He'd managed to fight it off, but that urge still frightened him. Was it the stress, the responsibility of what they'd planned, or was he edging closer to the darkness in his daymares? What if—?
Movement in the SUV's side mirror caught his attention. A Vichy, bearded and denimed like so many of them, had rounded the corner and was approaching the Navigator with a raised pistol. Then Joe recognized him: the one who'd been with the head Vichy in the Armani suit when Joe was dropped outside the front entrance.
He'll recognize me! This will ruin—
Wait. He won't recognize me.
Joe had forgotten momentarily how his face had been disfigured by the sun. Easy to forget when you'd never seen it, when mirrors gave back only a smeary blur.
"What the fuck is this?" the Vichy said, stepping up to the open driver window and leveling his semiautomatic at Joe. "Who are you and what the fuck you think you're—shit! What happened to your face?"
That voice ... Joe remembered it taunting him in the long elevator ride to the Observation Deck.
I'm glad I ain't you. Holy shit, am I glad I ain't you.
"Good morning," Joe said. "Just waiting to pick up a friend. And the face? An industrial accident."
"Who gives a shit. What're you doin here, man? You think this is some kinda taxi stand?"
Joe turned his head and showed his right earlobe. He flicked the dangly earring. "Hey, I'm in the club."
"That don't mean shit. Who you waitin for?"
Joe cudgeled his brain for the name of this guy's buddy, the one in the suit who'd called him "god-boy."
"Barrett," he said as it came back to him. "He told me to meet him here at sundown."
The Vichy's eyes narrowed. "Barrett's on night duty with me. Should be here any minute." He pulled open Joe's door. "Let's go see about this."
As Joe stepped out of the car, he saw movement in Houlihan's over the Vichy's shoulder: Carole and Lacey leaving the kitchen.
Joe reached for the man's pistol and was surprised by how fast his hand moved. It darted out in a blur of motion; he grabbed the weapon and twisted it from his grasp. The Vichy jumped back with a shocked look and stared at his empty palm. Then he opened his mouth to shout but Joe's other hand reached his throat first, fingers gripping the nape of his neck while the thumb jammed against the windpipe. The man made a strangled sound. Joe pressed harder, hearing the cartilage crunch as it began to give way.
Stop, he told himself.
They'd decided no killing tonight, it might rile the Vichy too much, send them out hunting instead of staying close to Houlihan's and tomorrow's breakfast.
But this felt too, too good. And oh this man deserved dying for how he'd taunted him. Worse yet, he'd seen too much.
A crushed throat might raise too many alarms, though.
With a heave Joe lifted him off his feet and hurled him head first toward the sidewalk. The back of his skull hit the concrete with a meaty crunch; his arms stiffened straight out to either side, then fell limp beside him.
"Joseph?" It was Carole, stepping through the revolving door. She stared at the body with the blood pooling around its head. "What—?"
"Hey, Unk," Lacey said. "I thought we said—"
"In the car, both of you!" he snapped. "We've wasted too much time already!"
Their fault. If they hadn't dawdled so damn long inside, this wouldn't have happened.
The two women piled into the back seat as Joe slipped behind the wheel. He wanted to slam his foot against the accelerator and burn rubber out of here, but a quiet departure was best. When he reached Sixth he turned uptown one block, then raced east on Thirty-fifth. Mostly pubs and parking garages along this block. He pulled into a multi-level garage and parked far in the rear. If the Vichy went hunting for the thieves who stole their food and killed their man, they'd never expect them to hide just one block away.
As he shut off the engine he noticed a foul odor emanating from the back seat.
"What is that?" he said.
"Just some snack foods we picked up," Lacey said. "A pepperoni and what looks like provolone."
"The pepperoni—does it have garlic in it?"
"Probably, I—oops. Sorry about that."
"Throw it out."
"No way, Unk. We might never see another pepperoni again. But we'll eat it outside the car."
Joe was halfway turned around, ready to grab the damn pepperoni and shove it down her throat when he stopped himself.
He turned back and leaned his head against the steering wheel.
What's happening to me?
- 15 -
CAROLE. . . .
At dawn, and not a minute before, Joseph, Carole, and Lacey stepped out of the garage and started toward Fifth Avenue. The pistol in Carole's hand— Joseph had told her it was a 9mm Glock—felt heavy as it swung with her gait, muzzle toward the sidewalk.
They'd been waiting for Joseph when he awoke an hour ago. After Carole had fed him a few drops of her blood, they'd gone to work checking weapons and mentally preparing themselves for the coming ordeal.
While Joseph and Lacey had tinkered with their guns, Carole sidled off with her gear to a far corner of the garage to make her own preparations. In a little while they'd be entering the heart of darkness, with a fair chance of not coming out alive. Carole wasn't afraid of dying. It was undying that terrified her. So while Joseph and Lacey armed themselves from the collection of weapons confiscated along the way, Carole added extra precautions to guarantee she'd never be an undead: extra charges front and back, and extra triggers. If it came to the point where all hope was lost, she'd make her exit. But not alone.
If worse came to worst, she'd be risking eternal damnation to avoid undeath. Carole shuddered at the prospect. She'd been taught that suicide was a one-way ticket to hell, but she hoped and prayed that God would understand. Death before dishonor . . . death before undeath . . . surely that was the right thing to do.
And now they were on the street, heading toward . . . what?
"All right," Joseph said as they neared Fifth Avenue. He was walking between them. "This is it. We take it slow down to Thirty-fourth. If things went as planned we won't meet any resistance. If things didn't, well, we might have to fight to escape."
Carole knew all this but let him talk. She sensed an unusual tension in
Joseph. Was it because this was their D-Day, when all their planning and watching and waiting would either bring them success or death? Or was it something else?
He stopped them at Fifth and worked the slide on his gun.
"Ladies—time to lock and load."
Carole followed his example. The slide gave more resistance than she'd expected.
"Remember what I said," Joseph told them. "If anything happens to me, get out of town and do your best to reach unoccupied territory."
He leaned away and peered around the corner, then turned back to them and nodded.
"I think we're in business."
He motioned them to follow when Carole cleared the corner she saw what he meant. Down the gentle slope, past Thirty-Fourth Street, she spotted three still figures lying on the sidewalk under the Empire State Building's front canopy.
As they passed a smashed and looted Duane Reade, Houlihan's came into view. Writhing forms littered the sidewalk in front of it. One lay in the open doorway next to the revolving door. The odor of fresh coffee wafted across the street through the cool dawn air. On another day, in another place, the smell would have had her salivating, but right now her stomach had shrunk to a tight little knot the size of a walnut.
They crossed the street and now Carole could see the Vichy close up— their gray faces, their bloodshot eyes, their blue lips. She tensed and ducked into a half crouch as she caught movement to her right. One of the Vichy was convulsing on the sidewalk. Her first impulse was to run to his side and help him, but she suppressed it. She, after all, was the reason for his seizure.
Carole stared in horror at the thrashing arms, the foam-flecked lips. It was one
thing to plan for their deaths, to imagine them dead. It was something else entirely to witness their death throes.
"Dear God, what have I done?"
JOE . . .
"Let's keep moving," Joe said.
He noticed Carole's sick look. He felt for her, but this was no time for Carole to start second-guessing herself. The old Father Joe might have been appalled, but ex-Father Joe was more fatalistic. It was an ugly scene, but what was done was done. No turning back now.
"Eight," Lacey said. "Your window is shrinking."
Joe checked his watch. He had less than fifty minutes before daysleep took hold. They entered the building and he led Lacey and Carole on a winding course through the prostrate forms in the Empire State's front lobby.
At the elevator banks he stopped when he noticed the closed doors to the local car. He pressed the call button, then stepped back and aimed his pistol at the doors.
He motioned Carole and Lacey to the side. "Be ready to fire. This may not arrive empty."
"But this car is waiting," Carole said, pointing to a set of open doors.
"That's the Observation Deck express. At this point we only want to go to three."
The car arrived empty. Joe got on after Lacey and Carole, stabbed the 3 button, and they were on their way. Mentally he was anxious, but physically he was calm—no butterflies in his gut, no pounding heart. As if his emotions were divorced from his body. Or maybe because his body had entered a new mode of existence, one without adrenaline.
Joe pointed his gun at the doors as the car slowed to a stop on three. They parted to reveal an empty hallway. He touched his fingers to his lips and stepped out. Keeping his pistol raised before him, he approached the open double doors to the security center. He was four feet away when a heavyset Vichy stepped into view.
"About fuckin—"
His eyes widened as he saw them and he was reaching for the pistol in his belt when Joe shot him once in the chest. He staggered back, eyes even wider, and then another shot rang out, catching him below the left eye and snapping his head back. He fell like a tree to lay stretched out on the hall carpet.
Joe glanced at Lacey who had her pistol extended in a two-handed grip.
She smiled. "Just making sure."
He looked at Carol. She clutched her pistol waist high, pointed at the wall. She looked like a startled deer.
Joe stepped into the security area and found the three technicians staring at him in shock. He pointed to the fallen Vichy in the hall.
"Any more like him here?"
They shook their heads.
"No," said the oldest of the three. He looked about sixty with gray hair and a receding hairline. "But there will be soon. He was waiting for his relief so he could go get breakfast."
"His relief's not coming," Joe said. "And breakfast has been canceled."
He allowed himself a moment of congratulation. They'd done it. They'd knocked out the Vichy and captured the Security Center.
Now they had to hold it.
"Who are you?" said the technician. He couldn't seem to pull his gaze from Joe's face.
Joe opened his mouth to speak but Lacey beat him to it.
"Just some nobodies who've come to liberate the building."
"No shit?" said the youngest, who appeared to be in his forties.
"No shit," Lacey agreed. "Who are you three and why are you working for the bloodsuckers?"
"I'm Marty Considine," said the gray-headed one. He pointed to the young one. "This is Mike Leland, and that's Kevin Fowler." The third technician was fat and wore a stained half-sleeve white shirt. He nodded but said nothing.
"As for being here," Considine went on, "we don't have much choice."
"Yeah," said the fat one, Fowler. "Not if we want our wives and kids to live."
Lacey shook her head. "You call this living?"
Leland looked away. "No. But when they slap your kid around and rape your wife in front of you, just to give you a taste of what will happen if you screw up, you get the message."
Joe felt for them, but not terribly. Everyone had suffered. He was scanning the monitors. When he recognized views of the Observation Deck, he said, "We've got one job for you, then you can go back to your families."
"And do what?" said Fowler. His lower lip trembled. "Where can we go?"
"That's up to you. Within half an hour, if all goes well, your services will no longer be needed here. By anyone." He stepped closer to the monitors. "Is there a camera in the stairwell to the Observation Deck?"
Leland began typing on a keyboard. "We've got three there. Which one do you want?"
"The highest—between the eighty-fifth and eighty-sixth if you've got one."
"We do."
"Audio?"
"Just video." He grabbed a mouse and clicked. "Here you go."
A monitor went blank, then cut back in with a view of a door marked 85 in an empty stairwell. A sawed-off shotgun leaned in the corner next to the door.
"Excellent," Joe said.
Leland squinted at the screen. "Hey, somebody's usually guarding the door to eight-five from dawn to dusk."
"We gave him the day off," Lacey said. "Any way of broadcasting from here?"
Considine shook his head. "The building has a huge TV antenna, but that's another department. We're security. We don't know squat about TV transmission."
"It's okay," Joe said, tapping the screen. "We'll tape as planned. Record that one, and then I'll tell you another one to record when I get to the Observation Deck."
"It's true then?" Considine said. "You're really liberating the building?"
"That's the plan," Joe said.
"About time. How many of you are there?"
"Just us," Lacey said.
He stared. "Three? Just three? You've got to be kidding! Are you people crazy?
Joe shrugged. "Probably. But we're already more than halfway to succeeding. We—"
A burst of static from the hallway startled him.
"Security! Security, do you copy?"
Joe tensed. "What's that?"
"One of their two-ways."
Joe stepped out into the hall, found the little walkie-talkie clipped to the dead guard's belt, and turned it off. He returned to the Security Center and faced Carole and Lacey.
"That means at least one of the Vichy is still alive out there. Probably more."
"Well," Lacey said, "we knew from the get-go we wouldn't get them all."
"I don't like leaving you two alone here."
Considine stepped past him. Joe tensed as he picked up the fallen guard's pistol. He worked the slide and chambered a round.
"Who said they're alone? Your ranks just swelled to four."
Joe stared at him. "You know how to use that?"
Considine nodded. "Nam, pal. Eighteen months in country."
Joe liked leaving Carole and Lacey with an armed stranger even less, but sensed he could trust Considine. He didn't have much choice.
"You folks hold the fort here. Lock the door and pull that desk in front of it. Shoot anyone who tries to get in."
"Where are you going?" Considine said.
"Upstairs. I've got a date with Franco."
He glanced at Carole. She had a dazed air about her that worried him. "Carole, are you all right?"
"I'll be fine," she said. "Hurry. You haven't much time."
"I know." He stepped close to her and took her in his arms and held her. He never wanted to leave her.
"I love you," he murmured as he kissed her hair. "Always remember that. We—"
He stopped as he felt a lump between her shoulder blades, and another farther down near the small of her back. He knew what they were.
"Oh, God, Carole!" he whispered. "Don't ever push those buttons. I know they give you comfort, but I beg you, don't. Please don't."
He released her she stared at him with stricken eyes. "Only as a last resort," she told him. "Only when all hope is gone."
"Then I pray that moment
never comes." He turned and hugged Lacey. "My favorite niece," he said. "One of my favorite people in the whole world. Just remember: if anything happens to me, you and Carole get these tapes to the unoccupied territories."
Lacey backed away and gave him a strange look. "Why do you keep saying that? It's like you don't think you'll see us again."
"I might not. But I'm not what this is about. I'm expendable. If I can't make it back, you two must go on without me."
He couldn't tell them the truth. He turned to go.
"Wait," Carole said, holding a zipped-up backpack. "Don't forget this,"
He nodded and began slipping his arms through the straps as he ran for the elevators. The pack was hot against his back.
BARRETT . . .
Home from the night shift, James Barrett stepped into his Murray Hill brownstone and checked the long-pork filet he'd put in the refrigerator to thaw when he'd left at sunset. It had softened considerably but still had a ways to go.
He yawned. Christ, this was a boring way to live. Sleeping days, working nights. His internal clock couldn't seem to get used to it. Cooking was the only interesting thing in his life now, and even that was palling on him. Without fresh spices there were only so many ways you could cook human flesh. At least it was better than eating that slop they served the troops at Houlihan's day after day.
Not that he'd eat with the hoi polloi anyway. He needed to set himself apart, both in their eyes and in the undead's.
At least they'd had a little excitement last night with Neal getting killed and those two women stealing food from the kitchen. Neal wound up with the back of his head stove in. He was one tough mother. Barrett couldn't see a couple of women doing that. Must've had help.
He wondered if they were connected to the mess in the Lincoln tunnel. What if that hadn't been an accident?
He had put the cowboys on full alert tonight, stationed a couple of guards in Houlihan's, and sent out teams to look for someone, anyone who might be connected. They'd returned with a few stray cattle but no one who fit the cook's description.
He'd miss Neal. He was good for a laugh and for the application of a little muscle when Barrett gave him the go-ahead. But did he feel even a trace of sadness at his passing? They said when you were turned and rose as undead, you lost all your emotions. That would be a breeze for Barrett. He had no memory of feeling anything for anybody. Ever.
F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 Page 36
