F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (46 page)

 
          
"Quick!"
Carole said. "The grave!"

 
          
She
grabbed Joe's sheet-wrapped feet and started dragging him toward it. Lacey
helped. Seconds later they tumbled him into the opening. He landed on his back,
out of the sun, and immediately his skin stopped boiling. But the odor of
burning flesh still rolled off of him.

 
          
"Look
at him," Lacey whispered. "Look what it did to him."

 
          
They
crouched and stared at him. The still-smoking skin of Joe's face and chest and
upper arms was dead white and rippled and pitted like a bad stucco job.

 
          
Finally
Carole said, "Why did we do that?"

 
          
"Do
what?"

 
          
"Protect
him from the sun."

 
          
Lacey
saw what she meant. "You mean if we'd left him there, the sun might have
done the job for us?"

 
          
Carole
shook her head. "I don't know, but that's what seemed to be
happening."

 
          
"Are
you saying we should drag him out on the beach and just let him . . . what. . .
boil away?"

 
          
That
struck Lacey as a greater defilement than driving a stake through him. Almost
like setting him on fire.

 
          
"I
don't know," Carole said. "I used to be so very sure about some
things, especially this sort of thing. Now ... I don't know."

 
          
Lacey
glanced again at her uncle's body, appalled by his ruined skin, and noticed
something. She squinted into the shadows of the grave, still not sure.

 
          
"What
is it?" Carole said.

 
          
"Look
at his throat. Wasn't it all torn open a few minutes ago?"

 
          
Carole
slapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, no! It's happening already!"

 
          
"What?"

 
          
"The
change! He's turning!"

 
          
"How
do you know?"

 
          
"Because
Bernadette. .. because I've seen it before. As they turn, the death wound heals
up as if it never was."

 
          
Lacey
grabbed Carole's flashlight and fixed the beam on Joe's throat. The area where
it had been torn open was thickened and puckered, a different kind of scarring
than the rest of his ruined skin. "That doesn't look healed up to me.
Looks more like its been fused or ..." What was the word? "...
cauterized."

 
          
"He's
turned, I tell you." Carole looked around, then picked up Joe's big silver
cross from the sand. "Watch."

 
          
As
Carole leaned into the grave and pressed the cross against Joe's chest, Lacey
winced, expecting a puff of smoke and who knew what else. But nothing happened.

 
          
"That's
strange," Carole said. "It should have burned him."

 
          
"Which
means he hasn't turned."

 
          
"Yet,"
Carole's eyes took on a haunted look. "This doesn't let us off the hook,
I'm afraid."

 
          
Lacey
glanced over to where the stake and the maul rested on the sand.

 
          
"What
if.. ." Her thoughts were scattering like a startled flock of birds.
"What if the sun burned it out of him?"

 
          
"Burned
what out of him?"

 
          
"Whatever
makes you turn undead. Look, it cauterized his wound."

 
          
"And
all his exposed skin as well. He would have . . . dissolved out there if we
hadn't pushed him into this hole!"

 
          
She
had a point. Joe had looked like he was melting, but Lacey wasn't giving in.
She had this feeling ...

 
          
"Okay,
but what if he was out there in the sun long enough to kill him—I mean, to burn
off whatever was going to make him undead and leave him really dead? It's
possible, isn't it?"

 
          
Carole
sighed. "Possible, I suppose. But I've never heard of anything like
that."

 
          
"There
must be tons we don't know about these creatures. If you agree it's possible,
then why can't we leave him as he is and just fill in his grave?"

 
          
Carole
shook her head. "We need to be sure. We owe him that."

 
          
"All
right then ..." Her mind ranged over the options, anything but jumping
into that hole and driving a stake through that limp body. "How about we
come back here at sunset? If he's not dead, we'll be waiting when he starts to
dig his way out, and we'll. .. stop him."

 
          
"You
want to risk that?" Carole said, eyeing her. "It will be harder, but
we can stop him as he's crawling out. Just remember, it will be much worse to
have to stake him while he's moving."

 
          
Lacey
wrung her hands. "I know, I know. But I've got this feeling we won't have
to."

 
          
"This
is nothing but wishful thinking, Lacey."

 
          
"It's
more than that. Please. Do it my way, just this once."

 
          
Carole
sat silent for a long moment, then, "All right. I just hope we don't
regret this."

 
          
Her
tone was wary, but Lacey thought she detected a hint of relief.

 
          
"We
won't. I've got—"

 
          
"A
feeling. So you said." Carole grabbed a shovel. "But swear to me
you'll be back here with me before sunset, and that we'll watch over him all
night until dawn." "I swear."

 
          
Carole
nodded and started shoveling sand back into the grave.

 
          
"Wait,"
Lacey said. "Let me cover his face."

 
          
She
slid into the hole, careful not to step on him, and tugged up the sheet so that
it covered her uncle's face.

 
          
As
soon as Lacey crawled out, Carole started shoveling again. She couldn't seem to
wait to cover him.

 
          
"Shouldn't
we say a few words over him first?"

 
          
Lacey
didn't want a prayer, but she thought they could at least say something about
the man he was and the life he'd led.

 
          
Carole
looked at her. "Not yet. Not till we're sure he's at rest. Truly at rest.
Then we'll give our eulogies."

 
          
He
awakens in crushing darkness, a damp, dusty sheet pressed hard against his
face, pushing at his eyes, an anvil resting on his chest.

 
          
Air!
He needs air!

 
          
Then
he realizes that he doesn't. He feels no urge to breathe, no need. Why not?

 
          
Where
is he? More important—who is he? The answer is there, just beyond his grasp.
Reaching for it, he tries to claw at the entrapping sheet but his arms are
pinned to his sides by its enormous weight. He worms one hand up across his
chest to where he can grip the sheet. He pulls it down—

 
          
Sand!
Cascading into his eyes, filling his mouth and nose. He's buried in sand!

 
          
He's
got to get out!

 
          
His
struggles become frantic. He tears through the sheet and fights the
incalculable weight, working his hands and then his arms through the granules.
He's strong, and soon his hands are snaking up through the sand, slowly making
their way to the surface. . .

 
          
CAROLE
. . .

 
          
The
setting sun's blood-red eye stared at Carole from the car's rearview mirror.
She flipped the dimmer toggle to cut its brightness and steered the
Lincoln
along Route 88. She was thinking about
napalm.

 
          
Lacey
fidgeted in the passenger seat and toyed with the revolver in her lap. The
cowboys—or
Vichy
, as Lacey called them—had been conspicuous
by their absence today. Maybe the undead were alarmed by the loss of the one
Carole had killed last night—dear God, had it been less than twenty-four hours?—and
were keeping them close by during the light hours. Even so, she and Lacey might
have the bad luck of running into a party of them before reaching the beach.

 
          
Carole
glanced at the barrel of the shotgun on the armrest between them. Nothing was
going to keep them from Father Joe's graveside tonight.

 
          
Carole
and Lacey had caught up on their sleep during the day, awakening this afternoon
to find the parishioners nervous and edgy. Father Joe was still missing and they
were giving up hope that he'd be found alive. Carole had told them that even if
he'd been killed, he'd want them to fight on.

 
          
They'd
wanted to know how, and that was when Carole had begun thinking of napalm.

 
          
It
was easy to make. She'd need soap flakes. Soap wasn't edible so there'd be no
shortage of flakes in the looted grocery stores. If she could get her hands on
some kerosene, she'd be in business. Napalm stuck to whatever it splashed
against and burned so hot it turned human flesh into fuel to feed its flames.
Would the same happen with undead flesh?

 
          
Only
one way to find out...

 
          
She
heard a sob and looked at Lacey. Tears glistened on her cheeks.

 
          
"What's
wrong?"

 
          
"I
hope we did the right thing."

 
          
Carole
knew exactly how she felt. Apprehension had been clawing at her gut all day.

 
          
"You're
having second thoughts?"

 
          
"Oh,
yes. Ohhhhhh, yes. I don't want to watch him digging his way out of the ground,
I don't want to see his undead eyes or hear his undead voice. I don't want that
to be my last memory of him." She stared at Carole. "If I believed in
God I'd be praying to him right now."

 
          
Strange,
Carole thought. I do believe in Him and I've stopped praying. He doesn't seem
to be listening.

 
          
"Are
you all right, Lacey? I mean, after what happened yesterday?"

 
          
"Do
you mean after finding my dearest and closest living relative dead and helping
dig his grave? Or do you mean after getting gang raped?"

 
          
Carole
winced at her tone and at the images "gang raped" conjured.
"Nevermind. Sorry."

 
          
Lacey
reached over and squeezed her arm. "Hey, no. I'm sorry." She sighed.
"I guess I'm doing about as well as can be expected. I'm still sore as
hell, but I'm healing."

 
          
"I
didn't mean physically. I meant the hurt within. Emotionally. It's such an
awful, awful thing ..." Carole ran out of words.

 
          
Lacey
shrugged. "Same answer, I suppose. I know I'd feel different if it had
happened—the rape, I mean—say, a year ago, back in the old civilized world. I
would have been thinking, 'How could this happen?' and 'Why me?' I would have
felt like some sort of pariah or loser, that the world and society had let me
down, that some throwbacks had smashed through all the rules and targeted me.
And I would have felt somehow to blame. Yeah, can you believe that? I bet I
would've. I know I'd have wanted to dig myself a hole and pull the ground over
me."

 
          
Carole
tried to imagine how she'd feel if places were reversed, but her imagination
wasn't up to it. She nodded to keep Lacey talking. She'd heard it was bad to
keep something like this bottled up.

 
          
"Are
you saying you don't feel that way now?"

 
          
Lacey
shook her head. "Yeah ... I don't know. It's a different world now, a
world without any rules, except maybe those of the jungle. There's no law, no
order, and because of that, I don't seem to have that pariah-loser-victim
feeling. And I don't feel ashamed. I feel disgusted and sickened and violated,
but I don't feel ashamed. I feel hate and I want revenge, but I don't feel a
need to hide. A year ago I'd have felt scarred for life. Now I feel... as if
I've been splattered with mud—rotten, nasty mud—but nothing I can't wash off
and then move on. Does that make sense?"

 
          
Carole
nodded. She knew as well as anyone how the rules had changed, and she with
them.

 
          
"You're
strong, though. I don't know if I could bounce back from something like
that."

 
          
"I
wouldn't exactly call it 'bouncing.' But don't shortchange yourself, Carole.
You're tougher than you let on. I think you could handle anything. Let's just
hope you never have to find out."

 
          
"Amen,"
Carole said.

 
          
Thinking
of men who could do such heinous things drew Carole's thoughts back to napalm,
but she pushed them aside as the boardwalk buildings hove into view. She parked
and gave herself half a moment to inhale the briny air. Then she double-checked
the old book bag—crosses, stakes, garlic, hammer, flashlight. All there.

 
          
Let's
just pray we don't have to use them, she thought.

 
          
What
they most likely would use were the two peanut butter sandwiches on home-baked
bread they'd brought along. Somewhere old Mrs. Delmonico had found whole wheat
flour and a propane stove.

 
          
They
left the shotgun in the car, but Lacey carried her pistol at the ready as they
hurried across the deserted boardwalk and down to the beach. Lacey stayed in
the lead when they ducked under the boards where they'd buried Father Joe, but
stopped dead in her tracks with a cry of alarm.

 
          
Carole
bumped into her from behind. "What—?"

 
          
"Oh,
no!" Lacey cried. "It can't be!"

 
          
Carole
pushed her aside and saw what she was looking at. The grave had been disturbed.

 
          
"He's
already out!" Lacey wailed.

 
          
"No.
He can't be. The sun hasn't set yet."

 
          
She
pointed to areas of darker sand atop the light. "But some of the sand's
still damp. That means it came from deeper down. And not too long ago."

 
          
"Then
someone's dug him up. It's the only explanation."

 
          
Lacey's
eyes were wild. "But who? We were the only ones who knew. And why?"

 
          
She
glanced around and noticed linear tracks leading out to the beach. "Look.
We didn't leave those. Someone's dragged him out."

 
          
"They
can't have gone too far." Carole heard Lacey cock her pistol as she
started back toward the beach. "The sons of bitches..."

 
          
Carole
followed her out and they stood together, looking up and down the beach and
along the gently rolling dunes that eased toward the water. She blinked ... was
that someone ... ? Yes, it looked like a man, standing at the water line with a
towel draped over his shoulders, staring out to sea.

 
          
"Look,
Lacey," Carole said, pointing. "Do you see him?"

 
          
Lacey
nodded and started forward. "You think he did it?"

 
          
"Perhaps."
Carole fell into step beside her. "If not, he might have seen who
did."

 
          
But
as they approached, the white towel began to look more like a sheet, and the
back of the man's head, the color of his hair began to look more and more
familiar ...

 
          
They
were twenty feet away when Carole stopped and grabbed Lacey's arm. "Oh,
dear God," she whispered. "It looks like ..."

 
          
Lacey
was nodding. "I know." Her voice had shrunken to a high-pitched
squeak. "But it can't be."

 
          
He
looked wet, as if he'd gone for a swim. Carole stepped forward, closed to
within half a dozen feet of him. Trembling inside and out, she wet her lips.
Her tongue felt as dry as old leather.

 
          
"Father
Joe?"

 
          
The
man turned. The dying light of the sun ruddied the pitted, ruined dead-white
skin of his face.

 
          
"Carole,"
he said in Father Joe's voice. "What's happened to me?"

 
          
Shock
was a hand against her chest, shoving her back. She dropped the bookbag and
stumbled a few steps, then tripped. Lacey caught her before she fell.

 
          
"Oh,
shit," Lacey whimpered. "Oh, shit!"

 
          
"Lacey?"
The man, the thing that had once been Father Joe, took a faltering step toward
them. "What did they do to me?"

 
          
"Wh-who?"
Lacey said.

 
          
"The
undead. They took me to New York. He was going to make me one of them . . .
turn me into a feral, he said. I remember dying, being killed ... at least I
think I do, but—"

 
          
Heart
pounding, mind racing. Carole watched him closely, looking for a misstep,
listening for a false note.

 
          
She
found her voice again. "You did die. We found you and you were dead. We
buried you back there, under the boardwalk."

 
          
"But
I'm not dead. And I'm not one of them. I can't be because ..." He pointed
west. "Because that's the sun and it should be killing me, but it's
not." He raised a scarred fist. "Somehow, some way, I've beaten
them."