F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (2 page)

 
          
It
was good to know they could be killed.

 
          
"We
did." She finally released her grip on the branch but her gaze remained
locked on the creature. "If you have a soul," she said, "may God
have mercy on it."

 
          
What
was this? Like a harpy, she screeches, then she blesses the thing. A madwoman,
this was.

 
          
She
faced him. "I'm sorry for my outburst. I... it's just..." She seemed
to lose her train of thought, as if something had distracted her. "Anyway,
thank you for the help."

 
          
"You
saved my life, young lady. It's me who should be thanking."

 
          
She
was staring at him. "You're Rabbi Wolpin, aren't you."

 
          
Shock
stole his voice for a few heartbeats. She knew him?

 
          
"Why
... yes. But I don't recognize ..."

 
          
She
laughed. A bitter sound. "Please, God, I hope not."

 
          
He
could see her now. Nothing familiar about her features, no particular style to
her short dark hair. He noticed a tiny crescent scar on the right side of her
chin. Heavy on the eye makeup—very heavy. A tight red sweater and even tighter
short black skirt hid little of her slim body. And were those fishnet
stockings?

 
          
A
prostitute? In these times? Such a thing he never would have dreamed. But then
he remembered hearing of women selling themselves to get food and favors.

 
          
"So,
you know me how?"

 
          
She
shrugged. "I used to see you with Father Cahill."

 
          
"Joe
Cahill," Zev said, feeling a burst of warmth at the mention of his
friend's name. "I was just over at his church. I saw ..." The words
choked off.

 
          
"I
know. I've—" She waved her hand before her face. "She's starting to
stink already. Must be an older one."

 
          
Zev
looked down and saw that the creature was already in an advanced state of rot.

 
          
"We'd
better get out of here," the woman said, backing away. "They seem to
know when one of their kind dies. Get your bike and meet me by the tree."

 
          
Zev
continued to stare at the corpse. "Are they always so hard to kill?"

 
          
"I
don't think the branch went all the way through the heart at first."

 
          
"Nu?
You've done this before?"

 
          
Her
expression was bleak as she looked at him. "Let's not talk about it."

 
          
When
Zev wheeled his bike back to the tree he found her standing beside a child's
red wagon, an old-fashioned Radio Flyer. A book bag emblazoned with St.
Anthony's School lay in the wagon. He hadn't noticed either earlier. She must
have had them hidden among the branches.

 
          
She
said, "You mentioned you were at St. Anthony's. Why?"

 
          
"To
see if what I'd heard was true." The urge to retch gripped Zev again.
"To think that was Father Cahill's church."

 
          
"He
wasn't the pastor."

 
          
"Not
in name, maybe, but they were his flock. He was the glue that held them
together. Someone should tell him what's going on."

 
          
"Oh,
yes. That would be wonderful. But nobody knows where he is, or if he's even
alive." I do.

 
          
Her
hand shot out and gripped his arm, squeezing. "He's alive?"

 
          
"Yes,"
Zev said, taken aback by her intensity. "At least I think so."

 
          
Her
grip tightened. "Where?"

 
          
He
wondered if he'd made a mistake telling her. He tried not to sound evasive.
"A retreat house. Have I been there? No. But it's near the beach, I'm
told."

 
          
True
enough, and he knew the address. After Joe had been moved out of St. Anthony's
rectory to the retreat house, he and Zev still shared many phone conversations.
At least until the creatures came. Then the phones stopped working and Zev's
time became devoted more to survival than to keeping up with old friends.

 
          
"You've
got to find him! You've got to tell him! He'll come back when he finds out and
he'll make them pay!"

 
          
"A
mensch, he is, I agree, but only one man."

 
          
"No!
Many of his parishioners are still alive, but they're afraid. They're defeated.
But if Father Joe came back, they'd have hope. They'd see that it wasn't over.
They'd regain the will to fight."

 
          
"Like
you?"

 
          
"I'm
different," she said, the fervor slipping from her voice. "I never
lost the will to fight. But my circumstances are special."

 
          
"How?"

 
          
"It's
not important. I'm not important. But Father Joe is. Find him, Rabbi Wolpin.
Don't put it off. Find him tomorrow and tell him. When he hears what they've
done to his church he'll come back and teach them a lesson they'll never
forget!"

 
          
Zev
didn't know about that, but it would be good to see his young friend again.
Searching him out would be a mitzvah for St. Anthony's, but might be good for
Zev as well. It might offer some shape to his life ... a life that had devolved
to mere existence, an endless, mind-numbing round of searching for food and
shelter while avoiding the creatures by night and the human slime who did their
bidding during the day.

 
          
All
right," Zev said. "I'll try to find him. I won't promise to bring him
back, because such a decision will not be mine to make. But I promise to look
for him."

 
          
"Tomorrow?"

 
          
"First
light. And who should I say sent me?"

 
          
The
woman turned away and shook her head. "No one."

 
          
"You
won't tell me your name?"

 
          
"It's
not important."

 
          
"But
you seem to know him."

 
          
"Once,
yes." Her voice grew thick. "But he wouldn't recognize me now."

 
          
"You
can be so sure?"

 
          
She
nodded. "I've fallen too far away. There's no coming back for me, I'm
afraid."

 
          
She'd
been through something terrible, this one. So had everyone who was still alive,
including Zev, but her experience, whatever it was, had made her a little
meshugeh. More than a little, maybe.

 
          
She
started walking away, looking almost silly dragging that little red wagon
behind her.

 
          
"Wait..."

 
          
"Just
find him," she said without turning. "And don't mention me."

 
          
She
stepped into the shadows and was gone from sight, with only the squeaks of the
wagon wheels as proof that she hadn't evaporated.

 
          
Father
Joe Cahill and a prostitute? Zev couldn't believe it. But even if it were true,
it was far less serious than what Joe had been accused of.

 
          
Maybe
she hadn't sold herself in the old days. Maybe it was something she had to do
to survive in these new and terrible times. Whatever the truth, he blessed her
for being here to help him tonight.

 
          
But
who is she? he wondered. Or perhaps more important, who was she.

 
          
CAROLE
. . .

 
          
Carole
hid the red wagon behind the bushes along the side of the house, then climbed
the rickety stairs to the front porch, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
That was when the voice spoke. It had been silent the whole long walk home. Now
it started in again.

 
          
sweet home. Is that what you're after thinking now, Carole? And don't be
thinking that the good deed you did tonight will be offsetting the mortal sins
you committed earlier this evening. It won't. Not by a long shot!>

 
          
"Quiet,"
Carole muttered. "I need to listen."

 
          
She'd
been in this house two weeks now, and she'd made it as secure as possible. As
secure as anything could be since her world ended last month.

 
          
Last
month? Yes... six weeks this coming Friday. It seemed a lifetime ago. She never
would have believed everything could fall apart so fast. But it had.

 
          
Despite
her security measures, she held her breath, listening for the sound of someone—or
something—else in the house besides her. She heard nothing but the breeze
stirring the curtains in the upstairs bedroom. It had been warm when she'd left
but the night had grown chilly. May was such an untrustworthy month.

 
          
She
fished the flashlight out of her shoulder bag and turned it on, then off again—just
long enough to orient herself. She wasn't worried about the light being seen
from outside—the blankets draped over the windows would prevent that. She
wanted to save her batteries, a rare and precious commodity. When she reached
the stairs she flicked the light on again so she could step over the broken
first tread. She noticed little splatters of blood on the banister and newel
post. She'd clean them up in the morning, when she could use natural light.

 
          
When
she reached the bedroom she closed the window and quickly undressed.

 
          
and you may be able to remove those whore clothes, Carole, but you can't remove
the stain of what you did in them>

 
          
Carole
had no illusions about that. She pulled on a baggy gray sweatsuit and slipped
beneath the covers, praying the voice would let her sleep tonight. The night's
labors had exhausted her.

 
          
She
thought of Rabbi Wolpin, and that made her think of Father Cahill, and that led
to thoughts of St. Anthony's and the school where she'd taught, and the convent
where she'd lived...

 
          
She
thought of her last nights there, less than six weeks ago, just days before
Easter, when everything had been so different...

 
          
GOOD
FRIDAY ...

 
          
The
Holy Father says there are no such things as vampires," Sister Bernadette
Gileen said.

 
          
Sister
Carole Hanarty glanced up from the pile of chemistry tests on her lap—tests she
might never be able to return to her sophomore students—and watched Bernadette
as she drove through town, working the shift on the old Datsun like a long-haul
trucker. Her dear friend and fellow Sister of Mercy was thin, almost painfully
so, with large blue eyes and short red hair showing around the white band of
her wimple. As she peered through the windshield, the glow of the setting sun
ruddied the clear, smooth skin of her round face.