F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (6 page)

 
          
She
stood frozen at the window, her fingers clawing the molding on each side as
Bernadette's high wail of terror and pain cut the night.

 
          
For
the span of an endless, helpless, paralyzed heartbeat, Carole watched the form
drag her down to the silver lawn, tear open her raincoat, and fall upon her,
watched her arms and legs flail wildly, frantically in the moonlight, and all
the while her screams, oh, dear God in Heaven, her screams for help were slim,
white-hot nails driven into Carole's ears.

 
          
And
then, out of the corner of her eye, Carole saw the pale face appear again at
the window of St. Anthony's, watch for a moment, then once more fade into the
inner darkness.

 
          
With
a low moan of horror, fear, and desperation, Carole pushed herself away from
the window and stumbled toward the hall. Someone had to help. Along the way she
snatched the foot-long wooden crucifix from Bernadette's wall and clutched it
against her chest with both hands. As she picked up speed, graduating from a
lurch to a walk to a loping run, she began to scream—not a wail of fear, but a
long, seamless ululation of rage.

 
          
Something
was killing her friend.

 
          
The
rage was good. It shredded the fear and the horror and the loathing that had
paralyzed her. It allowed her to move, to keep moving. She embraced the rage.

 
          
Carole
hurtled down the stairs and burst onto the moonlit lawn—

 
          
And
stopped, disoriented for an instant. She didn't see
Bern
. Where was she? Where was her attacker?

 
          
And
then she saw a patch of writhing shadow on the grass ahead of her near one of
the shrubs.

 
          
Bernadette?

 
          
Clutching
the crucifix, Carole ran for the spot, and as she neared she realized it was
indeed Bernadette, sprawled face down, but not alone. Another shadow sat
astride her, hissing like a reptile, gnashing its teeth, its fingers curved
into talons that tugged at Bernadette's head as if trying to tear it off.

 
          
Carole
reacted without thinking. Screaming, she launched herself at the creature,
ramming the big crucifix against its exposed back. Light flashed and sizzled
and thick black smoke shot upward in oily swirls from where cross met flesh.
The thing arched its back and howled, writhing beneath the cruciform brand,
thrashing wildly as it tried to wriggle out from under the fiery weight.

 
          
But
Carole stayed with it, following its slithering crawl on her knees, pressing
the flashing cross deeper and deeper into its steaming, boiling flesh, down to
the spine, into the vertebrae. Its cries became almost piteous as it weakened,
and Carole gagged on the thick black smoke that fumed around her, but her rage
would not allow her to slack off. She kept up the pressure, pushed the wooden
crucifix deeper and deeper in the creature's back until it penetrated the chest
cavity and seared into its heart. Suddenly the thing gagged and shuddered and
then was still.

 
          
The
flashes faded. The final wisps of smoke trailed away on the breeze.

 
          
Carole
abruptly released the shaft of the crucifix as if it had shocked her. She ran
back to Bernadette, dropped to her knees beside the still form, and turned her
over onto her back.

 
          
"Oh,
no!" she screamed when she saw Bernadette's torn throat, her wide, glazed,
sightless eyes, and the blood, so much blood smeared all over the front of her.

 
          
Oh
no. Oh, dear God, please no! This can't be! This can't be real!

 
          
A
sob burst from her. "No,
Bern
! Nooooo!"

 
          
Somewhere
nearby, a dog howled in answer.

 
          
Or
was it a dog?

 
          
Carole
realized she was defenseless now. She had to get back to the convent. She
leaped to her feet and looked around. Nothing moving. A dozen feet away she saw
the crucifix still buried in the dead thing.

 
          
She
hurried over to retrieve it, but recoiled from touching the creature. She could
see now that it was a man—a naked man, or something that very much resembled
one. But not quite. Some indefinable quality was missing.

 
          
Was
it one of them}

 
          
This
must be one of the undead Rosita had warned about. But could this.. . this
thing ... be a vampire? It had acted like little more than a rabid dog in human
form.

 
          
Whatever
it was, it had mauled and murdered Bernadette. Rage bloomed again within Carole
like a virulent, rampant virus, spreading through her bloodstream, invading her
nervous system, threatening to take over. She fought the urge to batter the
corpse.

 
          
She
choked back the bile rising in her throat and stared at the inert form prone
before her. This once had been a man, someone with a family, perhaps. Surely he
hadn't asked to become this vicious night thing.

 
          
"Whoever
you were," Carole whispered, "you're free now. Free to return to
God."

 
          
She
gripped the shaft of the crucifix to remove it but found it fixed in the seared
flesh like a steel rod set in concrete.

 
          
Something
howled again. Closer.

 
          
She
had to get back inside, but she couldn't leave
Bern
out here.

 
          
Swiftly
she returned to Bernadette's side, worked her hands through the grass under her
back and knees, and lifted her into her arms. She staggered under the weight.
Dear Lord, for such a thin woman she was heavy.

 
          
Carole
carried Bernadette back to the convent as fast as her rubbery legs would allow.
Once inside, she bolted the door, then tried to carry her up the steep
stairway. She stopped on the third step. She'd intended to take
Bern
's body back to her room, but who knew when
the poor girl would be buried?

 
          
Might
be days. And the second floor got warm during the day. Better to lay her out in
the cellar where it was cooler.

 
          
With
Bernadette in her arms she struggled down the narrow stairwell to the cellar,
almost falling twice along the way. She stretched her out on an old couch. She
straightened
Bern
's thin legs, crossed her hands over her blood-splattered chest, and
arranged her torn nightgown and raincoat around her as best she could. She
adjusted the wimple on her head. Then she ran up to Bernadette's room and
returned with her bedspread. She draped her from head to toe, then knelt beside
her.

 
          
Looking
down at that still form under the quilt she had helped Bernadette make, Carole
sagged against the couch and began to cry. She tried to say a requiem prayer
but her grief-racked mind had lost the words. So she sobbed aloud and asked God
why? How could He let this happen to a dear, sweet innocent who had wished only
to spend her life serving Him? WHY?

 
          
But
no answer came.

 
          
When
Carole finally controlled her tears, she forced herself to her weary feet and
made her way back to the main floor. When she saw the light on in the front
foyer, she knew she should turn it off. She stepped over the still form of
Rosita under the blood-soaked blanket. Two violent deaths here on the church
grounds, a place devoted to God. How many more beyond these grounds?

 
          
She
knew she should carry Rosita to the basement as well, but lacked the strength—of
either will or body.

 
          
Tomorrow
. .. first thing tomorrow morning, Rosita. I promise.

 
          
She
turned off the light and raced through the dark back up to her own room where
she huddled shivering in her bed.

 
          
CAROLE
. . .

 
          
Carole
awoke in a cold sweat. Good Friday again. How many times must she relive that
night?

 
          
She
pushed herself up from the mattress and stumbled to the bathroom. She poured an
inch of water from the tap into a glass and drank it down. Didn: t want to risk
drinking too much without boiling it first.

 
          
At
least the water was still running. Was that the vampires' doing? Carole
wouldn't be surprised. Water was one of the necessities of life. It seemed to
her the vampires wanted a certain number of the living to survive, but not to
communicate. Which would explain why the electricity and the telephones went
out that first weekend. Keep people isolated and insulated from any message of
hope.

 
          
She
found her way back to the bed and buried her head under the pillow. She needed
sleep—dreamless sleep that would allow her to wake up refreshed instead of
exhausted. She didn't want to dream of Good Friday again, or worse, the
following day . . . the worst day of her life.

 
          
HOLY
SATURDAY . . .

 
          
Carole
awoke to the wail of sirens. She sat up in bed, blinking in the morning light.

 
          
A
dream . . . please, God, show me that last night was all a dream.

 
          
But
her throat tightened at the sight of Bernadette's empty mattress on the floor
beside her bed. No ... not a dream. A living nightmare.

 
          
She'd
stayed up till dawn, then she'd pulled the bedspread from the window and fallen
into exhausted sleep.

 
          
The
sirens. . . closer now. She crept to the window and peeked at the street below.
Two police cars, red and blue lights flashing, roared past the front of the
convent and made squealing turns into the church parking lot.

 
          
The
police! They've come!

 
          
Carole
rose and hurried across the hall to
Bern
's room in time to see them slow to a stop
before the church.

 
          
Thank
you, God, she thought. All is not lost. The police are still on the job.

 
          
Before
pushing away from the window she searched the lawn to the left of the church
for the remains of the vampire she'd killed last night. A bright, clear,
unconscionably beautiful morning, with a high trail of brown smoke drifting
from the east. She couldn't find the vampire, but she spotted Bernadette's
wooden cross lying in a man-shaped puddle of brown ooze on the grass. Could
that be all that remained of—?

 
          
Can't
worry about that now, she thought as she dashed back into the hall and down the
rear stairs. She had to get to the police, tell them about Bernadette. They'd
take her to a morgue or a funeral home where Carole could arrange for a proper
burial.

 
          
She
reached the rear door and had just turned back the deadbolt when she glanced
through the glass. The sight of a lean, wolfish man, all in denim, uncoiling
from the front passenger seat of the first car froze her heart. He settled a
cowboy hat over his long brown hair and looked around, smirking as if he owned
the world. A tattooed blond woman in a leather vest got out of the driver seat
while two more men in rough clothes slithered from the second car. The first
wore his long black hair in a single braid down the middle of his back; the
second was sandy haired and balding, wearing a scraggly beard to compensate for
what he'd lost on his scalp. All four wore wraparound sunglasses and had
silvery earrings dangling from their right lobes.