F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (48 page)

 
          
He
tried the other bureau and found an assortment of shirts and Bermudas. He tried
a pair of green plaid shorts first and, though a little loose in the waist,
they fit. The top shirt on the pile was a yellow-flowered Hawaiian.

 
          
After
he pulled it on he looked down at himself. Not a big improvement over that old
sheet. He must look like the bennie from hell. He stepped to the mirror over
the dresser to catch a full view. The mirror was blurred.

 
          
This
place was in dire need of some spring cleaning.

 
          
He
leaned forward to wipe away the dust but his hand rubbed across clean glass. He
leaned closer and noticed that the room behind him reflected clear and sharp,
yet he remained a blur.

 
          
"Oh,
God!"

 
          
"Unk?"
he heard Lacey say from the front room. Seconds later she was at his side with
the flashlight, her reflection the only distinguishable human in the mirror.
"What's wrong?"

 
          
Feeling
weak—from hunger as well as the horror before him—he leaned against the dresser
and pointed to the mirror. "Look at me—if you can."

 
          
She
gasped. "Is that... ?"

 
          
"That's
what's left of my reflection."

 
          
Carole's
image joined them in the glass. He saw her stiffen and stare.

 
          
After
a moment she said, "You're not completely gone."

 
          
"No,
but nobody can tell me that's not more proof that I'm no longer human. What
have I become? I'm asking you both again: What am I?"

 
          
The
hunger worsened. He grabbed his abdomen and doubled over.

 
          
"Joe?"
Lacey asked.

 
          
"Hungry.
Can't remember the last time I ate."

 
          
He
turned away and stalked to the kitchen where he began to open the cabinets and
paw through their contents. Mostly condiments and spices.

 
          
"Damn
it all!" he shouted. "Didn't these people eat?"

 
          
"It's
a summer home," Carole said softly. "Nobody leaves food over the
winter."

 
          
"God,
I'm starving."

 
          
"We've
got food," Lacey said.

 
          
"Right,"
Carole said. "You remember Mrs. Delmonico, don't you?"

 
          
"Of
course I do," Joe said. "I only died. I didn't lose my memory."
He looked from Lacey's stricken face to Carole's stony expression and back
again. "Sorry. That was supposed to be a joke."

 
          
"Oh,
yeah!" Lacey's forced laugh sounded awful. "Funny!" Her smile
cracked and she sobbed. Once.

 
          
"Lacey,
I'm sorry," Joe said.

 
          
She
held up a hand as she pulled herself together. "I'm okay. Really."

 
          
No,
you aren't, he thought. Not a single one of us is anywhere near okay.

 
          
"We
should eat something," Carole said. "Who knows when we'll get another
chance."

 
          
Joe
looked at her. "What were you saying about Mrs. Delmonico?"

 
          
"She
baked some bread and made us peanut butter sandwiches."

 
          
"Peanut
butter! God, I can't remember the last time I had a peanut butter sandwich."

 
          
He
followed Carole and Lacey to the cocktail table. Carole pulled out the
sandwiches, unwrapped them, and handed a half to Joe. Manners reminded him to
wait but hunger forced his hands toward his mouth. He took a deep bite and
gagged.

 
          
His
gorge rose in revulsion as he turned and spat it into his hand.

 
          
"What's
in that? I thought you said it was peanut butter."

 
          
Lacey
sat across the table with the other half of Joe's sandwich. She'd taken a bite
and was staring at him.

 
          
He
nodded to her. "Tastes awful, doesn't it."

 
          
Lacey
shook her head. "Tastes fine," she said around her bite.

 
          
Carole
leaned forward. "What did it taste like to you, Father?"

 
          
How
could he describe something so awful? "Try to imagine rancid meat... in
spoiled milk ... laced with hot tar . . . and you're only part way there."

 
          
With
a glance at Lacey, Carole pulled the book bag up onto her lap and reached
inside. With a single quick movement she removed something and held it under
his nose.

 
          
"How
about this?"

 
          
Joe
recoiled, almost tipping over backward in his chair. It felt like pure ammonia
shoved up his nose.

 
          
"Damn!
What's that? Get it away!"

 
          
Carole
showed him the flaky clove between her fingers. "Just garlic."

 
          
A
queasy nausea slithered through Joe's hunger pains. He'd always loved garlic,
the more the better. But now . . .

 
          
"I
don't understand this!" Lacey cried. She was leaning away from the table
with her eyes squeezed shut. "You can stand in sunlight and walk into a
home without being invited in, but you don't cast a full reflection and you
can't stand garlic. What's going on?"

 
          
Joe
shook his head. "I wish I knew." Hunger gave him a vicious kick in
the abdomen, doubling him over. "I do know I've got to eat. Isn't there
anything else around?"

 
          
"Yes,"
Lacey said. She was looking past him, a strange light dancing in her eyes.
"Yes, I believe there is."

 
          
She
grabbed the flashlight and hurried to the kitchen. Joe heard her opening drawer
after drawer, rattling utensils. Apparently she found what she was looking for
because she returned to the table and stood beside him with her hands behind
her back.

 
          
"Close
your eyes and open your mouth," she said.

 
          
"This
is no time for games, Lacey. I'm starving."

 
          
A
smile appeared; it looked painted on. "Humor me, Unk. Open your mouth and
close your eyes."

 
          
Joe
complied, and then things started happening—fast. He sensed Lacey move closer,
heard a gasp of shock—Carole?—then felt something warm and firm and wet pressed
into his mouth. He'd never tasted anything like it— utterly delicious. He
opened his eyes and saw Lacey close, a steak knife in one hand, and the other—

 
          
—pressed
against his mouth.

 
          
Joe
flung himself backward, and this time he did go over, landing on his back. He
felt no pain, only revulsion at the sight of his niece's bloody thumb, and at
himself the way he licked his lips and wanted more. A glimpse of Carole's white
face and stricken expression over Lacey's shoulder was the final blow.

 
          
Instead
of climbing back to his feet, Joe rolled onto his side, facing away from them,
and sobbed with shame. He wished he could dissolve into a liquid and seep
between the floorboards to hide from their eyes. For he knew how they must be
looking at him—with the same revulsion as he'd felt about the undead before . .
. before . . .

 
          
And
worse. He realized that his hunger was gone. Just those few drops of Lacey's
blood had sated him.

 
          
He
groaned. He wanted to crawl out of this house and their sight on his belly like
the lesser being he'd become.

 
          
No
... he wanted to die. Truly die.

 
          
Keeping
an arm across his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the loathing in their faces,
he rolled over onto his back and tore open his shirt, baring his chest.

 
          
"Do
it, Carole. I don't want to be this way. End it now. Please."

 
          
No
response, no sound of movement.

 
          
Joe
uncovered his eyes and found Carole and Lacey staring at him from where he'd
left them at the table. They looked like mannequins, but their expressions
reflected more shock than revulsion.

 
          
He
pounded a fist against his chest, over his heart. "Please, Carole! I'm
begging you. If you've ever cared the slightest for me, either of you, you
won't let me to go on as the creature I am now."

 
          
Carole
only shook her head.

 
          
He
looked at his niece. "Lacey? Please? You can do this one thing for me,
can't you?"

 
          
Tears
streamed down her cheeks as she shook her head. "No. I can't. You're too .
. . you."

 
          
Back
to Carole: "You hate the undead, Carole. I can tell. So why won't you put
this sick dog out of his misery? "

 
          
"I
could never hate you, Father Joe, but I could loathe you if you ... if you were
one of them. But it's plain that you loathe yourself more than I ever could,
and that. . . that means you're not one of them."

 
          
"But
I'm halfway there. What if this is just some sort of transitional phase and by
tomorrow I'll be fully undead."

 
          
She
shook her head. "There is no transitional phase."

 
          
"You
don't know that!" He was shouting now.

 
          
Carole
didn't raise her voice, only shifted her gaze to the side and said, "I do.
I've seen how the change goes, and you are different. You're asking one of us
to drive a stake through your heart. I can't say for sure, but I doubt very
much that any undead in the history of time has made such a request. The very
fact that you've asked is proof that you aren't one of them."

 
          
"Then
in God's name, what am I?"

 
          
"A
weapon, perhaps."

 
          
A
weapon? The word stirred him. Joe sat up and hugged his knees against his chest.

 
          
"What
do you mean?"

 
          
"Do
you have any desire to continue what you started at the church?"

 
          
Joe
hadn't given it a thought. He'd been too preoccupied with figuring out what had
happened to him. But now that he did think about it. . .

 
          
"I
don't see how it's possible. I can't see them following an undead priest."

 
          
"You're
not undead."

 
          
"I'm
certainly not their Father Joe any longer."

 
          
"You'll
always be—"

 
          
"No.
I can't be a priest anymore. How can I when I can't ever say Mass again? I can't
look at a cross or touch one without getting burned. I certainly can't taste
the consecrated bread and wine—assuming I didn't burst into flame trying to say
the prayers to consecrate it."