F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (28 page)

 
          
PALMERI
. . .

 
          
He
wore the night like a tuxedo.

 
          
Dressed
in a fresh cassock, Father Alberto Palmeri turned off
County Line Road
and strolled toward St. Anthony's. He loved
the night, felt at one with it, attuned to its harmonies and its discords. The
darkness made him feel so alive. Strange to have to lose your life before you
could really feel alive. But this was it. He'd found his niche, his me'tier.

 
          
Such
a shame it had taken him so long. All those years trying to deny his appetites,
trying to be a member of the other side, cursing himself when he allowed his
appetites to win, as he had with increasing frequency toward the end of his
mortal life. He should have given in to them long ago.

 
          
It
had taken undeath to free him.

 
          
And
to think he had been afraid of undeath, had cowered in fear that night in the
cellar of the church, surrounded by crosses. But he had not been as safe as
he'd thought. A posse of Serfs had torn him from his hiding place and brought
him to kneel before Gregor. He'd cried out and begged with this undead master
to spare his life. Fortunately Gregor had ignored his pleas. All he had lost by
that encounter was his blood.

 
          
And
in trade, he'd gained a world.

 
          
For
now it was his world, at least this little corner of it, one in which he was
completely free to indulge himself in any way he wished. Except for the blood.
He had no choice about the blood. That was a new appetite, stronger than all
the rest, one that would not be denied. But he did not mind the new appetite in
the least. He'd found interesting ways to sate it.

 
          
Up
ahead he spotted dear, defiled St. Anthony's. He wondered what the serfs had
prepared for tonight. They were quite imaginative. They'd yet to bore him.

 
          
But
as he drew nearer the church, Palmeri slowed. His skin prickled. The building
had changed. Something was very wrong there, wrong inside. Something amiss with
the light that beamed from the windows. This wasn't the old familiar
candlelight, this was something else, something more. Something that made his
insides tremble.

 
          
Figures
raced up the street toward him. Live ones. His night vision picked out the
earrings and familiar faces of some of the serfs. As they neared he sensed the
warmth of the blood coursing just beneath their skins. The hunger rose in him
and he fought the urge to rip into their throats. He couldn't allow himself
that pleasure. Gregor had told him how to keep the servants dangling, keep them
working for him and the nest. They all needed the services of the indentured
living to remove whatever obstacles the cattle might put in their way.

 
          
Someday,
when he was allowed to have get of his own, he would turn some of these, and
then they'd be bound to him in a different way.

 
          
"Father!
Father!" they cried.

 
          
He
loved it when they called him Father, loved being one of the undead and
dressing like one of the enemy.

 
          
"Yes,
my children. What sort of victim do you have for us tonight?"

 
          
"No
victim, father—trouble!"

 
          
The
edges of Palmeri's vision darkened with rage as he heard of the young priest
and the Jew and the others who had dared to try to turn St. Anthony's into a
holy place again. When he heard the name of the priest, he nearly exploded.

 
          
"Cahill?
Joseph Cahill is back in my church?"

 
          
"He
was cleaning the altar!" one of the servants said.

 
          
Palmeri
strode toward the church with the serfs trailing behind. He knew that neither
Cahill nor the Pope himself could clean that altar. Palmeri had desecrated it
himself; he had learned how to do that when he became leader of Gregor's local
get. But what else had the young pup dared to do?

 
          
Whatever
it was, it would be undone. Now!

 
          
Palmeri
strode up the steps and pulled the right door open—

 
          
—and
screamed in agony.

 
          
The
light! The light! The LIGHT! White agony lanced through Palmeri's eyes and
seared his brain like two hot pokers. He retched and threw his arms across his
face as he staggered back into the cool, comforting darkness.

 
          
It
took a few minutes for the pain to drain off, for the nausea to pass, for
vision to return.

 
          
He'd
never understand it. He'd spent his entire life in the presence of crosses and
crucifixes, surrounded by them. And yet as soon as he'd become undead he was
unable to bear the sight of one. In fact, since he'd become undead he'd never
even seen one. A cross was no longer an object. It was a light, a light so
excruciatingly bright, so blazingly white that looking at it was sheer agony.
As a child in
Naples
he'd been told by his mother not to look at the sun, but when there'd
been talk of an eclipse, he'd stared directly into its eye. The pain of looking
at a cross was a hundred, no, a thousand times worse than that. And the bigger
the cross or crucifix, the worse the pain.

 
          
He'd
experienced monumental pain upon looking into St. Anthony's tonight. That could
only mean that Joseph, that young bastard, had refurbished the giant crucifix.
It was the only possible explanation.

 
          
He
swung on his servants.

 
          
"Get
in there! Get that crucifix down!"

 
          
"They've
got guns!"

 
          
"Then
get help. But get it down!"

 
          
"We'll
get guns too! We can—"

 
          
"No!
I want him! I want that priest alive! I want him for myself! Anyone who kills
him will suffer a very painful, very long and lingering true death! Is that
clear? "

 
          
It
was clear. They scurried away without answering. Palmeri went to gather the
other members of the nest.

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
Dressed
in a cassock and a surplice, Joe came out of the sacristy and approached the
altar. He noticed Zev keeping watch at one of the windows. He didn't tell him
how ridiculous he looked carrying the shotgun Carl had brought back. He held it
so gingerly, as if it was full of nitroglycerin and would explode if he jiggled
it.

 
          
Zev
turned and smiled when he saw him.

 
          
"Now
you look like the old Father Joe we all used to know,"

 
          
Joe
gave him a little bow and proceeded toward the altar. Lacey waved with her
revolver from the other side of the nave where she stood guard by the side
door. She'd put on her black leather jacket and looked ready for anything.

 
          
All
right: He had everything he needed. He had the Missal they'd found in among the
pew debris earlier today. He had the wine—Carl had brought back about four
ounces of sour red babarone. He'd found the smudged surplice and dusty cassock
on the floor of one of the closets in the sacristy, and he wore them now. No
hosts, though. A crust of bread left over from breakfast would have to do. No
chalice, either. If he'd known he was going to be saying Mass he'd have come
prepared. As a last resort he'd used the can opener in the rectory to remove
the top of one of the Pepsi cans from lunch. Quite a stretch from the gold
chalice he'd used since his ordination, but probably more in line with what
Jesus had used at that first Mass—the Last Supper.

 
          
He
was uncomfortable with the idea of weapons in St. Anthony's but saw no
alternative. He and Zev knew nothing about guns, and Carl knew little more;
they'd probably do more damage to themselves than to the
Vichy
if they tried to use them. Only Lacey
seemed at ease with her pistol. Joe hoped that just the sight of the weaponry
might make the
Vichy
hesitate, slow them down. All he needed was a little time here, enough
to get to the consecration.

 
          
This
is going to be the most unusual Mass in history, he thought.

 
          
But
he was going to get through it if it killed him. And that was a real possibility.
This might well be his last
Mass.
But he wasn't afraid. He was too excited to
be afraid. He'd had a slug of the Scotch—just enough to ward off the shakes—but
it had done nothing to quell the buzz of the adrenaline humming along every
nerve in his body.

 
          
He
spread everything out on the white tablecloth he'd taken from the rectory and
used to cover the filthy altar. He looked at Carl.

 
          
"Ready?"

 
          
Carl
nodded and stuck the automatic pistol he'd been examining into his belt.

 
          
"Been
awhile, Fadda. We did it in Latin when I was a kid, but I think I can swing
it."

 
          
"Just
do your best and don't worry about any mistakes."

 
          
Some
Mass.
A defiled altar, a crust for a host, a
Pepsi can for a chalice, a sixty-year-old, pistol-packing altar boy, and a
congregation consisting of a lesbian atheist and a rabbi.

 
          
Joe
looked heavenward.

 
          
You
do understand, don't you, Lord, that all this was arranged on short notice?

 
          
Time
to begin.

 
          
He
read the Gospel but dispensed with the homily. He tried to remember the Mass as
it used to be said, to fit in better with Carl's outdated responses.

 
          
As
he was starting the Offertory the front doors flew open and a group of men
entered—ten of them, all with crescent moons dangling from their ears. Out of
the corner of his eye he saw Zev move away from the window toward the altar,
pointing his shotgun at them.

 
          
As
soon as they entered the nave and got past the broken pews, the
Vichy
fanned out toward the sides. They began
pulling down the Stations of the Cross, ripping Carl's makeshift crosses from
the walls and tearing them apart.

 
          
Carl
looked up at Joe from where he knelt, his eyes questioning, his hand reaching
for the pistol in his belt. Lacey didn't look at him at all. She acted on her
own.

 
          
"Stop
right there!"

 
          
She
held her pistol straight out before her, arms rigid. Joe saw the barrel wobble.
She might be tough, he thought, but she's only twenty-five. And she's only got
two rounds.

 
          
But
the
Vichy
didn't know that. They stopped their
forward progress and tried to stare her down.

 
          
"You
can't get all of us," one said.

 
          
Zev
worked the pump on the shotgun. The sound echoed through the church.
"That's right. She can't."