F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (40 page)

 
          
Most
of the cowboys had moved mattresses into the offices and stayed right here in
the
Empire
State
Building
. It was convenient, had light and power,
and was safer than living outside where you could be bushwhacked by some angry
living or one of the more feral undead who wouldn't be deterred by your
earring.

 
          
James
Barrett deserved better. He had an elegant Murray Hill brownstone all to
himself. He'd hooked up a generator to power lights, a refrigerator, and an
electric stove. The stove was important. It allowed him to indulge in his new
passion: cooking.

 
          
Barrett
had recognized long ago that there were two ways of living your life: as
predator or as prey. He'd decided early on that he'd be a predator. And
predators ate meat. One problem, though, was the lack of meat since the undead
had taken over. Or so he'd thought until he realized that there was plenty of
fresh meat to be had. Every night he and the cowboys were called upon to
dispose of a new round of bloodless corpses. It had occurred to him what a
shame it was to waste all that good red meat.

 
          
Long
pork, as human flesh was known in certain parts of the world, was really quite
tasty. He'd learned to butcher the meatier corpses and now had a good supply of
steaks in his freezer.

 
          
But
meaty corpses were harder and harder to come by these days. That was why it was
such a shame to let someone like that priest go to waste.

 
          
But
who knew? Maybe there'd be something salvageable left after Franco got through
with him.

 
          
Somehow,
though, he doubted it.

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
Joe's
knees felt soft and he almost stumbled as the scar-faced vampire pushed him up
a short flight of steps. What were they planning for him? He wanted to shout
that he wasn't a vigilante and didn't know who they were, but that would simply
give them a good laugh.

 
          
He
stepped into a glassed-in space that had once been a souvenir-snack bar area—nothing
but blackness beyond that glass—then was shoved through a door onto the
Observation Deck. Cool night air, propelled by a gusty wind, raised gooseflesh
on his bare skin, but the sight of dozens of pairs of undead eyes watching him
weakened his knees again.

 
          
He
was a goner. He could see that now. As good as dead. Or worse. Fear crowded his
throat, but he swallowed it. He straightened his shoulders. At least he could
go out with dignity ... as much as he could muster without a stitch of
clothing.

 
          
The
crowd of undead, all armed with pistols and machetes, grinned and pointed to
him. The scarred one grabbed one of his arms and hauled him before another of
their kind standing by the Observation Deck wall, staring out into the night.
He turned at their approach, and smiled when his cold gaze came to rest on Joe.

 
          
"So
. .. this is the man who has chosen to vex me."

 
          
He
was almost as tall as Joe, with broad shoulders, a blond leonine mane and
mustache. A jutting nose and aggressive chin dominated his face.

 
          
His
excellent English did not completely hide an Italian accent. Joe noted that he
was the only undead on the deck who wasn't armed.

 
          
"A
big one, this vigilante priest"—he glanced at Joe's genitals—"but not
exactly built like a stallion, is he."

 
          
This
brought a laugh from his guards or retainers or whatever they were.

 
          
Joe
stared past him, focusing on the impenetrable darkness over Franco's right
shoulder, and said nothing.

 
          
The
vampire clucked his tongue in mock concern. "Chilly? Under different
circumstances I might relish your discomfiture, but not tonight." He
turned to one of the undead holding Joe. "Find him a blanket or something
to wrap about him."

 
          
The
one-eyed guard said, "But Franco—"

 
          
"Do
it." His dead eyes lit briefly with an inner fire.

 
          
The
underling stood firm. "Just hours ago he killed Gregor."

 
          
The
other undead milling around nodded and murmured, as if this were a telling
fact.

 
          
That
name again ... Gregor. The second time he'd heard it tonight. Joe stood there
wondering who Gregor was. The only thing he knew was that he hadn't killed him—at
least not knowingly. "Just hours ago" he'd been searching for Lacey.
Had the same thing happened to her? Whisked away into the night. No. Lacey had
disappeared during the daylight hours. Where was she then? He prayed her
circumstances were better than his.

 
          
"I
don't care!" Franco said. "It will be our blanket, you dolt! It won't
conceal a cross, so you'll have nothing to worry about! Move! I've already
wasted too much time waiting for his arrival."

 
          
A
few moments later some sort of fabric was roughly thrown over Joe's shoulders.
Apparently they couldn't find a blanket; this was like a window drape. He
pulled it close around him, grateful for the shelter it provided from the wind.

 
          
"Thank
you," he said, deciding to play this as cool as he could.

 
          
"Oh,
don't think I did it for your sake. I did it for mine. I want your complete
attention." He motioned Joe to the wall. "Come. Let me show you my
domain."

 
          
Something
had been nagging at Joe since he'd stepped out on the deck ... something wrong
. . . something missing . . . and now he realized what it was.

 
          
He'd
been up here once in his life, in his teens, when his father had brought him.
The reason for the trip had been a French exchange student staying with them
for the summer. They'd gone to the Statue of Liberty that summer too. Strange.
He'd grown up only a short distance from these American landmarks but probably
never would have visited them if not for the presence of a foreigner.

 
          
He
remembered that on his one and only visit here there'd been high safety fencing
all around the Observation Deck, with tall, pointed steel tines curving inward
like fishhooks. Now most of that was gone, torn away. It made sense, though:
The undead weren't worried about one of their own becoming a suicide jumper,
and the fence would only hinder the fliers.

 
          
Joe
approached the wall, eyeing its upper edge. It ran about mid-chest high.
Eternity—and perhaps salvation—waited on the other side.

 
          
As
he came up beside Franco, the vampire waved his arm at the darkness.
"There it is: mine, as far as I can see."

 
          
Joe's
heart broke as he took in the vista, not for what he could see—moonlight
glinting off the crown of the Chrysler Building off to the left—but for what he
couldn't.

 
          
Darkness.
The city was dark. Any light he saw was reflected from the moon or this
building. Everything else was dead and dark. This wasn't the
New York
he'd known. This was its corpse.

 
          
"The
first thing we did was kill the power," Franco said. "It has a
numbing psychological effect, especially in a place like
Manhattan
. People here were so used to light
everywhere, all the time, and then it was gone. It serves another purpose. It
makes the few who are left light fires to cook, to stay warm on the cooler
nights. We home in on those fires. They're like beacons to us.
Manhattan
is pretty well cleaned out now, but the
other boroughs still teem with survivors. We hunt them judiciously, preserving
them like a natural resource."

 
          
He
jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

 
          
"But
I keep this building alight. More psychological warfare. The tallest building
in this fabled city, its most recognizable landmark, and we have it. I live
here with some of my get, just one floor down. Why should I hide in a basement
when I can seal off windows in this magnificent building that affords me such a
unique view of my domain. I wish those Islamic thugs had left the
Trade
Towers
alone. They were even taller. How I'd love
to be standing atop one of them now."

 
          
So
full of himself, Joe thought, wondering how he could turn that to his
advantage.

 
          
Franco
shrugged resignedly. "But I suppose the
Empire
State
will do. Its generators power everything in
the building." He pointed to the cameras ringing the deck. "It has an
excellent security system to help our serfs protect us during the day. No one
moves in this building without being watched and taped. I like to review the
tapes now and again, and punish any slackers I catch. As an extra security
measure, we've cut the power to all but two of the elevators."

 
          
He
held his hand over the edge of the wall. A red glow lit his palm from below.

 
          
"But
my favorite accessory is the filters they have for the spotlights that bathe
the upper floors. Red, white, and blue for July Fourth, red and green for
Christmas. We use only red now. It's our color. The color of blood. More
psychological warfare." He turned to Joe and smiled. "You're pretty
adept at psychological warfare yourself."

 
          
"What's
that supposed to mean?" Joe said, tearing himself away from the dark vista.

 
          
Franco
stared at him. "I can't tell whether you're being obtuse or coy. I'm
talking about your campaign against the serfs in your area."

 
          
"Serfs?"

 
          
"Oh,
I forget. They like to call themselves cowboys, you people like to call them
collaborators—"

 
          
"
Vichy
," he said, thinking with a pang of
Zev. "Some of us call them
Vichy
."

 
          
"
Vichy
." Franco nodded. "I like that. It
shows a sense of history, though it gives them more cachet than they
deserve." He waved his hand as if shooing a fly. "But my point is,
you and your minions have caused more trouble than anyone I can remember."

 
          
Again
the temptation to tell this beast that Joe had no idea what he was talking
about, but he suppressed it. He was good at suppressing temptation.

 
          
"It
was the terrorist aspects of your campaign that worked. The serfs are such
disloyal scum, and so very susceptible to fear. You had the local contingent
quaking in their boots. But you made a grave tactical error when you revealed
yourself and took back your church. That gave you a face, and you weren't so
terrifying anymore. Or so I thought. But when you sent Gregor into true death I
decided I wanted to meet you."

 
          
Joe
had to ask—because he wanted to know and because he sensed that the question
might unsettle Franco—"Who the hell is Gregor?"

 
          
Franco
stared at him a moment. "I suppose it's possible you didn't know his name.
Same with Angelica, I imagine. But you and yours have sent two important
subordinates to true death in a matter of a few days. No one has ever done
that."