F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (32 page)

 
          
"No!"
Zev shouted from above. "Forget about me! You've started something here
and you've got to see it through!"

 
          
Joe
ignored his friend.

 
          
"Coming,
Alberto."

 
          
Father
Joe's coming, Alberto. And he's pissed. Royally pissed.

 
          
ZEV
. . .

 
          
Zev
craned his neck, watching Joe disappear beneath the balcony.

 
          
"Joe!
Comeback!"

 
          
Palmeri
shook him again.

 
          
"Give
it up, old Jew. Joseph never listened to anyone and he's not listening to you.
He still believes in faith and virtue and honesty, in the power of goodness and
truth over what he perceives as evil. He'll come up here ready to sacrifice
himself for you, yet sure in his heart that he's going to win in the end. But
he's wrong."

 
          
"No!"
Zev said.

 
          
But
in his heart he knew that Palmeri was right. How could Joe stand up against a
creature with Palmeri's strength, who could hold Zev in the air like this for
so long? Didn't his arms ever tire?

 
          
"Yes!"
Palmeri hissed. "He's going to lose and we're going to win. We'll win for
the same reason we always win. We don't let anything as silly and transient as
sentiment stand in our way. If we'd been winning below and situations were
reversed—if Joseph were holding one of my nest brothers over that wooden spike
below—do you think I'd pause for a moment? For a second? Never! That's why this
whole exercise by Joseph and these people is futile."

 
          
Futile.
. . Zev thought. Like much of his life, it seemed. Like all of his future. Joe
would die tonight and Zev might live on ... as what? A cross-wearing Jew, with
the traditions of his past sacked and in flames, and nothing in his future but
a vast, empty, limitless plain to wander alone.

 
          
Footfalls
sounded on the balcony stairs and Palmeri turned his head.

 
          
"Ah,Joseph,"
he said.

 
          
Zev
couldn't see the priest but he shouted anyway.

 
          
"Go
back, Joe! Don't let him trick you!"

 
          
"Speaking
of tricks," Palmeri said, leaning further over the balcony rail as an
extra warning to Joe, "I hope you're not going to try anything
foolish."

 
          
"No,"
said Joe's tired voice from somewhere behind Palmeri. "No tricks. Pull him
in and let him go."

           
Zev could not let this happen. And
suddenly he knew what he had to do. He twisted his body and grabbed the front
of Palmeri's cassock while bringing his legs up and bracing his feet against
one of the uprights of the brass balcony rail. As Palmeri turned his startled
face toward him, Zev put all his strength into his legs for one convulsive
backward push against the railing, pulling Palmeri with him. The undead priest
was overbalanced. Even his enormous strength could not help him once his feet
came free of the floor. Zev saw his undead eyes widen with terror when his
lower body slipped over the railing. As they fell free, Zev wrapped his arms
around Palmeri and clutched his cold and surprisingly thin body tight against
him.

 
          
"What
goes through this old Jew goes through you!" he shouted into the vampire's
ear.

 
          
For
an instant he saw Joe's horrified face appear over the balcony's receding edge,
heard his faraway shout of "No!" mingle with Palmeri's nearer,
lengthier scream of the same word, then came a spine-cracking jar and in his
chest a tearing, wrenching pain beyond all comprehension. In an eyeblink he
felt the sharp spire of wood rip through him and into Palmeri.

 
          
And
then he felt no more.

 
          
As
roaring blackness closed in he wondered if he'd done it, if this last
desperate, foolish act had succeeded. He didn't want to die without finding
out. He wanted to know—

 
          
But
then he knew no more.

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
Joe
shouted incoherently as he hung over the rail and watched Zev's fall, gagged as
he saw the bloody point of the pew remnant burst through the back of Palmeri's
cassock directly below him. He saw Palmeri squirm and flop around like a
beached fish, then go limp atop Zev's already inert form.

 
          
As
cheers mixed with cries of horror and the sounds of renewed battle rose from
the nave, Joe turned away from the balcony rail and dropped to his knees.

 
          
"Zev!"
he cried aloud. "Good God, Zev!"

 
          
Forcing
himself to his feet, he stumbled down the back stairs, through the vestibule,
and into the nave. The undead and the
Vichy
were on the run, as cowed and demoralized
by their leader's death as the parishioners were buoyed by it. Slowly,
steadily, they were falling before the relentless onslaught.

 
          
But
Joe paid them scant attention. He fought his way to where Zev lay impaled
beneath Palmeri's already decomposing corpse. He looked for a sign of life in
his old friend's glazing eyes, a hint of a pulse in his throat under his beard,
but found nothing.

 
          
"Zev,
Zev, Zev, you shouldn't have. You shouldn't have."

 
          
He
stiffened as he felt a pair of arms go around him, then saw it was Lacey. Tears
streamed down her cheeks as she leaned against him and sobbed. She reached out
and touched Zev's forehead.

 
          
"Oh,
Uncle Joe... Uncle Joe..."

 
          
Suddenly
they were surrounded by a cheering throng of St. Anthony's parishioners.

 
          
"We
did it, Fadda Joe!" Carl cried, his face and hands splattered with blood.
"We killed 'em all! We got our church back!"

 
          
"Thanks
to this man here," Joe said, pointing to Zev.

 
          
"No!"
someone shouted. "Thanks to you!"

 
          
Amid
the cheers, Joe shook his head and said nothing. Let them celebrate. They
deserved it. They'd reclaimed a tiny piece of the world as their own, a toehold
and nothing more. A small victory of minimal significance in the war, but a
victory nonetheless. They had their church back, at least for tonight. And they
intended to keep it.

 
          
Good.
But there would be one change. If they wanted their Father Joe to stick around
they were going to have to agree to rename the church.

 
          
St.
Zev's.

 
          
Joe
liked the sound of that.

 
          
GREGOR
. . .

 
          
"I
was wrong, wasn't I!" Olivia raged, waving her arms and she stormed back
and forth across the main floor of the Post office. Her get-guards flanked her,
watching the windows, trying to cover her as she moved. Gregor's guards
clustered near him, warily watching the others. "Yesterday, when I heard
that more than one of your serfs had been killed in a single night, I thought
it couldn't get any worse. But now this! This!"

 
          
Gregor,
still too numb with shock, said nothing.

 
          
He
and his guards had been on the other side of town, roaming the streets, hunting
the vigilantes, when he'd heard the news. He'd rushed back to the church, not
believing it could be true. But it was. He'd found St. Anthony's aflame with
searing light, too bright to look at. Crosses blazed from every window and
door, the corpses of his cowboys and his get lay in a tangled pile on the front
steps, and from within ... the voices of the cattle raised in hymns.

 
          
Olivia
stopped her pacing and glared at him. "You allowed this to happen, didn't
you, Gregor. You're trying to humiliate me, aren't you."

 
          
That
did it.

 
          
"You
bitch!" Gregor shouted.

 
          
He
raised his fist and took a step toward her. Her guards reacted by reaching for
their machetes, and Gregor's guards followed suit. As much as he wanted his
hands around her throat, crushing it, twisting until her head ripped free, this
was not the time or place for a pointless melee. Gregor opened his fist and
stabbed a finger at Olivia.

 
          
"You
conniving, self-centered bitch! Humiliate you? I'm the one whose local get has
been virtually wiped out! If anyone's pride has been damaged tonight it is
mine!"

 
          
"And
you've nobody to blame but yourself," she snarled. "Your serfs and
your get failed you, failed all of us. They deserved what they got. I see only
one solution. I will have to bring in my own serfs and get to clean up your
mess."

 
          
"This
is what you've wanted all along, isn't it. For all I know you engineered this
yourself!"

 
          
"Don't
talk like a fool! I—" She stopped, held up a hand, and closed her eyes.
"Wait. Wait." She opened her eyes and stared at him. "Do you see
what is happening? A few of the cattle make a move against us and what do we
do? We turn on each other. This is not the way."

 
          
Realizing
she was right, Gregor stepped back. But he said nothing. The sting of her words
remained. His get had not deserved to die.

 
          
"We
have a situation," Olivia said. "One that must be kept quiet and
crushed immediately. If word of what happened here tonight gets around,
insurrections like this could spread like wildfire."

 
          
Gregor
watched her. He didn't trust this suddenly reasonable Olivia.

 
          
"The
thing to do is retake the church," he said. "Immediately."

 
          
"But
we can't, Gregor. The slow attrition of your serfs to these vigilantes over the
past weeks plus their wholesale slaughter tonight leaves us short of manpower.
Of the ones we have left, half are ready to bolt. We'd better hope these
vigilantes are so happy to have their church back that they'll stay there
tomorrow, because we now have barely enough serfs to guard us during the sunlit
hours. If these vigilantes should decide to put together a hunting
party..."

 
          
Gregor
suppressed a shudder. "They won't. They're not the vigilantes."

 
          
"You
so dearly wish. Then the blame would not be on you for allowing them to roam
free for so long. In fact, as I remember, you were supposed to solve the
vigilante problem before this coming sunrise."

 
          
Did
she have to bring that up? He'd been searching since sundown.

 
          
"It
seems we've had a slight, unanticipated distraction."

 
          
She
waved her hand, brushing him off. "Unlike you, I am not going to sit on my
hands. I've already contacted Franco."

 
          
The
word bitch rose to Gregor's lips again but he bit it back. Pointless to call
names now.