F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (16 page)

 
          
He
remembered his recent look onto the playing field. At first he hadn't been sure
what he was seeing: a huge pile of blackened debris occupying most of the
diamond and spreading into the outfield. Then he'd started picking out limbs and
torsos, and there, piled high where home plate used to be . .. skulls.
Innumerable skulls.

 
          
Joe
stared at the charred, rotting mounds for maybe ten seconds, then closed his
eyes and swallowed.

 
          
"What
in the name of God .. . ?"

 
          
"Hardly
in the name of God," Zev said. "On those first few nights of the
invasion they committed wholesale slaughter. They loosed a horde of bestial
creatures—undead, yes, but only vaguely human—who beheaded their prey after
drinking their blood. A way to keep down the undead population, I assume. It
makes sense that they wouldn't want too many of their kind concentrated in one
area. Like too many carnivores in one forest—when the herds of prey are wiped
out, the predators starve. And just to make sure none of those early victims
would be rising from the grave, they brought their bodies and their heads here,
soaked them with kerosene, and struck a match."

 
          
"Jesus".

 
          
"Him
I doubt had much to do with it either. They fed the fire for days, the smoke
dirtied the sky. And when the wind blew the wrong way—oy. Even now ..." He
sniffed the air. "Luckily we're upwind."

 
          
"But
they were also killing off their future food supply."

 
          
"Enough
of us they left to hunt down and feed on, but far too few to offer resistance
of any consequence."

 
          
They
walked the rest of the way into
Lakewood
in silence. When they entered the town . .
.

           
"A real ghost town," the
priest said as they walked Forest Avenue's deserted length.

 
          
"Ghosts,"
Zev said, nodding sadly. It had been a long walk and he was tired. "Yes.
Full of ghosts."

 
          
In
his mind's eye he saw the shades of his fallen brother rabbis and all the
yeshiva students, beards, black suits, black hats, crisscrossing back and forth
at a determined pace on weekdays, strolling with their wives on Shabbes, their
children trailing behind like ducklings.

 
          
Gone.
All gone. Victims of the undead. Undead themselves now, some of them. It made
him sick at heart to think of those good, gentle men, women, and children
curled up in their basements now to avoid the light of day, venturing out in
the dark to feed on others, spreading the disease ...

 
          
He
fingered the cross slung from his neck. If only they had listened!

 
          
And
then he heard the grating sound of a heavily distorted guitar. He grabbed Joe's
arm.

 
          
"Quick.
Into the bushes!"

 
          
They
ducked behind a thick stand of rhododendrons along the foundation of the
nearest house and watched a convertible glide by. Zev counted four in the car,
three men and a blond woman, all scruffy and unwashed, lean and wolfish, in
cut-off sweatshirts or denim jackets, the driver wearing a big
Texas
hat, someone in the back with a red
Mohican, all guzzling beer. The thumping blast of their music dopplered in and
out. Thank God they liked to play it at ear-damaging levels. It acted as an
early warning system.

 
          
"Chazzers,"
Zev muttered.

 
          
When
they'd passed, Joe stepped out of the bushes and stared after them.

 
          
"Who
the hell were they?"

 
          
"Scum
of the earth. They like to call themselves cowboys. I call them
Vichy
."

 
          
"
Vichy
? Like the
Vichy
French?"

 
          
"Yes.
Very good. I'm glad to see that you're not as culturally illiterate as the rest
of your generation.
Vichy
humans—that's what I call the collaborators. They should all die of
pox." He looked around. "We should get off the street. I know a place
near St. Anthony's where we can hide."

 
          
"You've
traveled enough today, Reb. And I told you, I don't care about St. Anthony's.
I'll get you situated, then head back."

 
          
"You
can't leave yet, Joe," Zev said, gripping the young priest's arm. He'd
coaxed him this far; he couldn't let him get away now. "Stay the night.
See what Father Palmeri's done."

 
          
"If
he's one of them he's not a priest anymore. Don't call him Father."

 
          
"They
still call him Father."

 
          
"Who?"

 
          
"The
undead."

 
          
Zev
watched Father Joe's jaw muscles bunch.

 
          
Joe
said, "Maybe I'll just take a quick trip over to St. Anthony's myself—"

 
          
"No.
It's different here. The area is thick with
Vichy
and undead. They'll get you if your timing
isn't just right. I'll take you."

 
          
"You
need rest, pal."

 
          
Father
Joe's expression showed genuine concern. Zev was detecting increasingly softer
emotions in the man since their reunion last night. A good sign perhaps?

 
          
"Rest
I'll get when we reach where I'm taking you."

 
          
CAROLE
. . .

 
          
what are you doing, Carole? What are you DOING? You'll be after killing
yourself! You'll be blowing yourself to pieces and then you'll be going
straight to hell. HELL, Carole!>

 
          
"But
I won't be going alone," Carole muttered.

 
          
She
had to turn her head away from the kitchen sink now. The fumes stung her nose
and made her eyes water, but she kept on stirring the pool chlorina-tor into
the hot water until it was completely dissolved. She wasn't through yet. She
took the beaker of No Salt she'd measured out before starting the process and
added it to the mix in the big Pyrex bowl. Then she stirred some more. Finally,
when she was satisfied that she was not going to see any further dissolution at
this temperature, she put the bowl on the stove and turned up the flame.

 
          
A
propane stove. She'd seen the big white tank out back last week when she was
looking for a new home; that was why she'd chosen this old house. With New
Jersey Natural Gas in ruins, and GPU no longer sending electricity through the
wires, propane and wood stoves were the only ways left to cook.

 
          
I
really shouldn't call it cooking, she thought as she fled the acrid fumes and
headed for the living room. Nothing more than a simple dissociation reaction—heating
a mixture of calcium hypochlorate with potassium chloride. Simple, basic
chemistry. The very subject she'd taught bored juniors and seniors for years at
St. Anthony's School.

 
          
"And
you all thought chemistry was such a useless subject!" she shouted to the
walls.

 
          
She
clapped a hand over her mouth. There she was, talking out loud again. She had
to be careful. Not so much because someone might hear, but because she worried
she might be losing her mind.

 
          
Maybe
she'd already lost it. Maybe all this was merely a delusion. Maybe the undead
hadn't taken over the entire civilized world. Maybe they hadn't defiled her
church and convent, slaughtered her best friend. Maybe it was all in her mind.

 
          
and you'd he wishing it was all in your mind, Carole. Of course you would. Then
you wouldn't he sinning!>

 
          
Yes,
she truly did wish she were imagining all this. At least then she'd be the only
one suffering, and all the rest would still be alive and well, just as they'd
been before she went off the deep end.

 
          
But
if this was a delusion it was certainly an elaborate, consistent one. Every
time she woke up—she never allowed herself to sleep too many hours at once,
only catnaps—it was the same: quiet skies, vacant houses, empty streets,
furtive, scurrying survivors who trusted no one, and—

 
          
What's
that?

 
          
Sister
Carole froze as her ears picked up a sound outside. Music. She hurried in a
crouch to the front door and peered through the sidelight. A car. A
convertible. Someone was out driving in—

 
          
She
ducked when she saw who was in it. She recognized that cowboy hat. She didn't
have to see their earrings to know who—what—they were.

 
          
They
were headed east. Good. They'd find a little surprise waiting for them down the
road.

 
          
As
it did every so often, the horror of what her life had become caught up to
Carole then, and she slumped to the floor of the Bennett house and began to
sob.

 
          
Why?
Why had God allowed this to happen to her, to His Church, to His world?

 
          
Better
question: Why had she allowed these awful events to change her so? She had been
a Sister of Mercy.

 
          
Do you hear that, Carole? A Sister of MERCY!>

 
          
She
had taken vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, had vowed to devote her
life to teaching and doing the Lord's work. But now there was no money, no one
worth losing her virginity to, no Mother Superior or Church to be obedient to,
and no students left to teach.

 
          
All
she had left was the Lord's work.

 
          
me you, Carole, I'd hardly be calling the making of plastic explosive and the
other horrible things you've been doing the Lord's work. It's killing! It's a
SIN!>

 
          
Maybe
Bernadette's voice was right. Maybe she would go to hell for what she was
doing. But somebody had to make those rotten cowboys pay.

 
          
COWBOYS
. . .

 
          
"Shit!
Goddam shit!"

 
          
Stan's
raging voice and the sudden braking of the car yanked Al from the edge of a
doze. A few beers, nice warm sunlight... he'd been on his way to catching a Z
or two. He opened his eyes.

 
          
To,
what the fu—"

 
          
Then
he saw him. Or, rather, it. Dead ahead. Dead ahead. A body, hanging by its feet
from a utility pole.