F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (31 page)

 
          
St.
Anthony's parishioners were back to reclaim their church.

 
          
"Yes!"
he shouted, not sure of v/hether to laugh or cry. But when he saw the rage in
Palmeri's face, he laughed. "Too bad, Alberto!"

 
          
Palmeri
made a lunge at his throat but cringed away as a woman with an upheld crucifix
and a man with a pike charged the altar—Lacey and Carl.

 
          
"Are
you all right, Uncle Joe?" Lacey said, her eyes wide and angry. "Did
they—?"

 
          
"You
got here just in time."

 
          
She
pulled out a butterfly knife, flipped it open with one hand, and began sawing
at the rope around Joe's right wrist. She was using her left only; her right
arm didn't seem to be of much use.

 
          
"Told
ya I wouldn't let ya down, didn't I, Fadda?" Carl said, grinning.
"Didn't I?"

 
          
"That
you did, Carl. I don't think I've ever been so glad to see anyone in my entire
life. But how—?"

 
          
"We
told 'em. We run through the parish, Lacey and me, goin house to house. We told
'em Fadda Joe was in trouble at the church and we let him down before but we
shouldn't let him down again. He come back for us, now we gotta go back for
him. Simple as that. And then they started runnin house to house, and afore ya
knowed it, we had ourselfs a little army. We come to kick ass, Fadda, if you'll
excuse the expression."

 
          
"Kick
all the ass you can, Carl."

 
          
Joe
glanced around and spotted a sixtyish black woman he recognized as Lilly Green.
He saw her terror-glazed eyes as she swiveled around, looking this way and
that; he saw how the crucifix trembled in her hand. She wasn't going to kick
too much ass in her state, but she was here, God bless her, she was here for
him and for St. Anthony's despite the terror that so obviously filled her. His
heart swelled with love for these people and pride in their courage.

 
          
As
soon as his arms were free, Joe sat up and took the knife from Lacey. He sawed
at his leg ropes, looking around the church.

 
          
The
oldest and youngest members of the parishioner army were stationed at the
windows and doors where they held crosses aloft, cutting off the vampires' escape,
while all across the nave—chaos. Screams, cries, and an occasional shot echoed
through St. Anthony's. The undead and their
Vichy
were outnumbered three to one. The undead
seemed blinded and confused by all the crosses around them. Despite their superhuman
strength, it appeared that some were indeed getting their asses kicked. A
number were already writhing on the floor, impaled on pikes. As Joe watched, he
saw the middle-aged Gonzales sisters, Maria and Immaculata, crucifixes held
before them, backing a vampire into a corner. As it cowered there with its arms
across its face,

 
          
Maria's
husband Hector charged in with a sharpened rake handle held like a lance and
ran it through.

 
          
But
a number of parishioners lay in inert, bloody heaps on the floor, proof that
the undead and the
Vichy
were claiming their share of victims too.

 
          
Joe
freed his feet and hopped off the altar. He looked around for Palmeri— he
wanted Palmeri—but the undead priest had lost himself in the melee. Joe glanced
up at the balcony and saw that Zev was still hanging there, struggling to free
himself. He started across the nave to help him.

 
          
ZEV
. . .

 
          
Zev
hated that he should be hung up here like a chicken in a deli window. He tried
again to pull his upper body up far enough to reach his leg ropes but he
couldn't get close. He had never been one for exercise; doing a sit-up flat on
the floor would have been difficult, so what made him think he could do the
equivalent maneuver hanging upside down by his feet? He dropped back, exhausted,
and felt the blood rush to his head again. His vision swam, his ears pounded,
he felt as if the skin of his face might burst open. Much more of this and he'd
have a stroke or worse maybe.

 
          
He
watched the upside-down battle below and was glad to see the undead getting the
worst of it. These people—seeing Carl among them, Zev assumed they were part of
St. Anthony's parish—were ferocious, almost savage in their attacks on the
undead. All their pent-up rage and fear was being released upon their tormentors
in a single burst. It was almost frightening.

 
          
Suddenly
he felt a hand on his foot. Someone was untying his knots. Thank you, Lord.
Soon he would be on his feet again. As the cords came loose he decided he
should at least attempt to participate in his own rescue.

 
          
Once
more, Zev thought. Once more I'll try.

 
          
With
a grunt he levered himself up, straining, stretching to grasp something,
anything. A hand came out of the darkness and he reached for it. But Zev's
relief turned to horror when he felt the cold clamminess of the thing that
clutched him, that pulled him up and over the balcony rail with inhuman
strength. His bowels threatened to evacuate when Palmeri's grinning face loomed
not six inches from his own.

 
          
"It's
not over yet, Jew," he said softly, his foul breath clogging Zev's nose
and throat. "Not by a long shot!"

 
          
He
felt Palmeri's free hand ram into his belly and grip his belt at the buckle,
then the other hand grab a handful of his shirt at the neck. Before he could
struggle or cry out, he was lifted free of the floor and hoisted over the
balcony rail.

 
          
And
the dybbuk's voice was in his ear.

 
          
"Joseph
called you a friend, Jew. Let's see if he really meant it."

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
Joe
was halfway across the floor of the nave when he heard Palmeri's voice echo
above the madness.

 
          
"Stop
them, Joseph! Stop them now or I drop your friend!"

 
          
Joe
looked up and froze. Palmeri stood at the balcony rail, leaning over it, his
eyes averted from the nave and all its newly arrived crosses. At the end of his
outstretched arms was Zev, suspended in mid-air over the splintered remains of
the pews, over a particularly large and ragged spire of wood that pointed
directly at the middle of Zev's back. Zev's frightened eyes were flashing
between Joe and the giant spike below.

 
          
Around
him Joe heard the sounds of the melee drop a notch, then drop another as all
eyes were drawn to the tableau on the balcony.

 
          
"A
human can die impaled on a wooden stake just as well as a vampire!"
Palmeri cried. "And just as quickly if it goes through his heart. But it
can take hours of agony if it rips through his gut."

 
          
St.
Anthony's grew silent as the fighting stopped and each faction backed away to a
different side of the church, leaving Joe alone in the middle.

 
          
"What
do you want, Alberto?"

 
          
"First
I want all those crosses put away so that I can see!"

 
          
Joe
looked to his right where his parishioners stood.

 
          
"Put
them away," he told them. When a murmur of dissent arose, he added,
"Don't put them down, just out of sight. Please."

 
          
Slowly,
one by one at first, then in groups, the crosses and crucifixes were placed
behind backs or tucked out of sight within coats.

 
          
To
his left, the undead hissed their relief and the
Vichy
cheered. The sound was like hot needles
being forced under Joe's fingernails. Above, Palmeri turned his face to Joe and
smiled.

 
          
"That's
better."

 
          
"What
do you want?" Joe asked, knowing with a sick crawling in his gut exactly
what the answer would be.

 
          
"A
trade," Palmeri said.

 
          
"Me
for him, I suppose?" Joe said.

 
          
Palmeri's
smile broadened. "Of course."

 
          
"No,
Joe! "Zev cried.

 
          
Palmeri
shook the old man roughly. Joe heard him say, "Quiet, Jew, or I'll snap
your spine!" Then he looked down at Joe again. "The other thing is to
tell your rabble to let my people go." He laughed and shook Zev again.
"Hear that, Jew? A Biblical reference—Old Testament, no less!"

 
          
"All
right," Joe said without hesitation.

 
          
The
parishioners on his right gasped as one and cries of "No!" and
"You can't!" filled St. Anthony's. A particularly loud voice nearby
shouted, "He's only a lousy kike!"

 
          
Joe
wheeled on the man and recognized Gene Harrington, a carpenter. He jerked a
thumb back over his shoulder at the undead and their servants.

 
          
"You
sound like you'd be more at home with them, Gene."

 
          
Harrington
backed up a step and looked at his feet.

 
          
"Sorry,
Father," he said in a voice that hovered on the verge of a sob. "But
we just got you back!"

 
          
I'll
be all right," Joe said softly.

 
          
And
he meant it. Deep inside he had a feeling that he would come through this, that
if he could trade himself for Zev and face Palmeri one-on-one, he could come
out the victor, or at least battle him to a draw. Now that he was no longer
tied up like some sacrificial lamb, now that he was free, with full use of his
arms and legs again, he could not imagine dying at the hands of the likes of
Palmeri.

 
          
Besides,
one of the parishioners had given him a tiny crucifix. He had it closed in the
palm of his hand.

 
          
But
he had to get Zev out of danger first. That above all else. He looked up at
Palmeri.

 
          
"All
right, Alberto. I'm on my way up."

 
          
"Wait!"
Palmeri said. "Someone search him."

 
          
Joe
gritted his teeth as one of the
Vichy
, a blubbery, unwashed slob, came forward
and searched his pockets. Joe thought he might get away with the crucifix but
at the last moment he was made to open his hands. The
Vichy
grinned in Joe's face as he snatched the
tiny cross from his palm and shoved it into his pocket.

 
          
"He's
clean now!" the slob said and gave Joe a shove toward the vestibule.

 
          
Joe
hesitated. He was walking into the snake pit unarmed. A glance at his
parishioners told him he couldn't very well turn back now.

 
          
He
continued on his way, clenching and unclenching his tense, sweaty fists as he
walked. He still had a chance of coming out of this alive. He was too angry to
die. He prayed that when he got within reach of the ex-priest the smoldering
rage at how he had framed him when he'd been pastor, at what he'd done to St.
Anthony's since then, would explode and give him the strength to tear Palmeri
to pieces.