F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (11 page)

 
          
"Last
night I met someone who does. She saved me from one of the winged ones."

 
          
"You
were out at night?"

 
          
"Yes.
A long story. She was dressed rather provocatively and knew me because she'd
seen me with you."

 
          
Joe
looked interested now. "What was her name?"

 
          
"She
wouldn't say. But she begged me to find you and bring you back."

 
          
"Really."
His interest seemed to be fading.

 
          
"Yes.
She said when you heard what they've done to your church you'd come back and
teach them a lesson they'll never forget."

 
          
"Sounds
like you ran into an escaped mental patient," Joe said as he reached for
the bottle of Glenlivet next to him.

 
          
"No-no!"
Zev said. "You promised!"

 
          
Father
Joe drew his hand back and crossed his arms across his chest.

 
          
"Talk
on. I'm listening."

 
          
Joe
had certainly changed for the worse. Morose, bitter, apathetic, self-pitying.

 
          
"They've
taken over your church, just as they've taken over my temple. But the temple
they use only for a dormitory. Your church, they've desecrated it. Each night
they further defile it with butchery and blasphemy. Doesn't that mean anything
to you?"

 
          
"It's
Palmeri's parish. I've been benched. Let him take care of it."

 
          
"Father
Palmeri is their leader."

 
          
"He
should be. He's their pastor."

 
          
"No.
He leads the undead in the obscenities they perform in the church."

 
          
Joe
stiffened and the glassiness cleared from his eyes.

 
          
"Palmeri?
He's one of them?"

 
          
Zev
nodded. "More than that. He's one of the local leaders. He orchestrates
their rituals."

 
          
Zev
saw rage flare in the priest's eyes, saw his hands ball into fists, and for a
moment he thought the old Father Joe was going to burst through.

 
          
Come
on, Joe. Show me that Cahill fire.

 
          
But
then he slumped back.

 
          
"Is
that all you came to tell me?"

 
          
Zev
hid his disappointment and nodded. "Yes."

 
          
"Good."
He grabbed the Scotch bottle. "Because I need a drink."

 
          
Zev
wanted to leave, yet he had to stay, had to probe deeper and see how much of
his old friend was left, and how much had been replaced by this new, bitter,
alien Joe Cahill. Maybe there was still hope. So they talked on.

 
          
*
* *

 
          
Zev
looked up at the window and saw that it was dark.

 
          
"Gevalt!
I didn't notice the time!"

 
          
Father
Joe seemed surprised too. He stepped to the window and peered out.

 
          
"Damn!
Sun's down!" He turned to Zev. "
Lakewood
's out of the question for you, Reb. Even
the retreat house is too far to risk now. Looks like we're stuck here for the
night."

 
          
"We'll
be safe?"

 
          
He
shrugged. "Why not? As far as I can tell I'm the only one who's been in
here for weeks, and only in the daytime. Be pretty odd if one of those leeches
decided to wander in here tonight."

 
          
"We'd
have to invite it in, right?"

 
          
He
shook his head. "Doesn't seem to work that way with stores. Only
homes."

 
          
Zev's
guderim twisted. "That's not good."

 
          
"Don't
worry. We're okay if we don't attract attention. I've got a flashlight if we
need it, but we're better off sitting here in the dark and shooting the breeze
till sunrise." Father Joe smiled and picked up a huge silver cross, at
least a foot in length, from atop one of the crates. "Besides, we're
armed. And frankly, I can think of worse places to spend the night."

 
          
He
stepped over to the case of Glenlivet and opened a fresh bottle. His capacity
for alcohol was enormous.

 
          
Zev
could think of worse places too. In fact he had spent a number of nights in
much worse places since the
Lakewood
holocaust. He decided to put the time to good use.

 
          
"So,
Joe. Maybe I should tell you some more about what's happening in
Lakewood
."

 
          
COWBOYS
. . .

 
          
King
of the world.

 
          
Al
Hulett leaned back in the passenger seat of the big Cadillac convertible they'd
just driven out of somebody's garage, burning rubber all the way, and let the
night air mess with his spiky black hair.

 
          
As
usual, Stan was driving with Jackie riding shotgun. Al and Kenny had the back
seat with Heinekens in their fists, Slipknot's Iowa CD in the slot, and
"Skin Ticket" blasting through the speakers. Al finished his Heinie
and tossed the empty over his shoulder so it landed on the trunk top. He heard
a faint, frightened yelp from within, then a crash as the bottle bounced off
and shattered on the asphalt behind them.

 
          
He
leaned back and pounded a fist on the trunk. "Ay, shuddup up in there!
You're messin with my meditation!"

 
          
This
brought a howl of laughter from Kenny, which didn't necessarily mean it was
real funny, just that Kenny was always a good audience.

 
          
He
and the Kenman had been together since grammar school. How many years was that
now? Ten? Twelve? Couldn't be more than a dozen. No way. Whatever, the two of
them had stuck together through it all, never breaking up, even when Kenny
pulled that short jolt in Yardville on a B&E. Even when the whole world
went to hell.

 
          
But
they'd come through it all like gold. They'd hired out to the winners. Joined
the best hunting pack around.

 
          
Coulda
turned out different. He and Kenny coulda had their throats chewed out and
their heads ripped off just like a bunch of guys they knew, but they happened
to be the right guys in the right place at the right time.

 
          
The
right place was a bar they'd broken into, and the right time had been Easter
morning—didn't know it was Easter then, only learned that later.

 
          
Al
and Kenny and some friends had started partying Friday afternoon in this old
shotgun shack back in the pines. By Sunday morning they'd run out of booze, so
they rode their Harleys out to Route 9. That was when they learned about all
the shit that had went down the past two nights. So they'd broke into this
bar-package store and were helping themselves to some liquid refreshment when
this dude in a cowboy hat walked in. Said his name was Stan. Said he saw their
Harleys outside and was wondering if they was the kinda guys who might like to
go to work for the winners.

 
          
Al
and Kenny weren't too sure about that at first, so Stan said the chai-slurpin,
Chardonnay-sippin, Gap-wearin, hummus-dippin, classic-rock-listenin world that
had thought "loser" every time it looked at them and had never given
them a chance was on its knees now and did they want to help bust a coupla caps
in its fuckin head to put it down for good?

 
          
That
Stan, man, he had a way with words.

 
          
Still.
. . workin for the vampires . . .

 
          
Then
Stan had made them an offer they couldn't refuse.

 
          
So
that was why Al was riding in a Caddy tonight 'stead of on a Harley.

 
          
King
of the fucking world.

 
          
Well,
not king, really. But at least a prince ... when the sun was up.

 
          
Night
was a whole different story.

 
          
If
you could get used to the creeps you were working for, it wasn't too bad a
set-up. Could have been worse, Al knew—a lot worse.

 
          
Like
being cattle, for instance.

 
          
Pretty
smart, those bloodsuckers.
America
thought it was ready for them but it
wasn't. They hit high, they hit low, and before you knew it, they was in charge
of the whole East Coast.

 
          
Well,
almost in charge. They did whatever they damn well pleased at night, but they'd
never be in charge around the clock because they couldn't be up and about in
the daylight. They needed somebody to hold the fort for them between sunrise
and sunset.

 
          
That
was where Al and Kenny and the other cowboys came in. They'd all been made the
same offer.

 
          
They
could be cattle, or they could be cowboys and drive the cattle.

 
          
Not
much of a choice as far as Al could see.

 
          
You
see, the bloodsuckers had two ways of killing folks. They had the usual way of
ripping into your neck and sucking out your blood. If they got you that way,
you became one of them come the next sundown. But once they had the upper hand,
they changed their feeding style. Smart, those bloodsuckers. If they got too
many of their kind wandering around, they'd soon have nobody to feed on—a world
full of chefs with nothing to cook. So after they were in control, they got the
blood a different way, one that didn't involve sucking it out. You died
unsucked, you stayed dead. Something they called true death.

 
          
But
they'd offered Al and Stan and the guys undeath. Be their cowboys, herd the
cattle and take care of business between sunrise and sunset, be their muscle
during the day, do a good job for ten years, and they'd see to it that you got
done in the old-fashioned way, the way that left you like them. Undead.
Immortal. One of the ruling class.

 
          
"Ay-yo,
Al," Kenny shouted over the howl of "Disasterpiece."

 
          
"What
kinda vampire you gonna be?"

 
          
Not
again, Al thought. They'd worked this over too many times for Al's taste. It
was getting real old. But Kenny never seemed to tire of gnawing this particular
bone.

 
          
Kenny
had this pale cratered skin. Even though he was in his twenties he still got
pimples. Looked like the man in the moon now, but in the old days he'd been a
real pizza face. Once he almost killed a guy who'd called him that. And he had
this crazy red hair that used to stick out in all directions when he didn't cut
it, but even when he did it Mohican style, like now, all shaved off on the
sides and showing the ugly knobs on his skull, it looked crazier than ever.
Made Kenny look crazier than ever. And Kenny was pretty crazy as it was.