F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (5 page)

 
          
"Don't
you be leaving me alone, now!" Bernadette said, running after her with the
blanket still wrapped around her shoulders.

 
          
"Hush,"
Carole said. "Listen. It's the front door. Someone's knocking. I'm going
down to see."

 
          
She
hurried down the wide, oak-railed stairway to the front foyer. The knocking was
louder here, but still sounded weak. Carole put her eye to the peephole, peered
through the sidelights, but saw no one.

 
          
But
the knocking, weaker still, continued.

 
          
"Wh-who's
there?" she said, her words cracking with fear.

 
          
"Sister
Carole," came a faint voice through the door. "It's me ... Rosita.
I'm hurt."

 
          
Instinctively,
Carole reached for the handle, but Bernadette grabbed her arm.

 
          
"Wait!
It could be a trick!"

 
          
She's
right, Carole thought. Then she glanced down and saw blood leaking across the
threshold from the other side.

 
          
She
gasped and pointed at the crimson puddle. "That's no trick."

 
          
She
unlocked the door and pulled it open. Rosita huddled on the welcome mat in a
pool of blood.

 
          
"Dear
sweet Jesus!" Carole cried. "Help me,
Bern
!"

 
          
"What
if she's a vampire?" Bernadette said, standing frozen. "They can't
cross the threshold unless you ask them in."

 
          
"Stop
that silliness! She's hurt!"

 
          
Bernadette's
good heart won out over her fear. She threw off the blanket, revealing a faded
blue, ankle-length flannel nightgown that swirled just above the floppy slippers
she wore. Together they dragged Rosita inside. Bernadette closed and relocked
the door immediately.

 
          
"Call
9-1-1
!"
Carole told her.

 
          
Bernadette
hurried down the hall to the phone.

 
          
Rosita
lay moaning on her side on the foyer tiles, clutching her bleeding abdomen.
Carole saw a piece of metal, coated with rust and blood, protruding from the
area of her navel. From the faint fecal smell of the gore Carole guessed that
her intestines had been pierced.

 
          
"Oh,
you poor child!" Carole knelt beside her and cradled her head in her lap.
She arranged Bernadette's blanket over Rosita's trembling body. "Who did
this to you?"

 
          
"Accident,"
Rosita gasped. Real tears had run her black eye makeup over her tattooed tears.
"I was running ... fell."

 
          
"Running
from what?"

 
          
"From
them. God ... terrible. We searched for them, Carmilla's Lords of the Night.
Just after sundown we found one. Looked just like we always knew he would ...
you know, tall and regal and graceful and seductive and cool. Standing by one
of those big trailers that came through town. My friends approached him but I
sorta stayed back. Wasn't too sure I was really into having my blood sucked.
But Carmilla goes right up to him, pulling off her top and baring her throat,
offering herself to him."

 
          
Rosita
coughed and groaned as a spasm of pain shook her.

 
          
"Don't
talk," Carole said. "Save your strength."

 
          
No,"
she said in a weaker voice when it eased. "You got to know. This Lord guy
just smiles at Carmilla, then he signals his helpers who pull open the back
doors of the trailer." Rosita sobbed. "Horrible! Truck's filled with
these ... things'. Look human but they're dirty and naked and act like beasts.

 
          
They
like pour out the truck and right off a bunch of them jump Carmiila.

 
          
They
start biting and ripping at her throat. I see her go down and hear her
screaming and I start backing up. My other friends try to run but they're
pulled down too. And then I see one of the things hold up Carmilla's head and
hear the Lord guy say, 'That's right, children. Take their heads. Always take
their heads. There are enough of us now.' And that's when I turned and ran. I
was running through a vacant lot when I fell on ... this."

 
          
Bernadette
rushed back into the foyer. Her face was drawn with fear. "911 doesn't
answer! I can't raise anyone!"

 
          
"They're
all over town." Rosita said after another spasm of coughing. Carole could
barely hear her. She touched her throat—so cold. "They've been setting
fires and attacking the cops and firemen when they arrive. Their human helpers break
into houses and drive the people outside where they're attacked. And after the
things drain the blood, they rip the heads off."

 
          
"Dear
God, why?" Bernadette said, crouching beside Carole.

 
          
"My
guess ... don't want any more undead. Maybe only so much blood to go around and—"

 
          
She
moaned with another spasm, then lay still. Carole patted her cheeks and called
her name, but Rosita Hernandez's dull, staring eyes told it all.

 
          
"Is
she ... ?" Bernadette said.

 
          
Carole
nodded as tears filled her eyes. You poor misguided child, she thought, closing
Rosita's eyelids.

 
          
"She's
died in sin," Bernadette said. "She needs anointing immediately! I'll
get Father."

 
          
"No,
Bern
," Carole said. "Father Palmeri
won't come."

 
          
"Of
course he will. He's a priest and this poor lost soul needs him."

 
          
"Trust
me. He won't leave that church basement for anything."

 
          
"But
he must!" she said almost childishly, her voice rising. "He's a
priest."

 
          
"Just
be calm, Bernadette, and we'll pray for her ourselves."

 
          
"We
can't do what a priest can do," she said, springing to her feet.
"It's not the same."

 
          
"Where
are you going?"

 
          
"To
... to get a robe. It's cold."

 
          
My
poor, dear, frightened Bernadette, Carole thought as she watched her scurry up
the steps. I know exactly how you feel.

 
          
"Bring
my prayer book back with you," she called after her.

 
          
Carole
pulled the blanket over Rosita's face and gently lowered her head to the floor.

 
          
She
waited for Bernadette to return ... and waited. What was taking her so long?
She called her name but got no answer.

 
          
Uneasy,
Carole returned to the second floor. The hallway was empty and dark except for
a pale shaft of moonlight slanting through the window at its far end. Carole
hurried to
Bern
's room. The door was closed. She knocked.

 
          
"
Bern
?
Bern
, are you in there?"

 
          
Silence.

 
          
Carole
opened the door and peered inside. More moonlight, more emptiness.

 
          
Where
could—?

 
          
Down
on the first floor, almost directly under Carole's feet, the convent's back
door slammed. How could that be? Carole had locked it herself—dead-bolted it at
sunset.

 
          
Unless
Bernadette had gone down the back stairs and ...

 
          
She
darted to the window and stared down at the grassy area between the convent and
the church. The high, bright moon had made a black-and-white photo of the world
outside, bleaching the lawn below with its stark glow, etching deep ebony wells
around the shrubs and foundation plantings. It glared from St. Anthony's slate
roof, stretching a long wedge of night behind its Gothic spire.

 
          
And
scurrying across the lawn toward the church was a slim figure wrapped in a long
raincoat, the moon picking out the white band of her wimple, its black veil a
fluttering shadow along her neck and upper back— Bernadette was too old-country
to approach the church with her head uncovered.

 
          
"Oh,
Bern
," Carole whispered, pressing her face
against the glass. "
Bern
, don't!"

 
          
She
watched as Bernadette ran up to St. Anthony's side entrance and began clanking
the heavy brass knocker against the thick oak door. Her high, clear voice
filtered faintly through the window glass.

 
          
"Father!
Father Palmeri! Please open up! There's a dead girl in the convent who needs
anointing!"

 
          
She
kept banging, kept calling, but the door never opened. Carole thought she saw
Father Palmeri's pale face float into view to
Bern
's right through the glass of one of the
church's few unstained windows. It hovered there for a few seconds, then
disappeared.

 
          
But
the door remained closed.

 
          
That
didn't seem to faze
Bern
. She only increased the force of her blows with the knocker, and raised
her voice even higher until it echoed off the stone walls and reverberated
through the night.

 
          
Carole's
heart went out to her. She shared
Bern
's need, if not her desperation.

 
          
Why
doesn't Father Palmeri at least let her in? she thought. The poor thing's
making enough racket to wake the dead.

 
          
Sudden
terror tightened along the back of Carole's neck .... wake the dead...

 
          
Bern
was too loud. She thought only of
attracting the attention of Father Palmeri, but what if she attracted ...
others?

 
          
Even
as the thought crawled across her mind, Carole saw a dark, rangy figure creep
onto the lawn from the street side, slinking from shadow to shadow, closing in
on her unsuspecting friend.

 
          
"Oh,
dear God!" she cried, and fumbled with the window lock. She twisted it
open and yanked up the sash.

 
          
Carole
screamed into the night. "Bernadette! Behind you! There's someone coming!
Get back here now, Bernadette! NOW!"

 
          
Bernadette
turned and looked up toward Carole, then stared around her. The approaching
figure had dissolved into the shadows at the sound of the shouted warnings. But
Bernadette must have sensed something in Carole's voice, for she started back
toward the convent.

 
          
She
didn't get far—ten paces, maybe—before the shadowy form caught up to her.

 
          
"NO!"
Carole screamed as she saw it leap upon her friend.