly sins."
"Perhaps. I never thought of that. What are they? Envy, anger, greed, lust, pride, avarice, and sloth, right. I think you might be right. Except that sex becomes meaningless. How we used to laugh at those Anne Rice novels. The undead as tortured Byronic aesthetes. Ha! We'd read them aloud to each other and howl. Her fictional undead are so much more interesting than the real thing. We're boring. We care nothing for art or music or fashion or surroundings. We bore each other and we bore ourselves. The only thing we care about, the only lust left to us, is blood."
"What about power?"
"You're thinking of me when you say that, yes? I can assure you that power is lusted after only insofar as it can assure one of more blood."
Joe glanced back at Franco's guards. "These fellows seem pretty devoted to you."
"Not out of selflessness or personal regard for me, I assure you. It's self-preservation. You see, there's a secret, a momentous secret we keep only to ourselves."
"And what's that?"
"You'll know tomorrow night. You'll be one of us then. So treasure these moments, priest. This is your last night with your own blood in your veins."
Now, Joe thought, realizing he might not get another chance. It has to be now.
"Huh?" he said and stared past Franco's shoulder at the empty darkness. "Who was that?"
"What do you mean?"
&nb
sp; Joe raised himself on tiptoe again and leaned over the parapet, pointing into the darkness. "There! I just saw him again. One of your undead flyers. A pal of yours?"
Franco whirled to follow Joe's point. "A flyer? Up here? I should think not."
The instant Franco's back was turned, Joe dropped the drape, levered himself up onto the parapet, and rolled over it. He heard shouts from behind as his bare feet landed on the narrow outside ledge. Knowing that if he hesitated even for an instant he'd either lose his nerve or be caught, he let out a cry of terror and triumph and launched himself into the air. He spread his arms in a swan dive, hoping it would carry him beyond the setbacks. He wanted to fall all the way to the street, to splatter himself on the pavement, leaving nothing but a mocking red stain for Franco to find.
The air that had felt like cold silk against his naked body when he began his fall was now a knife-edged wind tearing at his skin and roaring in his ears. He straightened his arms ahead of him, diving headfirst into eternity.
"Forgive me, Lord," he said aloud. "I know it means damnation to throw away the gift of life, but what I was facing—"
He broke off with a cry of shock as cold fingers wrapped around his ankle and Franco's voice shouted, "Your prayers are premature, priest!"
Joe looked over his shoulder as his descent slowed and angled to the left. A grinning Franco gripped him with one hand. Large membranous wings arched from his back, spreading like a cape behind him.
Joe kicked at him with his free foot but this only allowed Franco to grab that ankle as well. Joe hung helpless in his grip as they glided through the air. Franco made a full circuit of the building, landing before the same entrance where Joe had been dropped earlier.
Barrett was outside, watching when Joe landed on the pavement.
"Well, well, well. Look who's back."
Joe wanted to cry.
Franco's wings slithered and folded and disappeared into his back as he grabbed Joe by the back of his neck and hauled him to his feet.
"Clear the way," he said. "I'm taking him to Devlin myself."
Sick with fear and disappointment and frustration, Joe allowed himself to be marched through the doors and back to the elevator banks. Franco shoved him into the car and stepped in after him.
"Just the two of us," he said as a couple of Vichy tried to crowd in behind him.
Joe didn't see any of Franco's retainers. Apparently they hadn't made it down from the Observation Deck yet. Joe stared at Franco's back, noting the ripped fabric where the wings had torn through, but no sign of the wings themselves. Where did they go?
Franco stabbed a button, the doors closed and the car began to move. Down.
He was smiling when he turned to Joe. "You almost got away with that. I didn't think you had it in you." He shook his head. "If you'd succeeded we never would have learned the details of your little vigilante operation."
"What if I don't know any details?"
Franco's smile broadened. "Come now, you don't expect me to buy that."
"But—"
"Don't waste your breath. You'll tell us everything you know."
Joe swallowed. "Torture?"
Franco laughed. "How quaint! Why waste time torturing you when you'll volunteer the information after you've been turned."
The sick, lost feeling gave way to anger and Joe lunged at him. But Franco shoved him back with one hand and grabbed his throat with the other. Joe struggled for air as he was lifted off his feet and tossed against the rear wall of the elevator car.
"Don't make me laugh," Franco said.
"Do your damnedest." Joe slumped in the corner, gasping and rubbing his throat. "I'll never be like you."
"Quite right, priest. You won't be anything like me."
The car stopped and the doors opened. Franco pointed to the right. "That way."
Joe didn't move. Why cooperate in his own death march—or in this case, undeath march?
Franco said, "You can walk or I can drag you by one of your feet."
Joe walked, looking for a way out, an escape route, but the hallway was lined with doors that seemed to lead to offices or utility rooms. Franco stopped as they came to a mirror set in the wall.
"Take a look."
Joe glanced at the reflection of his bruised, naked body, his sunken eyes. Not a pretty sight.
"Enjoy it," Franco said. "This is the last time you'll ever see yourself in a mirror."
Joe noticed with a start that the reflection showed him standing alone in the hallway.
"So it's true," he murmured. "The undead cast no reflection."
"Odd, isn't it. I used to be interested in physics. You look at me and see me because light reflects off me onto your retinas. But that same reflected light is not caught by a mirror. How is that possible? They used to say it was because we have no souls but neither does the rug you're standing on, and that reflects perfectly. I tried to sit down and figure it out once but found I didn't care enough to try. As I told you, once you're turned you care about only one thing."
He grabbed Joe's shoulder and pushed him down the hall. "Enough philosophizing. "
As they moved on, Franco said, "I want to explain something to you, and I want you to listen. I want you to understand this. By now you've probably noticed that there are different kinds of undead, different strains or breeds."
Joe had, but he said nothing.
"There's a hierarchy among us. No one can explain it—it's as inexplicable as our lack of reflection or where my wings come from when I want to fly— but it's there. It's as if the strain gets tainted or attenuated the further it moves from its source. My immediate get—the ones I turn—retain almost all of their intelligence; but their get retain a little less, and the get of those retain even less. And so on down the line through the generations of get until. . . until we are begetting idiots. But intelligence isn't all that is lost along the way. Human characteristics leach away as well. The distant generations of get become more and more bestial until they're like two-legged rabid dogs. We call them ferals."
Ferals ... Franco had mentioned them in connection with the assault on Washington.
"Why are you telling me this?" Joe said. "Why should I care?"
"You should care very much. After all, we're discussing your future." He stopped before a door. "We're here."
Joe saw an AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY sign set below a small window.
"Take a look. Tell me what you see."
Joe stepped up to the glass and peered through. He saw a dimly lit space filled with pipes and large oval tanks.
"Looks like a boiler room."
"Keep looking. See anything else. Something moving, perhaps?"
The note of glee in Franco's tone made Joe's skin crawl. He searched the shadow but didn't see—
Wait. To the right. Something there, moving from the deeper shadows into the wan light of an overhead bulb. It looked like a man yet it moved like an animal, on its toes, hunched forward, fingers bent like claws. As it came under the bulb Joe saw that it was a man, or had been. Naked, filthy, face twisted into a perpetual snarl, eyes mad and . . . feral.
"Dear God!"
"God has nothing to do with Devlin there—Jason Devlin, a young, handsome software developer on his way up until a few months ago when he was run down in the basement of the Flatiron Building and killed by a feral. The feral neglected to behead him, and so Mr. Devlin awoke the following sunset as one of us—as an undead. For a few days he looked like his old self, but then he began to devolve. Remember what I told you about the bloodline weakening, attenuating. He was turned by a feral, and so he became a feral, only more so. He's one of my line, my most distant get, so I suppose I must claim him as related to me."
"How do you know?"
"Oh, I know. We always recognize our get. I keep him around for entertainment. And as an extra stick to keep the serfs in line. I threaten to feed them to Devlin if they slack off on their duties. That's about all Devlin is good for now. He didn't retain enough
intelligence to distinguish between friend and foe, which means he'd be attacking serfs as well as legitimate prey, so I can't even use him as a guard dog."
Franco tapped on the window and the creature burst into motion, leaping at the door with blinding speed, screaming and clawing at the glass. Joe almost tripped backpedaling away.
"Look at me, priest," Franco said. "Look at me and listen. Remember when you said you'd never be like me? Didn't you wonder why I agreed? It's because when you look at Devlin you are seeing your future. I'm going to let Devlin turn you."
Joe couldn't speak, could only shake his head and back away, thinking, no ... no ... this can't be true ... this can't happen ... to be like that thing, that creature, that monster .. . forever .. . no .. .
"Ah!" Franco said with a grin. "That's what I've been waiting for. That look of doomed horror, the realization that your darkest nightmare is about to come true. Where is your arrogance now, priest?"
"No," Joe whispered as he found his voice. "God, no, please!"
"That's right. Pray to your god. Beg him like so many before you. But He's not going to help you. In less than two weeks you'll be just like Devlin, only a little less intelligent, a little more bestial. Won't that be an inspiration to your parishioners? But before you're too far gone, you'll have a talk with the charming undead woman I've placed in charge of your area. You'll fill Olivia in on all the details of your little vigilante operation, and then you'll be sent back to prey upon your parishioners." I won t!
"Oh, but you will. And you'll take the most trusting, the most devoted first, because they'll be the easiest. Isn't this a coup? Isn't this so much better than killing you? If you simply died, you'd be a martyr, a rallying point. But this way, you're still around, and you've turned against them. You are feeding on them! Imagine how they'll feel. If you're lucky you won't survive long. I'm suspecting they'll gather together and stake you—for your own good. And theirs, of course. And then where will that leave them besides sick at heart and demoralized? Where will they be after killing their beloved Father Joe? Why, they'll go back to where they were before you came. Hiding, waiting for the inevitable."
F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 Page 23
