F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (7 page)

 
          
Carole
ducked away from the door and jammed her hands against her mouth. She'd seen
these people before, last night, leading the caravan of trucks carrying the
undead into town. It seemed so long ago, a lifetime. But this could only mean
that the police had lost. The undead and their caretakers were in control now.

 
          
But
what were they doing here at St. Anthony's?

 
          
She
crept away from the door and down the hall toward the kitchen. The windows over
the sink looked out toward the church. She could watch from there and see
without being seen. She needed to know what they were up to. She leaned over
the big double sink and cranked the window open an inch or two, just enough to
hear what they were saying.

 
          
She
sniffed the air that wafted through the opening. Something burning somewhere.
.. smelled like some sort of meat. She glanced at the brown smoke trailing
across the sky. Could that be—?

 
          
A
car door slammed. She watched the one in the cowboy hat heft a crowbar as he
walked from his police car to the side door of the church. Swinging it like a
baseball bat he started bashing the hooked end against the doorknob. The clang
of metal on metal echoed like a church bell through the eerie silence of the
morning. Then he reversed his grip and rammed the tip of the long end between
the door and the frame. A few hard yanks and the door popped open.

 
          
The
woman and the two other men ran inside while the cowboy returned to the police
car. He leaned against the fender and lit a cigarette; he carelessly bounced
the crowbar against the hood, denting it with every bounce.

 
          
A
few minutes later the two other men emerged, dragging Father Palmeri between
them. The priest had a bloody nose and was blubbering in fear, begging them to
let him go.

 
          
The
sandy-haired man laughed. "Found him hiding in the basement! Lookit him!
Peed his pants!"

 
          
Carole
shook her head in dismay when she saw the darker stain on Father

 
          
Palmeri's
black cassock. God forgive her, she'd never liked the man, and after last night
when he could have saved Bernadette simply by letting her into the church,
well, she liked him even less. He was a man of God. He was supposed to set an
example.

 
          
Then
the woman appeared. She'd draped herself in Father Palmeri's long white
chasuble and came out dancing and skipping behind the whimpering priest.

 
          
Carole
felt her anger begin to boil. How dare this . . . this tramp sully holy
vestments like that. It was sacrilege.

 
          
"You
like basements, priest?" the cowboy said, grinning. "Good. 'Cause
you're gonna be seeing a lot of them from now on."

 
          
Carole's
stomach dropped. What did that mean? Were they going to turn him into a
vampire? Oh, no. They couldn't do that. Not to a priest.

 
          
She
had to help him, but what could she do? She was one woman and there were four
of them. She watched as they locked Father Palmeri in the caged rear
compartment of one of the cars. Then they started toward the convent, the
cowboy in the lead, the crowbar on his shoulder.

 
          
No!
Not here! Not now! And she'd unlocked the door.

 
          
Hide!
The basement? No. She had to pass the rear door to reach it. They'd see her for
sure. She could make it to the second floor but couldn't think of anyplace to
hide up there.

 
          
She
did a quick turn and her gaze came to rest on the big institutional-size oven
to her left. She yanked down the door and looked inside. Could she fit? Maybe,
maybe not. But even if she did fit, the plate glass window in the door would
give her away. But no. A closer look showed that it was fogged with baked-on
grease. Bless old Sister Mary Margaret's bad eyes. Last week was her turn to
clean the oven. She never did a good job, for which Carole was now grateful.

 
          
Moving
as quickly as she could without causing a racket, she slid out the two metal
racks and slipped them between the oven and the neighboring cabinet. She pulled
a long-handled metal spatula from the wall rack and bent the end into an acute
angle. Then she sidled into the close space, her flannel nightgown sticking to
the grease-splattered surfaces, and tucked her knees against her chest.

 
          
She
fit. Barely. Now to get the door closed. She reached out with the spatula,
hooked its bent end around the upper edge of the oven door, and pulled. It barely
budged. These old oven doors were heavy. Straining her muscles, she managed to
pull it a quarter of the way closed when the spatula slipped off. The door fell
back with a clank.

 
          
She
felt her heart kick into a higher gear as she tried again. The cowboy and his
gang would be walking in any—

 
          
She
heard the back door slam open and a woman's voice say, "Nice of them to
leave the place unlocked."

 
          
"Probably
means it's empty," said a voice she recognized as the cowboy's.
"Check it out anyway. See if we can put a nun on Gregor's plate, too"

 
          
The
woman snickered. "Yeah! A priest-and-nun combo platter!"

 
          
"A
three-way!" someone else said.

 
          
Lots
of laughter at that. But for Carole, only terror clawing at her gut. She had to
close this door. Now.

 
          
She
stretched out and again hooked the spatula end over the edge. The handle
slipped in her sweaty palm. She tightened her grip and began to pull.

 
          
"I'll
take this floor," said the cowboy's voice. "Al, you and Kenny check
out upstairs. Jackie, you take the basement."

 
          
Carole
heard feet moving, some away, some pounding up the stairs, and one set moving
closer, toward the kitchen. The oven door was a third of the way up now. Her
arm was aching. If only she could use both hands. She set her teeth and gave
the door a yank. To her shock it snapped toward her once it passed the halfway
mark and she had to release the spatula to keep it from slamming shut. She
eased it closed just as someone walked into the room.

 
          
Carole
closed her eyes and shuddered with relief, but that vanished when she opened
them again and saw the spatula still hooked on the door.

 
          
She
stifled a bleat of terror. The business end was sticking outside.

 
          
She
looked through the grimy glass and saw a pair of denim-clad legs enter the
kitchen and stop directly before the oven. The cowboy—had he spotted the
spatula?

 
          
Sweet
Jesus, don't let him see it!

 
          
Carole
almost wept when the legs moved on.

 
          
"Let's
see what we got here," she heard him say.

 
          
She
heard cabinet doors swing open, heard their contents hit the floor, heard
drawers pulled from their slots and dropped. He couldn' t be looking for a
person—not in those spaces. What was he after?

 
          
"Ay,
here we go."

 
          
More
footsteps. Father Palmeri's white chasuble stopped in front of the oven. The
woman.

 
          
"Whatcha
got there, Stan?"

 
          
"First,
whatcha find in the basement?"

 
          
"Dead
nun. Least I'm pretty sure she's a nun. She's wearin a tore-up nightie and a
raincoat, but she's got one of those veil hats on her head. And she was
bit."

 
          
"And
she still got her head?"

 
          
"Yeah.
Think she ran into that dead feral outside?"

 
          
"Dunno,
but someone sure kicked his ass, huh?"

 
          
"True
that." The woman moved out of view of the oven glass. "So whatcha got
there?"

 
          
"Homemade
chocolate chip cookies. Still fresh."

 
          
"Ooh,
gimme!"

 
          
Carole
bit back a sob. She and Bernadette had baked those yesterday afternoon, and now
these human slime were eating them.

 
          
"Yo,
Stan," said a male voice. "Nobody upstairs but we got a dead goth
chick in the front hall."

 
          
"Was
she bit?"

 
          
"Nah.
Some kinda steel pipe stickin from her gut."

 
          
"Whoa!
What kinda weird shit went down here last night? Sounds like my kinda
party."

 
          
They
laughed and then went silent. Stuffing their faces with her cookies, Carole
supposed.

 
          
Finally
the cowboy said, "All right. The priest house is next. We'll take these
with us. Somebody remind me we gotta come back for the bit one. We should toss
her on the pile before sunset."

 
          
With
that they shuffled out, leaving Carole alone and cramped and sweating in the
oven. She closed her eyes and pretended she was sitting on a pew in the cool
open spaces of St. Anthony's, savoring the peaceful air as she waited for mass
to begin.

 
          
*
* *

 
          
Carole
waited more than an hour before she dared to leave the oven. After slowly
straightening her cramped back, the first thing she did was peek through the
kitchen window. She sagged against the sink with relief when she saw the police
cars gone.

 
          
Next
she ran up to her room and exchanged her grease-spotted nightgown for a plaid
blouse and khaki slacks. Usually she'd wear a skirt, but not today.

 
          
She
looked around. Now . . . what?

 
          
She
couldn't stay here in the convent. She had to move somewhere else. But where?
And how could she leave Bernadette here to be hauled off by those human animals
so they could "toss her on the pile," whatever that meant?

 
          
Carole
knew she had to do something. But what?

 
          
Since
joining the convent a dozen years ago, straight out of high school, all
important decisions had been taken out of her hands. The Sisters of Mercy had
put her through college at
Georgian Court
where she'd earned her teaching degree. All
along she'd followed the instructions of Sister Superior. A calm, contemplative
existence of poverty, chastity, and obedience, devoted to prayer and study and
doing the Lord's work.

 
          
Now
she had to decide. She wanted to hide Bernadette's body, but couldn't think of
a single safe place. She wanted to move Rosita's body down to the basement but
didn't dare: The cowboy would know someone was here.

 
          
So
she spent the day in a state of mental and emotional paralysis. She prayed for
guidance, she walked the halls, she sat on her bed and stared out the window,
watching for the cowboy and his gang, dreading the moment they returned.

 
          
The
only decision she made was to hide under her bed when they did.