F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (12 page)

 
          
"I
can tell you what kind I ain't gonna be," Al said, "and that's one of
them ferals."

 
          
"Ay,
I'm down wit that. I'm gonna be a pilot, man. Get me some wings."

 
          
Jackie
turned down the music and swiveled in the front seat. She was thin and blonde,
with a left nostril ring and a stud through her right eyebrow, and she had this
tat of a devil face sticking out a Gene Simmons-class tongue on her left delt.
She dangled an arm over the back near Al's knees and sneered.

 
          
"Wings?
You'll be lucky if you get a plate of Buffalo wings."

 
          
Stan
seemed to think this was real funny. Even Al had to laugh a little.

 
          
Kenny
made this sour face. "Funny. Real fuckin funny."

 
          
"How
many kinds of vampires are there, anyway?" Al said.

 
          
He
wasn't just trying to take the heat off Kenny, he really wanted to know. In the
weeks since he'd joined the posse he'd noticed that some of the bloodsuckers
could sprout wings and fly. Most just walked around like everybody else—only at
night, of course—and looked like everybody else, although some had faces that
seemed to turn uglier and uglier as time went on.

 
          
Then
there was the kind that were pretty much like animals. These were scary. Al had
only seen a couple of them from a distance and that was plenty close enough.
Hardly nothing human left in their faces or the way they moved. Couldn't even
talk. The other bloodsuckers called them "ferals" and they were like
vampire shock troops. These were the guys they let loose when they first blew
into a town. Al gathered they must be kinda hard to control because the other
vampires kept them locked up pretty much of the time.

 
          
Good
thing. Al had a feeling if he ran into a feral at night the thing would be on
him and chompin on his windpipe before it noticed he was wearing a cowboy
earring.

 
          
That
special earring—a dangly silver crescent-moon thing—said you were working for
them. It gave you a free pass if you ran into one of them at night.

 
          
Because
the night was theirs.

 
          
Being
a cowboy wasn't so bad, really. You could be assigned to keep an eye on their
nests, make sure no save-the-world types—Stan liked to call them rustlers—got
in there and started splashing holy water around and driving stakes into their
cold little hearts. Or you could be part of a posse, which meant you spent the
day riding around hunting strays. One good way to earn brownie points with the
bloodsuckers was to have a stray cow or two ready for them after sundown.

 
          
They
had a cow in the trunk right now. Some old bitch who'd scratched and clawed at
them when they rounded her up. Deserved what she had comin to her. Plus she was
good for brownie points.

 
          
Those
points weren't nothing to sneer at. Earn enough of them and you got to spend
some stud time on one of their cattle ranches—where all the cows were human.
And young.

 
          
Neither
Al or Kenny or any of their pack had been to one of the farms yet, but they'd
all heard it was like incredible. You came back sore, man.

 
          
Al
didn't particularly like working for the vampires. But then he couldn't
remember ever liking anybody he'd worked for. The bloodsuckers gave him the
creeps, but what was he supposed to do? If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Plenty
of guys felt the same way.

 
          
Another
thing that didn't set too well was being at the bottom of the pecking order.
Seemed he had to take orders from everybody except Kenny. Stan said that would
change. Told them how he'd started at the bottom too. Learned the ropes and
soon got to be leader of his own posse.

 
          
Stan
and Jackie was some sorta team. A good one. Al looked at Jackie. Not the
greatest looking piece with that wild bottle-blond hair all black at the roots,
but considering the severe lack of poontang around these parts lately, she was
starting to look drop-dead gorgeous. Al could've really used a piece of her,
but he knew if he went for it he'd wind up on the wrong end of that Bowie knife
Stan kept strapped to his belt.

 
          
Jackie
might cut him too. Just for fun. One tough broad, that Jackie. But her real
talent was smoking out the ladies. Like the old bitch in the trunk. Jackie
pulls out her piercings, gets dressed up in clothes that hide her tats, then
goes knocking door to door, pretending to be looking for her little girl.
Nobody figures a broad's gonna be working for the bloodsuckers, so sooner or
later one of them answers the door and then blammo, the posse's there like
coons on an open garbage can.

 
          
Al
just wished the old bitch was younger. Then he coulda had a little fun with her
before—

 
          
"Hail,
hail, the gang's all here," Jackie said as they rounded a corner and
pulled up before St. Anthony's. "And there's Gregor." She grinned at
Kenny. "Maybe you should go ask him what you gotta do to earn your wings.
I'm sure he'll be glad to sit down and chat about it."

 
          
Kenny
didn't say nothing.

 
          
The
old church was like the unofficial meeting place for Stan's posse and Gregor,
the numero uno bloodsucker in charge of the
Jersey
Shore
. One mean son of an undead bitch, that
Gregor. Even the other vampires seemed to be like afraid of him. He was big,
with these wide shoulders, long dark hair, ice cold blue eyes, and square pale
face. But then all the bloodsuckers had pale faces. It was his smile that got
to Al. Most times it looked painted on, but with all those sharp teeth of his
it managed to make him look both happy and very, very hungry at the same time.

 
          
The
posses had to meet with Gregor every night and tell him how things had gone
while he was cutting his Z's or whatever it was the bloodsuckers did when the
sun was up. It was part of the job. Al's least favorite part of the job. He
didn't know what it was that made his skin crawl every time he got near one.
Wasn't their looks, their dirty clothes, their stink. Something else, something
you couldn't see or smell. Something you felt.

 
          
Al
spotted Gregor by the church steps with his guards. He was dressed as usual in
a dark suit, white shirt, no tie. Always the same, like he was going to a
business meeting or something. Which put him a cut above most vampires, who
never changed their clothes. Ever.

 
          
Hey,
this was weird. Usually he had one or two undead goons guarding him. Tonight he
had four. What was up?

 
          
Al
didn't get the bodyguard thing. Like who'd ever mess with Gregor? But he didn't
seem to go anywhere without them. They didn't look like the typical pumped-up
guard dog types, but all four carried Glocks and razor-sharp machetes on their
belts.

 
          
The
local undead bigshots stood around Gregor: Mayor Davis, Council-woman Ellis,
Rabbi Goldstein, and the only black face in sight, big fat Reverend Dalton.

 
          
Al
had lived around
Lakewood
for years and never knew any of these peopie's names—like he needed to
know who was mayor, right?—but he knew them now.

 
          
He
looked around for the priest, Palmeri, who was usually with Gregor, but didn't
see him. Just as well. There was a bad dude. Almost as creepy as Gregor.

 
          
As
Stan eased the car into the curb, one of the bodyguards came over. He wore
black jeans, a black shirt crusted with old blood, and a worried expression.

 
          
"No
report tonight," he said in some sort of fag British accent. "Do you
'ave something for Gregor?"

 
          
Here
was another thing not to like about the vampires. All the high-ups were one
kind of foreigner or another. Gregor looked like John Travolta but sounded like
Bela Lugosi. His guard here sounded like Mick Jagger.

 
          
"Yeah,"
Stan said. "Got a cow in the trunk. What's up?"

 
          
"Not
your concern. I'll bring 'er to Gregor."

 
          
"Okay.
Al, you and Kenny wanna get her out?"

 
          
They
did that. The ride in the trunk seemed to have taken most of the fight out of
the old broad. She had to be sixty-five or seventy and she didn't look so hot
at first, but she came to life, screaming and yelling when she saw the
bloodsuckers.

 
          
The
bodyguard made a face when he saw her. " 'Ere now, what's this? She the
best you could do?"

 
          
"We
hit a dry neighborhood. We'll do better tomorrow."

 
          
"See
that you do." He grabbed the old broad's arm and she fainted. He barely
seemed to notice. "Move on. Get to your 'omes and stay inside. We'll wake
you at the usual time."

 
          
As
Gregor's guard dragged the unconscious broad toward the church, Stan peeled
away from the curb.

 
          
"Somethin's
up," Jackie said.

 
          
Stan
nodded. "Wonder what's eatin them?"

 
          
"You
don't think another one of us bought it, do you?" Kenny said looking all
nervous.

 
          
Al
knew how he felt. Someone had been offing cowboys lately. Nothing big scale,
just one here, one there, but enough to make you start looking over your
shoulder.

 
          
"Nah,"
Stan said. "They'd tell us that. This is somethin else."

 
          
As
Stan cranked up Slipknot again, Al looked back at the receding church.

 
          
The
local undead were carrying the old broad up the church steps. Gregor stayed on
the sidewalk, his guards tight around them.

 
          
What
could get vampires shook up enough that they didn't want their own posses near
them? It gave him a crawly feeling in his gut.

 
          
As
they turned a corner Al thought he saw a female vampire with her own set of
bodyguards step out of the shadows and move toward Gregor.

 
          
GREGOR
. . .

 
          
His
get-guards tensed and turned at Olivia's approach but Gregor did not
acknowledge it. He'd been informed of her arrival from
New York
an hour ago and had been aware of her
presence in the shadows, watching him. He waited till she spoke.

 
          
"Good
evening, Gregor," she said with a light French accent.

 
          
He
whirled and smiled. "Why, Olivia. What a wonderful surprise!"

 
          
It
appeared she'd dressed for the occasion: a red gown—plucked from the window of
a
Fifth
Avenue
designer shop, no doubt—and an elaborate Marie Antoinette wig over her
own hair which Gregor knew to be short and mousy brown.

 
          
Their
guards—she'd brought six with her—stood around and between them.

 
          
She
smiled. "I'm sure." She waved her hand. "Step back, gentlemen.
Gregor and I have private matters to discuss."

 
          
They
did, albeit reluctantly.