F Paul Wilson - Novel 10

by Midnight Mass (v2. 1)

  That was why his situation was so frustrating. He was already most of the way to undead. All he needed was the bite and he'd be there. If he could just—

  His two-way squawked. Now what? Couldn't they do anything over there without him? He snatched it up.

  "Yeah. Talk to me."

  Nothing but faint static from the other end.

  "Hey, you called. What do you want?"

  Nothing again, then something that sounded like a groan, a very agonized groan.

  "Hello? Who's there? What's going on?"

  Again the groan, fainter this time, then nothing. Barrett tried to get a response but nothing came through. He tried calling the Security Center but no one picked up.

  His chest tightened. Something was up. Remembering Neal's cracked dome, he stuck his Dirty Harry gun—his .44 Magnum—into his shoulder holster and hurried back to the Empire State.

  JOE . . .

  When Joe stepped out on the eightieth floor, instead of heading for the other bank of elevators to take him the last six floors to the Observation Deck, he looked around and found an exit door. He pushed through and climbed the stairs.

  Outside the door marked 85 he looked around for the security camera. When he found it he waved, then reached for the handle.

  A foul miasma of rot engulfed Joe when he opened the door. The stairwell was well lit but the space beyond the door was dark as a tomb.

  How appropriate, he thought.

  His night vision was extraordinary but it wasn't up to this, so he stepped through and found a light switch on the wall. The hallway was strewn with office furniture. He began searching room to room. The first two were filled with somnolent get-guards stretched out on mattresses and futons, but Franco was not among them. He looked down the hall and saw a form stretched out before a doorway. Could be a dead victim, but if it was a get-guard . . .

  It was. That could only mean Franco was inside. Joe picked up the pistol and machete at the guard's side and tossed them down the hall. Then he tried the door. Locked. He reared back and kicked it in.

  There, in the center of the otherwise empty room with boarded-up windows, a four-poster bed sat like a ship becalmed on a still dark sea.

  And in that bed .. . Joe recognized the big blond hair and mustache, the sharp angle of the nose. A burst of fury like nothing he'd ever experience took hold of him. He wanted to run down the hallway, find that machete, and start hacking away at this worthless cluster of cells. But no killing blows. Just slicing off small pieces, one at a time . . .

  Joe shook it off. These dark impulses were getting stronger. Had to stick to the plan.

  "Franco!" he shouted as he stepped over the get-guard. "Franco, I've got something to show you!"

  Franco lay on his back in gray silk suit pants and a glossy white, loose-sleeved shirt that reminded Joe of a woman's blouse. Slowly he pivoted his head toward Joe. His eyes widened in surprise as his lips formed the word, Who?

  "We'll get to that in a minute."

  He lifted the big vampire onto his shoulder, something that would have been a back-wrenching task a week ago; but now, with his semi-undead strength, he found it easy. Franco struggled but his movements were weak, futile. The get-guard at the door clutched at him as he passed but didn't have a prayer of restraining him.

  Joe moved down the hall, kicking in each door he passed, shouting, "Hey! I've got your daddy and I'm going to send him to his final reward. Try and stop me!"

  Back in the stairwell he started up the flight to the Observation Deck but stopped halfway. He put Franco down and let him slump on the concrete steps.

  "Who are you?" Franco rasped.

  "Am I that easy to forget?" Joe said. "It was only a week ago—a week ago today, as a matter of fact."

  He heard something scrape against the concrete under Franco. He flipped him over and saw the leathery tips of his wings struggling to emerge through the slits in his shirt. Joe pulled off his backpack and unzipped it. Rays of bright white light shot from the opening.

  Blinking in the glare, Joe reached in and found the foam-rubber padding Carole had duct-taped to the lower end of his silver cross. Even through the padding he felt its heat. Averting his eyes he pulled out the cross and slammed it against one of the emerging wings. A hiss of burning flesh, a puff of acrid smoke as Franco writhed and let out a hoarse scream. Then the other wing— with the same results.

  He returned the cross to the back pack and zipped it. He blinked to regain his vision; when it cleared he looked down at Franco's back. The wing tips were now smoldering lumps of scar tissue. He turned as he heard the door from the eighty-fifth floor hallway swing open. Members of Franco's get-guard began to crawl into the stairwell.

  Good.

  He grabbed the gasping, whimpering Franco and turned him onto his back. The vampire stared at Joe's face, his expression terrified and confused.

  "I'll refresh your memory, Franco. You allowed something called Devlin to lunch on me." Joe's anger flared again as he recalled his terror, his helplessness, and the searing pain of having his throat ripped open. "Remember?" He heard his voice growing louder. "Told me I'd soon be just like him. Remember? " He grabbed Franco by the neck and drew his face close. "Remember?"

  He was shouting now and he wanted to rip Franco's head off.

  No. Not yet.

  He looked down and saw that the get-guards had reached the steps and were crawling up, their progress slow, tortured.

  "Come on, guys," he said. "Move it. I haven't got all day."

  Damn right. He glanced at his watch. He had maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes before he became as weak as they.

  He turned back to Franco and saw that a light had dawned in the undead's eyes—realization, but not belief.

  "The priest?" he whispered in a voice like tiny claws scratching stone. "You? No ..."

  "Yes!" Joe heard the word hiss out like escaping steam. "The priest. Killing me wasn't good enough. You had to condemn me to an eternity of depravity, rob me of every shred of dignity, undo every scrap of good I'd done in my entire life. At least that was your plan. But it didn't work."

  "How?" The word was an exhalation.

  "I'm not even sure myself. All I know is this is how it works out in the end: I lose, but you lose too."

  He flinched at a deafening report and the spang of a bullet ricocheting off the concrete above his head. Another shot and this time the bullet dug into his hip with a painful sting.

  He stood and faced them, spreading his arms. "Go ahead. It won't matter. I'm one of you."

  Not true. He'd never be one of them, but no reason they shouldn't suffer some confusion and dismay in their final minutes.

  More shots. Most were misses because their weak, wavering hands were unable to aim, but a few hit home. He jerked with the impacts, felt the heat and pain of their entries, but it was nothing he couldn't bear. Finally they gave it up. He smiled at the alarm in their faces.

  He turned to Franco and lifted him in his arms. "Let's go."

  "Where?"

  "To see the sun. Don't you miss it? We're too late for sunrise, but it promises to be a beautiful day."

  Franco grabbed Joe's shirt and pulled on it. A feeble gesture. But Joe was surprised to see a nasty grin stretch his thin lips.

  "You idiot! Devlin was my get! That makes you my get as well. When I die, you die!"

  "I know," Joe said, returning a grin he hoped was just as nasty: "I'm counting on that."

  Franco's jaw dropped open. "N-no! You can't! You—"

  "I can. Because I don't want to exist like this."

  Joe pushed through the door at the top of the steps and emerged into the green-tiled atrium by the elevators. Sunlight, searingly bright, blazed through the huge windows of the enclosed observation area that lay a few steps up and beyond. Only a six-foot swath, no more than two feet wide, penetrated the atrium.

  I'm here. I've done it.

  Amazing what someone can do when they don't care if they live or die, he th
ought. But they can achieve so much more, achieve the seemingly impossible, when they're looking to die.

  He forced himself to look at that swath of direct light. That was where Franco would meet his end, sealing Joe's fate as well. But first he'd wait for the get-guards to arrive. He wanted as many as possible on camera when Franco bought it.

  CAROLE . . .

  Carole's stomach clenched as she stared at the monitors. "What is he doing?" "Just what he said he would," Lacey replied. "Getting as many get-guards onscreen before he pushes Franco into the sunlight."

  "But there's a whole stairwell full of guards. Too many of them. He's letting them get too close. Why doesn't he have the cross out?"

  "What can they do? After that display in the stairwell they know they can't shoot him."

  "But they have those machetes."

  "So? They can barely lift them. Don't worry, Carole. He's got them beat." Carole wasn't so sure. A lucky swing from a machete could sever an Achilles tendon, or worse, a higher swing could catch Joseph's hamstrings. He wouldn't be able to stand then. He'd go down and they'd swarm over him. One of them might be strong enough to behead him ...

  Her chest tightened at the thought. She couldn't, wouldn't lose him.

  "I'm going up there," she blurted.

  "No way!" Lacey said. "Our job is to stay here."

  Carole began pushing the desk away from the door. "No. I can help. I can use the cross to keep them back."

  Lacey grabbed her arm. "Carole—"

  Carole wrenched free. "Please don't fight me on this. I've got to go. I've just got to."

  "Shit!" Lacey said. "Then I'll go with you."

  "No." She cracked the door and peeked out into the hall. Empty. "One of us has to stay here. That's you."

  Without looking back, she stepped into the hall and started for the elevators.

  She heard Considine's voice behind her. "Tell her she's got to go down to one and catch an express to eighty."

  "Carole—" Lacey began.

  "I heard," Carole said over her shoulder.

  "Keep your gun ready," Lacey called. "You see anything moving, shoot first and ask questions later."

  "I will."

  And she would. Joseph needed her and no one was going to bar her from reaching him.

  BARRETT . . .

  Barrett staggered through the Empire State lobby in a daze. His men lay strewn about like jackstraws. Blue-gray faces everywhere. Those who weren't dead were well on their way.

  Obviously they'd been poisoned, but how? The water supply? The breakfast eggs? The coffee? Didn't much matter now. He just had to remember not to eat or drink anything within blocks of this building.

  But all of his men? Surely there had to be a couple who'd missed breakfast. But he didn't know who and he had no way of contacting them. They were scattered throughout the building. He'd have to go floor to floor and door to door.

  The other question was who. Who did this? What did they want? Were they after the cowboys, to send a message to anyone who collaborated with the enemy? Or were they after the undead too? If so, they'd be upstairs, on eight-five—where the vamps would be sitting ducks and the shit would really be hitting the fan.

  Barrett turned and looked back at the front doors. His first impulse was to cut and run. As top cowboy the responsibility for all this would be laid on him. But on the other hand, he'd been looking for a chance to put himself in the spotlight. Maybe this was opportunity knocking.

  He had to reach the Security Center. He could get the lay of the land there and decide what, if anything, he could do. He headed for the elevators. As he passed the security kiosk in the main lobby he remembered it was equipped with a couple of monitors.

  He stepped up to the console and dialed through the various feeds but stopped when he came to the Observation Deck. He gaped at the scene playing out on the little black-and-white screen. Some guy with a scarred-up face had Franco. The head vampire hung in his grip like a rag doll. A couple of get-guards were crawling through the stairway door. Where were their guns? Why didn't they shoot?

  They needed someone to take charge up there and take this fucker out.

  James Barrett grinned. His moment had come.

  He searched the drawers of the kiosk looking for something to give him an advantage, no matter how small, beyond his big gun. He found some pepper spray and a couple of pairs of handcuffs. He took the spray, then pulled his Magnum and headed for the elevators.

  As he approached the Observation Deck express bank, he heard a set of doors slide open. He started to step back, then reversed field. The car couldn't hold that many; he might be outnumbered but he had surprise on his side. So he made a snap decision and charged with both arms held straight out before him, pepper spray in his left, pistol in the right. He'd reached full speed when a woman stepped out of the car. He collided with her head on. As they fell to the floor he began firing into the car. He got off two booming shots before he realized it was empty.

  Barrett turned his attention to the woman who was struggling beneath him. He slammed the heavy barrel of his Magnum against her head, stunning her. Then he rushed back to the guard kiosk and grabbed the handcuffs. She was stirring as he returned so he quickly pulled her arms behind her and snapped the cuffs on. He didn't have the keys and didn't need them to lock her into them. As for getting her out—not his worry.

  He stood and looked down at her. A slim brunette. Not bad looking, but not his type. One thing he knew about her was that she didn't belong here. That meant she was with the ugly guy on the Observation Deck. And that meant he had a hostage. Perfecto.

  JOE . . .

  Half a dozen get-guards were through the door now, their machetes scraping against the marble as they dragged themselves across the floor.

  These should be enough to make the point, he thought as he edged himself and Franco away from them and closer to the patch of sunlight. They appeared to be in the camera's field of view.

  Now .. . the moment of truth.

  Questions surged unbidden into his mind. Did he really want to do this? It would end everything. No more Carole, no more Lacey. Wasn't this existence, hideous as it was, better than no existence at all?

  No. Unequivocally no. He would not spend the centuries this half-breed existence might give him as a creature of the darkness and twilight. Yes, he'd have more time with Carole and Lacey, but he'd also have to watch them age and die.

  Better to make a clean break, better to end his personal horror by removing another horror from the earth.

  He lifted Franco and tensed his muscles to hurl him into the light.

  "Get ready to burn, Franco," he whispered.

  "No! Please—!"

  Just then an elevator chimed to his left. The doors slid open and his heart sank when he saw Carole. He didn't want her to have to watch his death throes. But panic and rage exploded within him when he saw the grinning face hovering behind her shoulder.

  Barrett.

  The head Vichy propelled Carole ahead of him into the atrium. The doors whispered closed behind them.

  "Well, well," he said, still grinning. "What have we here? I guess this is what we call a stand-off."

  "Carole, are you all right?"

  She shook her head. A thin stream of blood trickled down her temple from her scalp. Her eyes filled with tears.

  "Joseph, I'm so sorry."

  "It's all right."

  He made a silent promise: I'll get you out of this, no matter what it takes.

  He noticed that her arms were pulled behind her, which meant her hands were bound. In a way, that was a relief. Barrett had no idea how lucky he was. If Carole were able to get her hands into her pockets, she might have blown them both to pieces by now.

  "Let her go, Barrett," Joe said.

  His eyebrows lifted. "You know my name? You have the advantage over me, sir. And I'm sure I'd not forget a face like yours."

  There wasn't time to get into that.

  "Just let her go."


  "And why would I want to do that?"

  "It's the right thing to do."

  "For you maybe, but not for me. I'm willing to make a trade, though. Her for him." He pointed to Franco. "Hear that, Bossman? I'm saving your ass. And I expect something in return—big time. After I straighten this out, I want to be turned. Immediately. We waive the ten-year clause. Agreed?"

  "Yes," Franco rasped. "Of course."

  "And I don't want to be turned by some low-level drone, either. By you or, better yet, by the guy who turned you, if he's still around. I want wings."

  Franco nodded. "Yes. Anything. Anything you want."

  "You want to be like them?" Joe pointed to the undead guards who were continuing their inching crawl toward him. They'd be within striking distance in a minute. "Look at them. Slithering along the floor. They're vermin!"

  "But they're the vermin who're running the show."

  "Not for long. And then where will you be?"

  "It's over for us, Mister Melted Face. The New World Order has arrived, and though it's not what anyone imagined, the choices come down to predator or prey. I've never seen myself as prey." He smiled. "So . .. how do you want to work the trade?"

  "Joseph, no!" Carole cried.

  Barrett grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. "No one asked you! You're nothing but merchandise, so keep it zipped. I do the negotiating here!"

  Joe took a step toward him. He wanted to kill Barrett, but slowly. Twist his head around an inch at a time until it was facing the other way.

  "Uh-uh!" Barrett said. He held up an old-fashioned stiletto, pressed the button, and out snapped a gleaming four-inch blade. He pressed the point against Carole's throat. "Don't make me damage the merchandise."

  LACEY . . .

  Lacey stared at the Observation Deck feed. Joe's lips were moving and he was looking away from the camera.