F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (64 page)

 
          
"It's
okay," Joe said, tapping the screen. "We'll tape as planned. Record
that one, and then I'll tell you another one to record when I get to the
Observation Deck."

 
          
"It's
true then?" Considine said. "You're really liberating the
building?"

 
          
"That's
the plan," Joe said.

 
          
"About
time. How many of you are there?"

 
          
"Just
us," Lacey said.

 
          
He
stared. "Three? Just three? You've got to be kidding! Are you people
crazy?

 
          
Joe
shrugged. "Probably. But we're already more than halfway to succeeding. We—"

 
          
A
burst of static from the hallway startled him.

 
          
"Security!
Security, do you copy?"

 
          
Joe
tensed. "What's that?"

 
          
"One
of their two-ways."

 
          
Joe
stepped out into the hall, found the little walkie-talkie clipped to the dead
guard's belt, and turned it off. He returned to the
Security
Center
and faced Carole and Lacey.

 
          
"That
means at least one of the
Vichy
is still alive out there. Probably more."

 
          
"Well,"
Lacey said, "we knew from the get-go we wouldn't get them all."

 
          
"I
don't like leaving you two alone here."

 
          
Considine
stepped past him. Joe tensed as he picked up the fallen guard's pistol. He
worked the slide and chambered a round.

 
          
"Who
said they're alone? Your ranks just swelled to four."

 
          
Joe
stared at him. "You know how to use that?"

 
          
Considine
nodded. "
Nam
, pal. Eighteen months in country."

 
          
Joe
liked leaving Carole and Lacey with an armed stranger even less, but sensed he
could trust Considine. He didn't have much choice.

 
          
"You
folks hold the fort here. Lock the door and pull that desk in front of it.
Shoot anyone who tries to get in."

 
          
"Where
are you going?" Considine said.

 
          
"Upstairs.
I've got a date with Franco."

 
          
He
glanced at Carole. She had a dazed air about her that worried him.
"Carole, are you all right?"

 
          
"I'll
be fine," she said. "Hurry. You haven't much time."

 
          
"I
know." He stepped close to her and took her in his arms and held her. He
never wanted to leave her.

 
          
"I
love you," he murmured as he kissed her hair. "Always remember that.
We—"

 
          
He
stopped as he felt a lump between her shoulder blades, and another farther down
near the small of her back. He knew what they were.

 
          
"Oh,
God, Carole!" he whispered. "Don't ever push those buttons. I know
they give you comfort, but I beg you, don't. Please don't."

 
          
He
released her she stared at him with stricken eyes. "Only as a last
resort," she told him. "Only when all hope is gone."

 
          
"Then
I pray that moment never comes." He turned and hugged Lacey. "My
favorite niece," he said. "One of my favorite people in the whole
world. Just remember: if anything happens to me, you and Carole get these tapes
to the unoccupied territories."

 
          
Lacey
backed away and gave him a strange look. "Why do you keep saying that?
It's like you don't think you'll see us again."

 
          
"I
might not. But I'm not what this is about. I'm expendable. If I can't make it
back, you two must go on without me."

 
          
He
couldn't tell them the truth. He turned to go.

 
          
"Wait,"
Carole said, holding a zipped-up backpack. "Don't forget this,"

 
          
He
nodded and began slipping his arms through the straps as he ran for the
elevators. The pack was hot against his back.

 
          
BARRETT
. . .

 
          
Home
from the night shift, James Barrett stepped into his Murray Hill brownstone and
checked the long-pork filet he'd put in the refrigerator to thaw when he'd left
at sunset. It had softened considerably but still had a ways to go.

 
          
He
yawned. Christ, this was a boring way to live. Sleeping days, working nights.
His internal clock couldn't seem to get used to it. Cooking was the only
interesting thing in his life now, and even that was palling on him. Without
fresh spices there were only so many ways you could cook human flesh. At least it
was better than eating that slop they served the troops at Houlihan's day after
day.

 
          
Not
that he'd eat with the hoi polloi anyway. He needed to set himself apart, both
in their eyes and in the undead's.

 
          
At
least they'd had a little excitement last night with Neal getting killed and
those two women stealing food from the kitchen. Neal wound up with the back of
his head stove in. He was one tough mother. Barrett couldn't see a couple of
women doing that. Must've had help.

 
          
He
wondered if they were connected to the mess in the
Lincoln
tunnel. What if that hadn't been an
accident?

 
          
He
had put the cowboys on full alert tonight, stationed a couple of guards in
Houlihan's, and sent out teams to look for someone, anyone who might be
connected. They'd returned with a few stray cattle but no one who fit the
cook's description.

 
          
He'd
miss Neal. He was good for a laugh and for the application of a little muscle
when Barrett gave him the go-ahead. But did he feel even a trace of sadness at
his passing? They said when you were turned and rose as undead, you lost all
your emotions. That would be a breeze for Barrett. He had no memory of feeling
anything for anybody. Ever.

 
          
That
was why his situation was so frustrating. He was already most of the way to
undead. All he needed was the bite and he'd be there. If he could just—

 
          
His
two-way squawked. Now what? Couldn't they do anything over there without him?
He snatched it up.

 
          
"Yeah.
Talk to me."

 
          
Nothing
but faint static from the other end.

 
          
"Hey,
you called. What do you want?"

 
          
Nothing
again, then something that sounded like a groan, a very agonized groan.

 
          
"Hello?
Who's there? What's going on?"

 
          
Again
the groan, fainter this time, then nothing. Barrett tried to get a response but
nothing came through. He tried calling the
Security
Center
but no one picked up.

 
          
His
chest tightened. Something was up. Remembering Neal's cracked dome, he stuck
his Dirty Harry gun—his .44 Magnum—into his shoulder holster and hurried back
to the
Empire
State
.

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
When
Joe stepped out on the eightieth floor, instead of heading for the other bank
of elevators to take him the last six floors to the Observation Deck, he looked
around and found an exit door. He pushed through and climbed the stairs.

 
          
Outside
the door marked 85 he looked around for the security camera. When he found it
he waved, then reached for the handle.

 
          
A
foul miasma of rot engulfed Joe when he opened the door. The stairwell was well
lit but the space beyond the door was dark as a tomb.

 
          
How
appropriate, he thought.

 
          
His
night vision was extraordinary but it wasn't up to this, so he stepped through
and found a light switch on the wall. The hallway was strewn with office
furniture. He began searching room to room. The first two were filled with somnolent
get-guards stretched out on mattresses and futons, but Franco was not among
them. He looked down the hall and saw a form stretched out before a doorway.
Could be a dead victim, but if it was a get-guard . . .

 
          
It
was. That could only mean Franco was inside. Joe picked up the pistol and
machete at the guard's side and tossed them down the hall. Then he tried the
door. Locked. He reared back and kicked it in.

 
          
There,
in the center of the otherwise empty room with boarded-up windows, a
four-poster bed sat like a ship becalmed on a still dark sea.

 
          
And
in that bed .. . Joe recognized the big blond hair and mustache, the sharp
angle of the nose. A burst of fury like nothing he'd ever experience took hold
of him. He wanted to run down the hallway, find that machete, and start hacking
away at this worthless cluster of cells. But no killing blows. Just slicing off
small pieces, one at a time . . .

 
          
Joe
shook it off. These dark impulses were getting stronger. Had to stick to the
plan.

 
          
"Franco!"
he shouted as he stepped over the get-guard. "Franco, I've got something
to show you!"

 
          
Franco
lay on his back in gray silk suit pants and a glossy white, loose-sleeved shirt
that reminded Joe of a woman's blouse. Slowly he pivoted his head toward Joe.
His eyes widened in surprise as his lips formed the word, Who?

 
          
"We'll
get to that in a minute."

 
          
He
lifted the big vampire onto his shoulder, something that would have been a
back-wrenching task a week ago; but now, with his semi-undead strength, he
found it easy. Franco struggled but his movements were weak, futile. The
get-guard at the door clutched at him as he passed but didn't have a prayer of
restraining him.

 
          
Joe
moved down the hall, kicking in each door he passed, shouting, "Hey! I've
got your daddy and I'm going to send him to his final reward. Try and stop
me!"

 
          
Back
in the stairwell he started up the flight to the Observation Deck but stopped
halfway. He put Franco down and let him slump on the concrete steps.

 
          
"Who
are you?" Franco rasped.

 
          
"Am
I that easy to forget?" Joe said. "It was only a week ago—a week ago
today, as a matter of fact."

 
          
He
heard something scrape against the concrete under Franco. He flipped him over
and saw the leathery tips of his wings struggling to emerge through the slits
in his shirt. Joe pulled off his backpack and unzipped it. Rays of bright white
light shot from the opening.