F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (59 page)

 
          
Laughing,
the two men holstered their pistols and began fumbling with their flies. With a
shaking hand Lacey reached around, pulled the shotgun from the boot, and fired
at Redbeard first. The recoil almost knocked her off the trunk and into the
back seat, but the blast took Redbeard full in the chest, slamming him back
through a halo of his blood and into his bike. Some of the scattering shot
caught Braids in his arm and he spun half around, clawing at his pistol. Lacey
regained her balance and her grip on the sawed-off. She quick-pumped another
shell into the chamber as she slid off the trunk to the ground, then pulled the
trigger, catching Braids in the left side. His shoulder, neck and cheek
exploded and he went down in a spray of red.

 
          
Lacey
pumped one more shell of double-ought shot into each of them— didn't want them
talking to anyone—then took their guns. She tossed the shotgun and the new
weapons onto the back seat.

 
          
"Men,"
she said, reaching for her clothing. Loathing welled up in her. "No wonder
I gave up on them. They're such assholes."

 
          
She
pulled on the panties and comfy pants first. As she was shrugging the T-shirt
over her head she found Carole glaring at her.

 
          
"What?"

 
          
"You
shouldn't have done that."

 
          
"Killed
them? What was I sup—?"

 
          
Carole
shook her head. "You shouldn't have called me a lesbian. That wasn't
right."

 
          
"It
was just something to distract them, set little triple-X fantasies spooling through
their heads."

 
          
Carole
slipped back behind the wheel. "Still, just because I've forsworn marriage
doesn't mean I'm a lesbian. A vow of chastity means no sex with men or
women."

 
          
"I
know that, Carole." She dropped back into the passenger seat and slammed
the door. "Takes one to know one, and my gaydar doesn't so much as beep
with you."

 
          
Carole
glanced at her. "You're . . . ?"

 
          
"Yeah."

 
          
"Does
your uncle know?"

 
          
"Sure
does. He doesn't like it but he accepts it. Too bad you aren't, Carole. You're
kinda cool."

 
          
Carole's
face reddened as she put the car in gear.

 
          
Lacey
laughed and gave the nun's shoulder a gentle punch. "Only kidding."

 
          
And
she was. With the memory of Janey still so fresh and haunting, she couldn't
think of being with anyone else. Not yet.

 
          
"This
isn't going to be a problem for you, is it?"

 
          
Carole
shook her head. "The convent had its fair share. It was no secret behind
the doors. They kept to themselves, and I kept my mouth shut. God will be the
final judge."

 
          
"I
guess I have nothing to worry about then," Lacey said.

 
          
She
turned and looked back at the two men sprawled in their pooling blood and felt
nothing.

 
          
"Why
don't I feel anything, Carole? You've killed your share of
Vichy
. Do you—?

 
          
"I
always got sick afterward—at least when I had to ... do it myself... by hand.
But what you just did doesn't bother me so much. Perhaps because it wasn't
close work ... or because it was you doing it instead of me. I know they had to
die but..." She sighed. "Nothing in my life prepared me for this,
Lacey. I was raised to be merciful—I'm a Sister of Mercy, after all—but I don't
believe the undead or their collaborators deserve any mercy from us. I've
decided to leave that to God. He can decide."

 
          
"Kill
'em all and let God sort 'em out. Right." Just how Lacey felt.

 
          
"Perhaps.
Still... I can't ignore the fact that the Vichy are still human beings. No
matter what awful things they've done, they're still God's children, and I
can't help thinking that if maybe someone had got to them early enough and
showed them the grace of God's love, their lives would have been
different."

 
          
Lacey
shook her head. "Sorry. Can't buy that. Some people are just plain evil.
They're born bad and they stay bad all their lives. They're like termites,
undermining your house. There's no accommodating them, so if you don't want to
wake up with your house reduced to sawdust, you exterminate them."

 
          
"That's
what they are to you? Bugs?"

 
          
"Worse.
Bugs don't have a choice in how they act."

 
          
Lacey
knew she hadn't always been like this, but something started dying within her
when Janey had gone missing; her parents' empty, bloodstained house had pushed
it closer to the grave; Uncle Joe dead with his throat torn open had
administered the coup de grace. She couldn't imagine herself feeling anything
but murderous loathing for the creatures, human and inhuman, who'd been a part
of all that.

 
          
Carole
hit a switch and the top began to rise.

 
          
"Leave
it down," Lacey said.

 
          
Carole
looked at her. "I don't think that's a good idea."

 
          
"It
is. Think about it. You heard Joe: All the females of childbearing age have
been trucked off to farms to be breeders. That leaves nothing for the cowboys
between their stud times at the farms. They're horny as all hell. If they see
two women in an open car they'll be more likely to ask questions first and
shoot later, don't you think?"

 
          
"You
also said we'd be less likely to run into trouble on the Turnpike."

 
          
"That
was just a guess. This is based on the fact that these guys—as the two back
there on the ground prove—think with their dicks."

 
          
Carole
closed her eyes for half a minute—Lacey couldn't tell if she was thinking or
praying—then hit the roof switch. The top settled back into the boot.

 
          
"I
hope you're right."

 
          
After
that, Carole kept the pedal to the metal, hitting one-twenty on the long
straightaways through the flatlands by
Newark
Airport
. The still, silent airport streamed past to
the left, the equally still railyards to the right. Like running through an
industrial graveyard.

 
          
The
big road remained eerily empty except for one other car, half a dozen lanes
away, headed in the opposite direction. Whether friend or foe, Lacey couldn't
tell.

 
          
Then
the roadway lifted and the
Manhattan
skyline hove into view to the right, pacing them as they raced along.
The gap where the
Trade
Towers
used to stand caused an ache in Lacey's
chest. The hijackers and their victims were long gone, and now most of the
survivors were probably gone as well. And Islam ... Islam was gone too.

 
          
Good
riddance. Lacey had no use for any religion, but she'd found Islam's treatment
of women particularly offensive. A mongrel religion, cobbled from pieces of
others and strung together by adolescent sex and power fantasies. Good fucking
riddance.

 
          
A
lump built in her throat as she thought about what her city had suffered. She'd
thought nothing could be worse than the
Trade
Tower
attack, but then the undead had come ...

 
          
A
few minutes later they were passing through
Union City
. She saw the weathered old sign,
UNION
CITY
—EMBROIDERY CAPITAL OF THE WORLD, and shook
her head.
Union
City
wasn't embroidering a thing these days.

 
          
"I
can't believe this," Lacey shouted over the wind whistling around and
between them as they coasted down the Lincoln Tunnel helix. "We made it
without being hassled again."

 
          
Carole
glanced at her watch and shook her head. "Forty-five minutes. That must be
a record."

 
          
"And
that includes the time we lost with those two motorcycle yo-yos. It's like
everybody's on vacation."

 
          
"I
think we might be able to take credit for some of that," Carole said.
"After what we did in the Post Office, I'll bet they've drawn their
collaborators closer—doubling the guard and measures like that. The upside of
that is an easier trip getting here; the downside will be a much more difficult
time accomplishing what we came here to do."

 
          
"Every
silver lining has a cloud, right?"

 
          
Carole
nodded as they threaded an E-ZPass lane and aimed for the tunnel's center tube.
"Always."

 
          
Carole
turned on the headlights as they entered the dark, arching maw, and just then a
siren howled behind them. Lacey jumped in her seat and looked around at the
flashing red lights atop two blue-and-white units that had appeared out of
nowhere.

 
          
"Police?"
Carole said.

 
          
Lacey
eyed the cars. First off, the NYPD was long gone. Second, the four
shaggy-headed silhouettes crammed into that first unit didn't look anything
like cops. Probably an equal number in the unit beside it.

 
          
Eight
Vichy
. . . she doubted the tactics she'd used on
the two bikers would fly here. As if to emphasize that point, one of the
occupants in the lead cop car held an assault pistol out a rear passenger
window and fired a burst into the air. The bullets shattered some ceiling tiles
and the pieces rained on the cop car, denting the hood and cracking the
windshield. Lacey spotted a fist flying in the rear of the car. Someone
wouldn't be trying that again.

 
          
The
following unit pulled alongside the first, high beams flashing on and off.
Lacey rose in her seat, exposing herself to the glare, and waved.

 
          
"What
do we do?" Carole shouted over the roar of the wind, Her expression was
tight.

 
          
"Your
turn."

 
          
"My
turn? For what?"

 
          
"To
show a little titty."

 
          
"What?"

 
          
"Yeah.
I did my part, now you do yours. I'll take the wheel and—"

 
          
"Not
on your life! Just shoot at them. We don't have to worry about sunlight leaking
into the trunk while we're in here."

 
          
Lacey
thought of that assault pistol that had fired a moment ago, and wondered if
there were more of them in the units. She didn't stand a chance against that
sort of firepower. Then she looked down and saw the napalm balloons.

 
          
"Slow
down a little," she said as she crawled into the rear. "Here we go
again."

 
          
She
crouched on the back seat and pulled off her T-shirt, then she grabbed a napalm
balloon in each hand.