F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (37 page)

 
          
Then
she remembered Enrico. They'd used a knife on him. Maybe he was the lucky one.
He'd gone quickly. She'd been brought here to be someone's meal. After she was
drained they'd rip off her head and toss her body on a pile somewhere to rot.
But that was better than becoming one of them.

 
          
But
why were they trying to wake her? They didn't need her conscious to drain her
blood. Did they have another use for her in mind? Like using her to find out
what was going on inside the church?

 
          
A
shiver ran through her. She was freezing here on this puddled marble floor and
couldn't keep her limbs from quaking. Had anybody seen? She split her lids and
took a peek.

 
          
Not
much light. Only a few candles sputtering but it was enough to make out faces.
The female vampire with the big hair had been ranting in French before, but now
she stood silent with her six armed attendants. Guards? Lacey had heard that
some of the higher-up undead traveled around with what looked like bodyguards,
but this was the first time she'd seen it. Why did the undead think they needed
guards, especially when everyone else around was undead?

 
          
Four
new undead males wearing machetes and pistols entered. They addressed the
female as Olivia and spoke in English.

 
          
"
'Ave you seen Gregor, Olivia?" said a dark-haired guard with a British accent.
He looked dirty, all in black, his shirtfront crusted with old blood.

 
          
Olivia
replied in English. "Not since before sunrise." A small smile played
about her lips. "Don't tell me you've misplaced him."

 
          
"Bloody
bastard gave us the slip. We found makeup and cologne in his quarters. 'E's
gone out on 'is own to find those vigilantes."

 
          
Vigilantes?
Lacey thought. This was interesting. She hadn't heard anything about
vigilantes. But then, she'd only arrived in town yesterday. Who was this Gregor
and why was he hunting them?

 
          
"That
seems rather reckless, don't you think?" Olivia said.

 
          
The
Brit snarled at her. "I'm sure 'e'd never be out there if you 'adn't
driven 'im to it. We were 'oping 'e'd come to see you first and we could
intercept 'im 'ere, but I see we're in the wrong place."

 
          
"You
certainly are."

 
          
"Look,
Olivia," the Brit said, his tone becoming conciliatory. "If you've
any idea where 'e might be, please tell us. We've got to find 'im. 'E could be
in grave danger."

 
          
Lacey
was struck by the concern in the Brit's voice. The undead supposedly cared
about only one thing: blood. But the Brit seemed genuinely worried about this
Gregor. Lots more than Olivia.

 
          
"Well,
if he is, it's his own doing."

 
          
The
Brit snarled again. "If anything happens to Gregor ..."

 
          
"You'll
be the first to know." She laughed, showing her sharp teeth.

 
          
"Bitch!"
the Brit said and reached for the handle of his machete.

 
          
Olivia's
guards closed around her, reaching for their own. And then a thunderous boom
rattled the windows and shook the floor beneath Lacey.

 
          
As
the sound of the blast faded, the Brit and the three other undead who'd arrived
with him cried out and clutched their chests. One by one they dropped to their
knees.

 
          
Olivia's
smile had vanished, replaced by a look of horror. Her voice rose in pitch,
somewhere between a shout and a wail, as she rattled off a barrage of French
too rapid for Lacey to follow. Lacey recognized the name "Gregor" but
that was it.

 
          
Her
guards looked as terrified as she as they encircled her, facing outward,
machetes and pistols drawn. They were speaking French too, and again Gregor was
mentioned.

 
          
What
were they saying? Lacey wished now she'd taken French instead of Spanish.

 
          
The
Brit's friends lay writhing, kicking, and gasping on their backs and bellies,
but he was still on his knees, glaring at Olivia.

 
          
"You!"
His voice was faint, and sounded as if someone were strangling him. "You
did this! You're responsible!" He began a faltering crawl toward her.

 
          
"Keep
him away!" Olivia said.

 
          
The
Brit pulled his machete from his belt and tried to use it as a crutch to regain
his feet. "I'll see you—"

 
          
One
of Olivia's guards stepped forward then and, holding his machete like a
baseball bat, took a two-handed swing. The blade sliced through the Brit's neck
with an indescribable tearing sound, sending the head flying. But no gout of
blood sprayed the room as the body flopped forward onto its chest and lay still
next to the other three fallen undead, now equally still.

 
          
And
the head ... the head rolled toward Lacey's face. She shut her eyes, bracing
herself if it rolled against her. She couldn't allow herself to move, couldn't
give herself away, no matter what.

 
          
What
was happening here? Undead dropping dead, fighting and killing each other. What
the hell was going on? It had something to do with someone named Gregor, but
what?

 
          
Lacey
opened her eyes again and stifled a gasp as she found herself almost nose to
nose with the Brit. His eyelids blinked and his lips were moving, as if he was
trying to tell her something.

 
          
Bile
rose in Lacey's throat and she squeezed her eyes shut again.

 
          
GREGOR
. . .

 
          
I'm
awake! Gregor thought. I survived!

 
          
He
didn't know how long it had been since the blast. A few minutes? A few hours?
It couldn't have been too long—it was still night. He could see the moonlight
through the huge hole that had been ripped in the wall.

 
          
He
tried to move but could not. In fact, he couldn't feel anything. Anything. But
he could hear. And he heard someone picking through the rubble toward him. He
tried to turn his head but could not. Who was there? One of his own kind—please
let it be one of his own kind.

 
          
When
he saw the flashlight beam he knew it was one of the living. He began to
despair. He was utterly helpless here. What had that explosion done to him?

 
          
As
the light came closer, he saw that it was the woman, the she-devil. She
appeared to be unscathed .. .

 
          
And
she wore the headpiece of a nun.

 
          
She
shone the beam in his face and he blinked.

 
          
"Dear
sweet Jesus!" she said, her voice hushed with awe. "You're not dead
yet? Even in this condition?"

 
          
He
tried to tell her how she would pay for this, how she would suffer the tortures
of the damned and beg for death, but his jaw wasn't working right, and he had
no voice.

 
          
"So
what are we going to do with you, Mister Vampire?" she said. "Your
friends might show up and find a way to fix you up. Not that I can see how
that'd be possible, but I wouldn't put anything past you vipers."

 
          
What
was she saying? What did she mean? What had happened to him?

 
          
"If
I had a good supply of holy water I could pour it over you, but I want to
conserve what I've got."

 
          
She
was quiet a moment, then turned and walked off. Had she decided to leave him
here? He hoped so. At least that way he had a chance.

 
          
But
if she wanted to kill him, why hadn't she said anything about driving a stake
through his heart?

 
          
He
tried to move but his body wouldn't respond. Somehow the blast had paralyzed
him. He noticed his vision growing dim, his sense of hearing fading. What was
happening? He felt as if he might be drifting toward true death ...

 
          
No!
That that couldn't be. He was only paralyzed.

 
          
Through
his misting vision Gregor saw her coming back. Her hands were bright yellow.
How? Why?

 
          
"The
only thing I can think of doing is to set you on the east end of the porch and
let the sun finish you."

 
          
No!
Please! Not that.

 
          
The
woman rested the flashlight on a broken timber and reached for his face. He saw
now that she wore yellow rubber gloves. He tried to cringe away, but again—no
response from his body. She grabbed him by his hair and . . . lifted him. How
could she be so strong? Vertigo spun him around as she looked him in the face.

 
          
"You
can still see, can't you? Maybe you'd better take a look at yourself."

 
          
Vertigo
again as she twisted his head around, and then he saw the hallway, or what was
left of it. Mass destruction . . . shattered timbers, the stairs blown away,
and . . .

 
          
Pieces
of his body—his arms and legs torn and scattered, his torso twisted and
eviscerated, his intestines stretched and ripped, internal organs reduced to
large, unrecognizable smears.

 
          
As
his vision faded to black in the final fall toward true death, Gregor wished
his lungs were still attached. So he could scream. Just once.

 
          
LACEY
. . .

 
          
A
stink filled Lacey's nostrils as she noticed that Olivia's rapid-fire French
seemed to be fading away. She dared another look. The Brit's face was slack now
and the flesh was starting to decompose. She lifted her head to look beyond him
and saw Olivia and her crew backing into a stairwell, heading down to what
Lacey assumed was the basement.

 
          
As
soon as the door closed behind them, Lacey raised her head further and looked
around. Except for the bodies of the four dead vampires, she was alone. She'd
been forgotten. But for how long?

 
          
She
struggled to rise, groaning with the pain in her joints and muscles, but
especially in her pelvis. She slipped on the wet floor and banged her elbow as
she went down. She tried again, clinging to the wall, using it to steady
herself as the room spun about her. Clenching her teeth against a wave of
nausea, she rose to her feet and hugged the wall.

 
          
When
the room steadied, she looked down at her bloody, naked body and wanted to
retch. What did they do to her?

 
          
She'd
deal with that later. Right now she had to get out of here and back to the
church. But where was here} She knew from the signs on the wall that she was in
a Post Office. But how did she find the church once she got out?

 
          
First
things first, she told herself. Get out of this undead nest, then worry about
finding your way back.

 
          
Still
holding the wall, she edged toward the doors. She looked longingly at the
clothes on the corpses of the dead vampires, but their rot was already seeping
through the fabric. She'd rather be naked.