F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (19 page)

 
          
Jesus,
Mary, and Joseph, the poor thing was pregnant!

 
          
Sister
Carole suddenly felt as if something were tearing apart within her chest. Was
there no justice, was there no mercy anywhere?

 
          
She
dropped to her knees and began to pray for her, but in the back of her mind she
wondered why she bothered. None of her prayers had been answered so far.

 
          
Carole! That's SACRILEGE! Now tell me why you'd be thinking the Lord would
answer the prayers of such a SINNER? I know you were taught that he does, but
believe me you, he doesn't!>

 
          
Maybe
not, Carole thought. But if He'd answered somebody's prayers somewhere along
the line, maybe she wouldn't have been forced to turn the Bennett's kitchen
into an anarchist's laboratory.

 
          
The
Lord helped those who helped themselves, didn't He? Especially when they were
doing the Lord's work.

 
          
COWBOYS
. . .

 
          
"Please
leave me alone," the blonde whimpered, pushing Kenny's hand away as he
tried to unbutton her top. She'd been nothing but a blubbering basket case
since Al had put her kid in the trunk. "I want my little boy. Please let
him out. Please!"

 
          
Al
was sitting shotgun while Stan drove. Her whining was getting on Al's nerves.
And so was Kenny. He turned around and checked out the back seat. Jackie was
slumped on the driver side, holding an old sweatshirt against the side of her
head. The bleeding had stopped but she looked pale and sick. The pregnant cow
had the middle seat, and Kenny was nuzzling up against her from the other side.

 
          
Al
said, "I still can't believe you got kayo'd by a girl."

 
          
Kenny
kept his eyes on the cow. "I told you, man, she suckered me. I was slippin
up on her, real casual like, gettin ready to make my move, and she's lookin
like she's fallin for it when she punts me."

 
          
Kenny
had been in sad shape for about ten or fifteen minutes, but he'd snapped back.
He walked a little funny but the kick hadn't seemed to take the steam out of
his usual horniness.

 
          
Jackie
was another story. She'd puked once on the boardwalk, and another time in the
parking lot. Al hoped she didn't puke up the car. You just didn't find a
Cadillac convertible every day.

 
          
The
cow started wailing about her kid again. "Please let my little boy out of
the trunk! He'll suffocate!"

 
          
"Look!"
Stan shouted, speaking for the first time since they'd left Point— he'd been
real pissed at Kenny and Jackie for losing a girl. "I'll get your brat
outta the trunk, all right. I'll tie a rope around his feet and drag him back
to
Lakewood
if you don't shut up!"

 
          
She
sobbed but didn't say anything more.

 
          
Al
remembered the little kid lookin up at him as he shoved him into the trunk.
"Don't let them hurt my mommy," he'd said. Kinda reminded Al of his
little brother when they were kids. Never could stand his little brother.

 
          
Kenny
started toyin with the cow again. "C'mon. Show ol' Kenny those pretty
pregnant titties."

 
          
"Ease
up, Kenny."

 
          
Kenny
didn't look at him. "Mind your own fucking business, Al."

 
          
Stan
looked at Al and jerked his head toward the back seat. "Straighten out
your friend, will ya?"

 
          
Al
grabbed Kenny's arm. "Lay off her, man."

 
          
Kenny
slammed his hand away. "Yeah? What for? To save her for you?
Bullshit!"

 
          
Kenny
could be a real asshole at times.

 
          
"We're
not saving her for me," Al said. "For Gregor. You remember Gre-gor,
don't you, Kenny?"

 
          
Some
of Kenny's tough-guy act faded.

 
          
"Course
I do," he said. "But I don't wanna suck her blood, man." He
jammed his hand down between the cow's legs. "I got other things in mind.
It's been a long time, man—a long time—and I gotta—"

 
          
"What
if you screw up the baby?" Al said. "What if she starts having the
baby and it's born dead? All because of you? What're you gonna tell Gregor
then, Kenny? How you gonna explain that to him?"

 
          
"Who
says he has to know?"

 
          
"You
think he won't find out?" Al said. "I tell you what, Kenny. You wanna
to get your jollies with this broad, fine. Go ahead. But if that's what you're
gonna do, we're droppin you and her here—right here—and drivin away. Am I
right, Stan?"

 
          
Stan
nodded. "Fuckin ay."

 
          
"And
then you can explain any problems to Gregor yourself tonight when we meet.
Okay?"

 
          
"Gregor-Gregor-Gregor!
Let up, huh? You just about piss your pants every time we get near him. He
ain't so tough. Gimme a stake and a hammer and show me where he snoozes and
I'll show you how tough he is. Fuckin leech is what he is. Stake him through
his heart, cut off his head, and then we won't have to worry bout no more
fuckin shit from Gregor. Do it to alia them. Show'em all."

 
          
"Yeah?"
Stan said, smilin but lookin straight ahead. "Then what?

 
          
"Then
we'll be fuckin heroes, man."

 
          
"Heroes
to who? These Saab-drivin, gel-haired, sprout-chewin faggots hiding behind
their crosses and garlic? You wanna be heroes to them, go ahead. But what
happens when word of what you done gets out to the other bloodsuckers and they
come a-knockin? What then? You know how many of them there is out there, man?
Zillions. They'll come back with a truckload of those ferals and rip us all to
shreds. That what you want, asshole?"

 
          
Sounded
to Al like Stan had already given Kenny's idea some thought and had shit-canned
it.

 
          
Kenny
said, "Hey, no, but—"

 
          
"Then
shut the fuck up. And leave the cow alone."

 
          
Kenny
pulled his hand away from the blonde and sat on it.

 
          
"Jesus,
guys. It's been a long time. I need some."

 
          
"Hey,
I need some too," Al told him. "But I ain't ready yet to get killed
for a little pregnant poontang, know what I mean?"

 
          
Stan
said, "Look at it this way. We gotta take some shit now and then, but you
know anybody else got it better? We hold the fort, man. We hold the fort for
them till we get to join up." He grinned. "Then we'll have assholes
holding the fort for us."

 
          
Stan
seemed to think that was real funny. He laughed about the rest of the way into
Lakewood.

 
          
CAROLE
. . .

 
          
Sister
Carole finished her prayers at sundown and went to check on the cooled filtrate.
The bottom of the pan was layered with potassium chlorate crystals. Potent
stuff. The Germans had used it in their grenades and land mines during World
War One.

 
          
She
got a clean Mr. Coffee filter and poured the contents of the pan through it,
but this time she saved the residue in the filter and let the liquid go down
the drain.

 
          
after what you're doing now, Carole! You're a sick woman! SICK! You've got to
be stopping this and praying to God for guidance! Pray, Carole! PRAY!>

 
          
Sister
Carole ignored the voice and spread out the crystals in the now-empty pan. She
set the oven on LOW and placed the pan on the middle rack. She had to get all
the moisture out of the potassium chlorate before it would be of any use to
her.

 
          
So
much trouble, and so dangerous. If only her searches had yielded some dynamite,
even a few sticks, everything would have been so much easier. She'd searched
everywhere—hunting shops, gun stores, construction sites. She'd found lots of
other useful items, but no dynamite. Only some blasting caps. She no choice but
to improvise.

 
          
This
was her third batch. She'd been lucky so far. She hoped she survived long
enough to get a chance to use it.

 
          
GREGOR
. . .

 
          
"You've
outdone yourselves this time, boys."

 
          
Gregor
stared at the three cowboys. Ordinarily he found it doubly difficult to be near
them. Not simply because the crimson thirst made a perpetual test of proximity
to a living font of hot, pulsing sustenance when he'd yet to feed, urging him
to let loose and tear into their throats; but also because these four were so
common, such low-lifes.

 
          
Gregor
couldn't wait until he was moved up and would no longer be forced to deal
directly with flotsam such as these. Living collaborators were a necessary
evil, but that didn't mean he had to like them.

 
          
Tonight,
however, he could almost say that he enjoyed their presence. He'd been unhappy
about the news of a fifth slain cowboy, but was ecstatic with the prizes they
had brought with them.

 
          
He
had shown up shortly after sundown at the customary meeting place outside St.
Anthony's church. Of course, it didn't look much like a church now, what with
all the crosses broken off. He'd found the scurvy trio waiting for him as
usual, but they had with them a small boy and—dare he believe his eyes—a
pregnant woman. His knees had gone weak at the double throb of life within her.

 
          
"Where's
your companion?" he asked. "The woman?"

 
          
"Jackie's
not feeling so hot so we left her home," said the one in the cowboy hat.

 
          
What
was his name? So many of these roaches to keep track of. This one was called
Stan. Yes, that was it.

 
          
"Well,
I'm extremely proud of all of you."

 
          
"We
thought you'd appreciate it," Stan said.

 
          
Gregor
felt his grin grow even wider.

 
          
"Oh,
I do. Not just for the succulence of the prizes you've delivered, but because
you've vindicated my faith in you. I knew the minute I saw you that you'd make
a good posse leader."

 
          
An
outright lie. But it cost him nothing to heap the praise on Stan, and perhaps
it would spur him to do as well next time. Maybe better. Although what could be
better than this?

 
          
"Anything
for the cause," the redheaded one said.