F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (14 page)

 
          
"Hey,
Reb!" he said, kneeling beside the older man. "You all right?"

 
          
"Yes,"
Zev said, struggling to his feet. "Thanks to you."

 
          
Joe
slumped onto a crate, momentarily weak as his rage dissipated. This is not what
I'm about, he thought. But it had felt so damn good to let loose on that
vampire. Almost too good.

 
          
I'm
falling apart. . . like everything else in the world.

 
          
"That
was too close," Joe said, giving the older man's shoulder a fond squeeze.

 
          
"For
that vampire, too close for sure." Zev replaced his yarmulke. "And
would you please remind me, Father Joe, that in the future if ever I should
maybe get my blood sucked and become undead that I should stay far away from
you."

 
          
Joe
laughed for the first time in too long. It felt good.

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
They
climbed out of Morton's basement shortly after dawn. Joe carried an unopened
bottle of Scotch—for later. He stretched his cramped muscles and shielded his
eyes from the rising sun. The bright light sent stabs of pain through his brain.

 
          
"Oy,"
Zev said as he pulled his hidden bicycle from behind the dumpster. "Look
what he did."

 
          
Joe
inspected the bike. The front wheel had been bent so far out of shape that half
the spokes were broken.

 
          
"Beyond
fixing, Zev."

 
          
"Looks
like I'll be walking back to
Lakewood
."

 
          
Joe
looked around, searching the ground. "Where'd our visitor go?"

 
          
He
knew it couldn't have got far. He followed drag marks in the sandy dirt around
to the far side of the dumpster, and there it was—or rather what was left of it:
a rotting, twisted corpse, blackened to a crisp and steaming in the morning
sunlight. The silver crucifix still protruded from between its teeth.

 
          
"Three
ways we know to kill them," Zev said. "A stake through the heart,
decapitation, or exposing them to sunlight. I believe Father Cahill has just
found a fourth."

 
          
Joe
approached and gingerly yanked his cross free of the foul remains.

 
          
"Looks
like you've sucked your last pint of blood," he said and immediately felt
foolish.

 
          
Who
was he putting on the macho act for? Zev certainly wasn't going to buy it. Too
out of character. But then, what was his character these days? He used to be a
parish priest. Now he was a nothing. A less than nothing.

 
          
He
straightened and turned to Zev.

 
          
"Come
on back to the retreat house, Reb. I'll buy you breakfast."

 
          
But
as Joe turned and began walking away, Zev stayed and stared down at the corpse.

 
          
"They
say most of them don't wander far from where they spent their lives," Zev
said. "Which means it's unlikely this fellow was Jewish if he lived around
here. Probably Catholic. Irish Catholic, I'd imagine."

 
          
Joe
stopped and turned. He stared at his long shadow. The hazy rising sun at his
back cast a huge hulking shape before him, with a dark cross in one shadow hand
and a smudge of amber light where it poured through the bottle of Scotch in the
other.

 
          
"What
are you getting at?" he said.

 
          
"The
Kaddish would probably not be so appropriate so I'm just wondering if someone
should maybe give him the last rites or whatever it is you people do when one
of you dies."

 
          
"He
wasn't one of us," Joe said, feeling the bitterness rise in him. "He
wasn't even human."

 
          
"Ah,
but he used to be before he was killed and became one of them. So maybe now he
could use a little help."

 
          
Joe
didn't like the way this was going. He sensed he was being maneuvered.

 
          
"He
doesn't deserve it," he said and knew in that instant he'd been trapped.

 
          
"I
thought even the worst sinner deserved it," Zev said.

 
          
Joe
knew when he was beaten. Zev was right. He shoved the cross and bot-de into
Zev's hands—a bit roughly, perhaps—then went and knelt by the twisted cadaver.
He administered a form of the final sacrament. When he was through he returned
to Zev and snatched back his belongings.

 
          
"You're
a better man than I am, Gunga Din," he said as he passed.

 
          
"You
act as if they're responsible for what they do after they become undead,"
Zev said hurrying along beside him, panting as he matched Joe's pace.

 
          
"Aren't
they?"

 
          
"No."

 
          
"You're
sure of that?"

 
          
"Well,
not exactly. But they certainly aren't human anymore, so maybe we shouldn't
hold them accountable on human terms."

 
          
Zev's
reasoning tone flashed Joe back to the conversations they used to have in
Horovitz's deli.

 
          
"But
Zev, we know there's some of the old personality left. I mean, they stay in
their home towns, usually in the basements of their old houses. They go after
people they knew when they were alive. They're not just dumb predators, Zev.
They've got the old consciousness they had when they were alive. Why can't they
rise above it? Why can't they ... resist?"

 
          
"I
don't know. I've never had the opportunity to sit down with one and discuss it.
Maybe they can't resist. To tell the truth, the question has never occurred to
me. A fascinating concept: an undead refusing to feed. Leave it to Father Joe
to come up with something like that. We should discuss this on the trip back to
Lakewood
."

 
          
Joe
had to smile. So that was what this was all about.

 
          
"I'm
not going back to
Lakewood
."

 
          
"Fine.
Then we'll discuss this now. Maybe the urge to feed is too strong to
overcome."

 
          
"Maybe.
And maybe they just don't try hard enough."

 
          
"This
is a hard line you're taking, my friend."

 
          
"Maybe
I'm a hard-line kind of guy."

 
          
"You
didn't used to be, but it seems you've become one."

 
          
Joe
felt a flash of unreasoning anger and gave him a sharp look. "You don't
know what I've become."

 
          
Zev
shrugged. "Maybe true, maybe not. But did you see the face of the one that
attacked me? I'm sure he didn't look like that before he was turned. They seem
to change, at least some of them, on the outside. Maybe on the inside they
change too."

 
          
"If
they acted like mindless beasts, I'd agree. But they're intelligent, they can
reason. That means they can choose."

 
          
"Do
you truly think you'd be able to resist?"

 
          
"Damn
straight."

 
          
Joe
wasn't sure why he said it, didn't even know if he meant it. Maybe he was
mentally preparing himself for the day when he might find himself in that
situation.

 
          
After
walking a block or so in silence, Joe said, "What I don't get is how these
undead get away with breaking all the rules."

 
          
"Meaning
what? Laws?"

 
          
"Not
civil laws—the laws of physics and chemistry and God knows what else. I've
never had a problem reconciling science and belief. God designed creation to
run by certain rules; science is merely man's attempt to use his God-given
intelligence to understand those rules."

 
          
"So
you don't take Genesis literally."

 
          
"Of
course not. It's not natural science. It was never meant to be. The Bible is
the story of a people and their relationship with their God."

 
          
"A
God who seems very far away lately."

 
          
Joe
sighed at the truth of that. He'd felt abandoned for some time now. The air
cooled as they neared the ocean, the briny on-shore breeze carrying the eternal
rumble of the breakers and the calls of the seagulls as they wheeled over the
jetties. Some things, at least, hadn't changed.

 
          
"It
seems the undead are exempt from the rules God laid down for creation. The
flying ones, for instance. You said you were attacked by one the other night.
I've seen one or two gliding around on a moonlit night. How do you explain
them? I'm no expert on aerodynamics, but those wings shouldn't be able to
support them, yet they do. And where do the wings go when they're not using
them?"

 
          
Zev
shrugged. "These are questions I can't answer."

 
          
"Here's
another. I was around when a gang of locals chased one down. He'd ripped up a
woman's throat but he didn't get away fast enough. They blinded him with holy
water, held him down with crosses, and drove a stake through his heart. Then
they cut off his head."

 
          
"The
traditional method, as opposed to the new Cahill method. And of course he was
dead then. Truly dead."

 
          
"Right.
But he didn't bleed."

 
          
"So?"

 
          
"If
he doesn't have blood to feed his muscles, how do they move?"

 
          
"A
mystery."

 
          
"It's
as if the laws of our world have been suspended where the undead are
concerned."

 
          
"Suspended
by whom? Or what?"

 
          
"There's
a question I'd like answered."

 
          
"All
very interesting," Zev said as they climbed the front steps of the retreat
house. "Well, I'd better be going. A long walk I've got ahead of me. A
long, lonely walk all the way back to
Lakewood
. A long, lonely, possibly dangerous walk
back for a poor old man who—"

 
          
"All
right, Zev! All right!" Joe said, biting back a laugh. "I get the
point. You want me to go back to
Lakewood
. Why? What's it going to prove?"

 
          
"I
just want the company," Zev said with pure innocence.

 
          
"No,
really. What's going on in that Talmudic mind of yours? What are you
cooking?"

 
          
"Nothing,
Father Joe. Nothing at all."

 
          
Joe
stared at him. Damn it all, his interest was piqued. What was Zev up to? And
what the hell—why not go? He had nothing better to do.

 
          
"All
right, Zev. You win. I'll come back to
Lakewood
with you. But just for today. Just to keep
you company. And I'm not going anywhere near St. Anthony's, okay?
Understood?"

 
          
"Understood,
Joe. Perfectly understood."

 
          
"I'm
not getting involved with my old parish again, is that clear?"

 
          
"That
such a thing should ever enter my mind. Feh!"

 
          
"Good.
Now wipe that smile off your face and we'll get something to eat."