F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (21 page)

 
          
"On
second thought," Zev whispered as they crouched in the deep shadows on St.
Anthony's western flank, "maybe you shouldn't see this."

 
          
Puzzled,
Joe squinted at him in the darkness.

 
          
"You
lay a guilt trip on me to get me here, you make a hole in my ear, and now
you're having second thoughts?"

 
          
"It
is horrible like I can't tell you."

 
          
Joe
thought about that. Certainly there was enough horror in the world outside St.
Anthony's. What purpose did it serve to see what was going inside?

 
          
Because
it used to be my church.

 
          
Even
though he'd been an associate pastor, never fully in charge, and even though
he'd been unceremoniously yanked from the post, St. Anthony's had been his
first parish. He was back. He might as well know what they were doing inside.

 
          
"Show
me."

 
          
Zev
led him to a pile of rubble under a smashed stained glass window. He pointed up
to where faint light flickered from inside.

 
          
"Look
in there."

 
          
"You're
not coming?"

 
          
"Once
was enough, thank you."

 
          
Joe
climbed as carefully, as quietly as he could, all the while becoming
increasingly aware of a growing stench like putrid, rotting meat. It was coming
from inside, wafting through the broken window. Steeling himself, he
straightened and peered over the sill.

 
          
For
a moment he felt disoriented, like someone peering out the window of a Brooklyn
apartment and seeing the rolling hills of a Kansas farm. This could not be the
interior of St. Anthony's.

 
          
In
the flickering light of dozens of sacramental candles he saw that the walls
were bare, stripped of all their ornaments, including the plaques for the
Stations of the Cross; the dark wood was scarred and gouged wherever there had
been anything remotely resembling a cross. The floor too was mostly bare, the pews
ripped from their neat rows and hacked to pieces, their splintered remains
piled high at the rear under the choir balcony.

 
          
And
the giant crucifix that had dominated the space behind the altar— only a
portion remained. The cross pieces on each side had been sawed off so that an
armless, life-size Christ now hung upside down against the rear wall of the
sanctuary.

 
          
Joe
took in all that in a flash; then his attention gravitated to the unholy
congregation that peopled St. Anthony's this night. The collaborators—the Vichy
humans—made up the periphery of the group. Some looked like bikers and
trailer-park white trash, but others looked like normal, everyday people. What
bonded them was the crescent-moon earring dangling from every right earlobe.

 
          
But
the rest, the group gathered in the sanctuary—Joe felt his hackles rise at the
sight of them. They surrounded the altar in a tight knot. He recognized some of
them: Mayor Davis, Reverend Dalton, and others, their pale, bestial faces,
bereft of the slightest trace of human warmth, compassion, or decency, turned
upward. His gorge rose when he saw the object of their rapt attention.

 
          
A
naked teenage boy—his hands tied behind his back, was suspended over the altar
by his ankles. He was sobbing and choking, his eyes wide and vacant with shock,
his mind all but gone. The skin had been flayed from his forehead—apparently
the Vichy had found an expedient solution to the cross tattoo—and blood ran in
a slow stream across his abdomen and chest from his freshly truncated genitals.
And beside him, standing atop the altar, a bloody-mouthed creature dressed in a
long cassock. Joe recognized the thin shoulders, the graying hair trailing from
the balding crown, but was shocked at the crimson vulpine grin he flashed to
the things clustered below him.

 
          
"Now,"
said the creature in a lightly accented voice Joe had heard a thousand times
from St. Anthony's pulpit.

 
          
Father
Alberto Palmeri.

 
          
From
the group a hand reached up with a straight razor and drew it across the boy's
throat. As the blood sprang from the vessels and flowed down over his face,
those below squeezed and struggled forward like hatchling vultures to catch the
falling drops and scarlet trickles in their open mouths.

 
          
Joe
fell away from the window and vomited. He felt Zev grab his arm and lead him
away. He was vaguely aware of crossing the street and heading back toward the
ruined legal office.

 
          
ZEV
. . .

 
          
"Why
in God's name did you want me to see that?"

 
          
Zev
looked across the office toward the source of the words. He could make out a
vague outline where Father Joe sat on the floor, his back against the wall, the
open bottle of Scotch in his hand. The priest had taken one drink since their
return, no more.

 
          
"I
thought you should know what they were doing to your church." He felt bad
about the immediate effect on Joe, but he was hoping the long-term consequences
would benefit him and others.

 
          
"So
you've said. But what's the reason behind that one?"

 
          
Zev
shrugged in the darkness. "I'd gathered you weren't doing well, that even
before everything else began falling apart, you had already fallen apart. So
when this woman who saved me urged me to find you, I took up the quest and came
to see you. Just as I expected, I found a man who was angry at everything and
letting it eat up his guderim. I thought maybe it would be good to give that
man something very specific to be angry at."

 
          
"You
bastard!" Father Joe whispered. "Who gave you the right?"

 
          
"Friendship
gave me the right, Joe. I should know that you are rotting away and do nothing?
I have no congregation of my own anymore so I turned my attention on you.
Always I was a somewhat meddlesome rabbi."

 
          
"Still
are. Out to save my soul, ay?"

 
          
"We
rabbis don't save souls. Guide them maybe, hopefully give them direction. But
only you can save your soul, Joe."

 
          
Silence
hung in the air for a while. Suddenly the crescent-moon earring Zev had given
Father Joe landed in the puddle of moonlight on the floor between them. He
noticed a speck of crimson on the post.

 
          
"Why
do they do it?" the priest said. "The Vichy—why do they
collaborate?"

 
          
"The
first ones are quite unwilling, believe me. They cooperate because their wives
and children are held hostage by the undead. But before too long the dregs of
humanity begin to slither out from under their rocks and offer their services
in exchange for the immortality of vampirism."

 
          
"Why
bother working for them? Why not just bare your throat to the nearest
bloodsucker?"

 
          
"That's
what I thought at first," Zev said. "But as I witnessed the Lakewood
holocaust I detected their pattern. After the immediate onslaught—and the
burning of the bodies of their first victims—they change tactics. They can
choose who joins their ranks, so after they've fully infiltrated a population,
they start to employ a different style of killing. For only when the undead
draws the life's blood from the throat with its fangs does the victim become
one of them. Anyone drained as in the manner of that boy in the church tonight
dies a true death. He's as dead now as someone run over by a truck. He will not
rise tomorrow night."

 
          
"So
the Vichy work for them for the opportunity of getting their blood sucked the
old-fashioned way."

 
          
"And
joining the undead ranks."

 
          
Zev
heard no humor in the soft laugh that echoed across the room from Father Joe.

 
          
"Great.
Just great. I never cease to be amazed at our fellow human beings. Their
capacity for good is exceeded only by their ability to debase themselves."

 
          
"Hopelessness
does strange things, Joe. The undead know that. So they rob us of hope. That's
how they beat us. They transform our friends and neighbors and leaders into
their own, leaving us feeling alone, completely cut off. Some can't take the
despair and kill themselves."

 
          
"Hopelessness,"
Joe said. "A potent weapon."

 
          
After
a long silence, Zev said, "So what are you going to do now, Father
Joe?"

 
          
Another
bitter laugh from across the room.

 
          
"I
suppose this is the place where I declare that I've found new purpose in life
and will now go forth into the world as a fearless vampire killer."

 
          
"Such
a thing would be nice."

 
          
"Well
screw that. I'm only going as far as across the street."

 
          
"To
St. Anthony's?"

 
          
Zev
saw Father Joe take a swig from the Scotch bottle and then screw the cap on
tight.

 
          
"Yeah.
To see if there's anything I can do over there."

 
          
"Father
Palmeri and his nest might not like that."

 
          
"I
told you, don't call him Father. And screw him. Nobody can do what he's done
and get away with it. I'm taking my church back."

 
          
In
the dark, behind his beard, Zev smiled.

 
          
COWBOYS
. . .

 
          
Al
had the car out on his own. He wasn't supposed to, gas being hard to come by
and all, but he needed to be alone, or at least away from Kenny. Yeah, sure,
they'd been friends forever but they'd never been together 24-7. Usually the
four of them played cards and did some drinking before turning in. But Jackie
was out of commission and Stan was still pissed and wasn't playing cards with
nobody, so that left Al with just Kenny.

 
          
They
all lived together in one of the big mansions off Hope Road. Stan liked to brag
that one of the Mets used to live there. Big deal. The place had all the
comforts of home: electricity from a generator, videotapes and DVDs—with a good
selection of porn—and a fridge full of beer. But sometimes Kenny could wear you
out, man. Big time. Like tonight.

 
          
Al
was feeling better already, banging his head in time to Insane Clown Posse's
"Cemetery Girl" as he cruised the dark streets.

 
          
He
looked up. Clouds hid the moon. He wished it was out and full. Amazing how dark
a residential street could be when there was no traffic, no street lights. At
least he had his headlights and—

 
          
Whoa.
He hit the brakes. He'd just passed someone on the sidewalk. Someone female
looking. And not too old.

 
          
He
quick took off his earring and flipped the Caddy into reverse. He kept the
earring palmed, ready to flash it if the lady turned out to be one of the
bloodsuckers, but otherwise keeping it out of sight just in case this was
somebody looking for a new cowboy to kill.