F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (26 page)

 
          
Zev
nodded silently, afraid to speak for fear of sobbing. Despite all its
anachronisms, he missed his life in the good old days of a few months ago.
Gone. It was all gone. The rich traditions, the culture, the friends, the
prayers. He felt adrift—in time and in space. Nowhere was home.

 
          
And
then there was the matter of the cross ... the power of the cross over the
undead . . .

 
          
He'd
sneaked a copy of Dracula to read when he was a boy, and he'd caught snatches
of vampire movies on TV. The undead were always portrayed as afraid of crosses.
But that had been fiction. Vampires weren't real—or so he'd thought—and so he'd
never examined the broader implications of that fear of the cross. Now...

 
          
"You
sure?" Joe seemed genuinely concerned.

 
          
"Yes,
I'm okay. As okay as you could expect me to feel after spending the better part
of the day repairing a crucifix and eating non-kosher food. And let me tell
you, that's not so okay."

 
          
He
put his bowl aside and straightened from his chair.

 
          
"Come
on, already. Let's get back to work. There's much yet to do."

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
"Almost
sunset," Carl said.

 
          
Joe
straightened from scrubbing the marble altar and stared west through one of the
smashed windows. The sun was out of sight behind the houses there.

 
          
"You
can go now, Carl," he said to the little man. "Thanks for your
help." "Where you gonna go, Fadda?"

 
          
"I'll
be staying right here."

 
          
Carl's
prominent Adam's apple bobbed convulsively as he swallowed.

 
          
"Yeah?
Well then, I'm staying too. I told you I'd make it up to ya, didn't I? An'
besides, I don't think the suckers'U like the new, improved St. Ant'ny's too
much when they come back tonight. I don't think they'll even get through the
doors."

 
          
Joe
smiled at the man, then looked around. Luckily it was May and the days were
growing longer. They'd had time to make a difference here. The floors were
clean, the crucifix was restored and back in its proper position, as were most
of the Stations of the Cross plaques. Zev had found them under the pews and had
taken the ones not shattered beyond recognition and rehung them on the walls.
Lots of new crosses littered those walls. Carl had found a hammer and nails and
had made dozens of them from the remains of the pews.

 
          
"You're
right. I don't think they'll like the new decor one bit. But there's something
you can get us if you can, Carl. Guns. Pistols, rifles, shotguns, anything that
shoots."

 
          
Carl
nodded slowly. "I know a few guys who can help in that department."

 
          
"And
some wine. A little red wine if anybody's saved some."

 
          
"You
got it."

 
          
He
hurried off.

 
          
"You're
planning Custer's last stand, maybe?" Zev said from where he was tacking
the last of Carl's crude crosses to the east wall.

 
          
"More
like the
Alamo
."

 
          
"Same
result," Zev said with one of his shrugs.

 
          
"I've
got a gun," Lacey said.

 
          
Joe
stared at her. She'd been helping him scrub the altar. "You do? Why didn't
you say something?"

 
          
"It's
only got two bullets left."

 
          
"Where
are the rest?"

 
          
She
met his gaze evenly. "I had to leave them behind in a couple of people who
tried to stop me. It was a tough trip getting here."

 
          
"Are
you okay with that?"

 
          
She
nodded. "Better than I thought I'd be. You do what you have to do."

 
          
What
an amazing young woman, he thought. Who'd have thought Cathy's little girl
could turn out so tough and resilient.

 
          
He
remembered Lacey as a teen. She'd always been a little different from her
peers. On the surface she seemed like a typical high-school kid—she dated,
though she had no serious crushes, played soccer and field hockey with abandon—but
on holidays and family gatherings, she'd stay in the background. Joe would make
a point of sitting down with her; he'd draw her out, and then another Lacey
would emerge.

 
          
The
other Lacey was a thinker, a questioner. She had doubts about religion, about
government. She burned with an iconoclastic fire that urged her to question
traditions and break with them whenever possible. She was fascinated by the old
anarchists and dug up all their works. He remembered her favorite was No
Treason by someone named Lysander Spooner. Instead of hanging posters of the
latest teenage heartthrob boy band in her room, Lacey had pictures of Emma
Goldman and Madelyn Murray O'Hare.

 
          
Joe's
sister and her husband tolerated her views with a mixture of humor and
apprehension. If this was the shape and scope of Lacey's teenage rebellion,
they'd live with it. It was just a phase, they'd say. She'll grow out of it.
Better than drunk driving or drugs or getting pregnant.

 
          
But
it wasn't a phase. It was Lacey. And later, when she came out as a lesbian,
they turned their backs on her. Joe had tried to talk them out of slamming the
family door, but this was more than they could take.

 
          
"Who
taught you to shoot?" he asked.

 
          
"A
friend." She smiled. "A guy friend, believe it or not. It was a
self-defense thing. He took me out to the range until I got comfortable with
pulling the trigger. I'm not a great shot, but if you're within ten feet of me
and you're looking for trouble, you're gone."

 
          
Joe
had to smile. "Never let it be said you're not full of surprises,
Lacey."

 
          
She
laughed softly. "No one's ever said that."

 
          
They
turned back to scrubbing the altar. They'd been at it for over an hour now. Joe
was drenched with sweat and figured he smelled like a bear, but he couldn't
stop until it was clean.

 
          
But
it wouldn't come clean.

 
          
"What
did they do to this altar?" Lacey asked.

 
          
"I
don't know. This crud ... it seems part of the marble now."

 
          
The
undead must have done something to the blood and foulness to make the mixture
seep into the surface as it had.

 
          
"Let's
take a break."

 
          
He
turned sat on the floor with his back against the altar and rested. He didn't
like resting because it gave him time to think. And when he started to think he
realized that the odds were pretty high against his seeing tomorrow morning.

 
          
At
least he'd die well fed. Their secret supplier had left them a dinner of fresh
fried chicken by the front doors. Even the memory of it made his mouth water.
Apparently someone was really glad he was back.

 
          
Lacey
settled next to him. She'd shed her leather jacket hours ago. Her bare arms
were sheened with perspiration.

 
          
"That
talk about Custer's last stand and the
Alamo
," she said. "You're not planning
to die here, are you?"

 
          
To
tell the truth, as miserable as he'd been, he wasn't ready to die. Not tonight,
not any night.

 
          
"Not
if I can help it."

 
          
"Good.
Because as much as I can appreciate self-immolating gestures, I don't think I'm
ready to take part in a
Jersey
Shore
version of the
Alamo
or Little Big Horn."

 
          
"Well,
the cry of 'Remember the
Alamo
!' did
spur a lot of people to action, but I agree. Going down fighting here will not
solve anything."

 
          
"Then
what's the plan? We should have some sort of plan."

 
          
Good
question. Did he have a plan?

 
          
"All
I want to do is hold off the undead till dawn. Keep them out of St. Anthony's
for one night. That's all. That will be a statement—my statement. Our statement
if you want to stay on."

 
          
And
if he found an opportunity to ram a stake through Palmeri's rotten heart, so
much the better. But he wasn't counting on that.

 
          
"That's
it?" Lacey said. "One night?"

 
          
"One
night. Just to let them know they can't have their way everywhere with
everybody whenever they feel like it. We've got surprise on our side tonight,
so maybe it will work." One night. Then he'd be on his way. "You
shouldn't feel you have to stay just because you're my niece."

 
          
"I
don't. But if I—"

 
          
"What
the fuck have you done?"

 
          
Joe
looked up at the shout. A burly, long-haired man in jeans and a cutaway denim
jacket stood in the vestibule staring at the partially restored nave. As he
approached, Joe noticed his crescent moon earring.

 
          
A
Vichy
.

 
          
Joe
balled his fists but didn't move.

 
          
"Hey,
I'm talking to you, asshole. Are you responsible for this?"

 
          
When
all he got from Joe was a cold stare, he turned to Zev and fixed on his
yarmulke.

 
          
"Hey,
you! Jew! What the hell you think you're doing here?" He started toward
Zev. "You get those fucking crosses off—"

 
          
"Touch
him and I'll break you in half," Joe said in a low voice.

 
          
The
Vichy
skidded to a halt and stared at him.

 
          
"Are
you crazy? Do you know what Father Palmeri will do to you when he gets
here?"

 
          
"Father
Palmeri? Why do you still call him that?"

 
          
"It's
what he wants to be called. And he's going to call you dog meat when he gets
through with you!"

 
          
Joe
pulled himself to his feet and looked down at the
Vichy
. Suddenly the man didn't seem so sure of
himself.

 
          
"Tell
him I'll be waiting." Joe gave him a hard, two-handed shove against his
chest that sent him stumbling back. Damn, that felt good. "Tell him Father
Cahill is back."