The Living Night (Book 1) (26 page)

"What is it?" Jean-Pierre said.

"Singer," Loirot gasped, finding his
voice and glancing quickly, nervously, over his shoulder, "He and his zombies
are attacking."

On cue, the zombies appeared, a band of about
fifteen. They formed a ring about the odd flock and what remained of the death-squad.

Singer stepped forward, smiling. His canines had
grown quite long, and there was something bestial in his face. "May the
Lord take your sinning souls—because if He doesn't, the Devil surely
will."

That was when something strange happened.

*
    
*
    
*

Byron
was beginning to think they wouldn't find Laslo. This didn't disturb him.

Laslo's death would be difficult to arrange, but
it was also irrelevant; Byron was perfectly aware that the albino had sent them
on this mission just to have a few moments with Danielle. What would be the
outcome of those moments? Byron was relatively sure that Jean-Pierre wouldn't
kill her and that this lack of action would break the squad apart. If so, what
would Byron do?

To be truthful, he knew the answer, as much as
he might wish he didn't. He was going to miss Jean-Pierre. He only hoped that
in all her anger, Cloire would refrain from killing the albino, or getting him
to help her do it. That was one thing he couldn't do; if Cloire asked him to do
that, no matter how he felt about her, he would refuse, and that would probably
put an end to their relationship, as well. If only he could just hear her say
that she loved him, just once, before that happened …

They found Laslo in the chapel, praying. When he
heard Byron and the other three enter, he wheeled about and without hesitation
began shooting, a wild grin across his face. His dark eyes shone brightly. He
was loving all this, thought Byron, and suddenly found that he wouldn't mind
killing the bastard, after all.

Zombies sprung up to either side of the chapel's
doorway and descended on the death-squad, forcing them back out into the hall.
Byron shot one through the head, then another. Several fell, but then the bloodfinders
were too close. One wrenched Byron’s gun from his hands. He twisted its head
off, but he had no time to leap for the gun. More
deaders
pressed in tight.

Hand-to-hand combat broke out. After crushing
one of the fetid things in his big arms, Byron punched another through the
chest, where his hand stuck. Seizing the opportunity, the zombie sent its
fingers toward his eyes.

Cloire knocked the thing's head in with the butt
of a rifle she'd managed to hang onto, then left him to struggle with getting
the corpse off his arm while a third deader jumped on her back and tried to
strangle her from behind. Two zombies had pinned Kilian was up against a wall
while another beat at his face.

Laslo emerged from the chapel. With a few
zombies trailing behind, he started off down the hall, Kiernevar the only crew
member free to chase after him. The two lunatics disappeared from sight.

Byron shook the thing off his hand and helped
Cloire remove the zombie from her back. That done, they liberated a
badly-beaten Kilian and dealt with the
deaders
remaining. They followed the sounds of gunfire and cackling down a series of
halls until they reached a staircase, which they ascended to the top floor.

Up ahead, the laughter continued, only now it
was Kiernevar who made the sound. He was just disappearing through a small
arched doorway when they rounded the last bend. They entered it to find a
narrow staircase. Not pausing, they ascended the single flight to the roof. A
blast of cold wind raised goose-bumps along Byron's spine as he stepped outside.

At first he couldn't spot Kiernevar or Laslo, only
hear their cackling and hooting, but then he saw the bodies of several zombies
lying dead and broken on the roof. Kiernevar was chasing the psychotic priest
up some scaffolding to the beheaded bell tower. Wind whipped madly around them,
fluttering their hair and clothes.

Laslo turned on the brink of the abyss, firing
his last bullets into the Lord of the Flies before they collided, struggling on
the edge of a well that Byron couldn't see so much as sense. Illuminated
against the stars, the two madmen locked their hands about each others'
throats. It was amazing to Byron that Kiernevar was still alive, that Laslo's
age wasn't enough to slay the young werewolf easily. But for some reason the
two lunatics were deadlocked, struggling like two bulls, neither gaining
ground, just smiling maniacally at each other even as their fingers sank
tighter into each other's throats.

The two lunatics teetered, then went over into
the well, both still intent on throttling the other. So focused were they that,
even as they plummeted, they didn’t make a sound, not even a
chitter
, but simply disappeared from the lip of the bell
tower as if they'd never existed.

"Shit," said Cloire.

She ran up the scaffolding and peered down into
the well. Byron joined her, but could see little.

"Shall we?" he said.

Cloire smiled faintly. "If Kiernevar wants
to get himself killed, that's his problem. Let's go back down to the hangar the
old-fashioned way.”

The three loped downstairs through the cold
stone corridors to the hangar. They passed the swaying bodies and empty
barricades until they heard a strange
wet
sound and followed it to find
a very odd scene indeed. The scattered remains of the zombies, along with
Jean-Pierre, Sophia, Loirot and the odd flock (!), were standing around a large
pit, or pool, located directly below an opening in the ceiling.

The surface of the gooey substance, though too
high to be seen by those below, could be heard to thrash and bubble. Laslo and
Kiernevar fought in there—an epic battle between two truly demented immortals.
The pool bucked, the corpse-filled sludge (Byron could smell the reek of death)
boiled, and the observers looked on with awe.

Finally, the waters stilled. A calm grew over
the hangar.

A hand gripped the rim of the pool and a head
rose over the edge: Laslo's. He was bloody and beaten, more ashen than ever,
his glossy black eyes faded by battle. His expression deathly, he gave a
sickly, twitching smile.

There was something wrong, something in his
hair. There fingers curled tightly, gripping the roots.

Kiernevar rose from the putrid water, holding
Laslo’s decapitated head in his hand, located the stairs and followed them to
the concrete floor. Dripping, bits of flesh and decaying matter plastering him,
a manic grin spread across his features.

How was this possible? How could a werewolf so
young destroy a chalgid so old? Few assembled were ever to know, but everyone
was eager to conjecture about it. Perhaps Kiernevar's innate strength—the
quality which had prompted Jean-Pierre to immortalize him in the first
place—was simply stronger than Laslo's.

With Laslo's passing, a shudder worked its way
through the assembled zombies. No more were they bound by a psychic hold; they
were free, although without his blood and powers of resurrection they would
probably die within a few days or weeks—unless Singer had absorbed enough of
Laslo's blood over the years to make a true chalgid out of him. In that case,
he would become their new leader. In any event, several of them began tearing
off their monk-robes and a few even spit on them. One said, "Praise
Satan," and the others chuckled.

Kiernevar started to toss the head to them, but
Ruegger stopped him. With some formality, the vampire approached him and held
out his hands. Kiernevar stared at him, then, wonderingly, handed the head
over. He watched on intently as Ruegger whispered something to the head, then
bent his ear to Laslo’s lips to hear the ragged answer. Ruegger nodded,
satisfied, then handed the head back to Kiernevar. Though obviously confused,
Kiernevar accepted, and immediately did what he had been about to do.

Like a pack of wolves, the zombies tore the head
apart. Their new-found freedom was almost intoxicating to watch.

Cloire would have none of it; Jean-Pierre had
released Ruegger and Danielle and that was all she saw. Picking a shotgun from
off the ground, she marched over to where the albino, Sophia, Loirot and the
odd flock stood. Taking aim at Danielle, Cloire fired. The vampiress crumpled.

Jean-Pierre had the Magnum in his hand instantly
and emptied its clip into Cloire before Danielle had been on the ground long
enough to settle. Cloire staggered backward. Before she collapsed, she got off
another twelve-gauge round, hitting the albino in the chest and sending him to
the floor.

Byron helped her up. Jean-Pierre rose, too, and
slapped another magazine into his gun.

"You let them
live
, you bastard!" seethed Cloire, picking up some shells
from the ground and reloading the shotgun. "Kill her now, Jean-Pierre, or
I swear I'll do it for you."

Ruegger knelt over Danielle, holding her in his
arms. It wouldn't be long now, Byron saw: she was dying, and quickly. All the
blood in the world wouldn't be able to save her after another few minutes, and
Ruegger certainly didn't have enough to save her. Someone here would have to do
it, and fast.

"Don't touch her, Cloire," Jean-Pierre
said. "As my last act as your leader, I command you to let her live."

She arched her eyebrows at Kilian. "You
with me?"

"Hell," he said, "I'm
second-in-command. Are you willing to elect me as your new leader?"

"For now let's just say we're equal
partners. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Kiernevar, you ugly bastard, you'll
probably have made a name for yourself now, after having killed Laslo. You with
us?"

"Kiernevar," he chirped, but there was
clarity in his eyes. "After, albino gone?"

"That's right, shit-for-brains."

"Kiernevar is with you.”

"I made you," hissed Jean-Pierre,
"and I will unmake you."

"Empty threats," said Cloire. Then, to
Loirot: "What of it, you bastard? You in?"

Loirot stepped away from the albino. "I'm
in,
goddamnit
."

She faced Byron. Softly, she said, "You
with me, lover?"

He hesitated. God, but what would it accomplish
if he stayed with Jean-Pierre? He'd only lose Cloire. Really, his decision was
inevitable.

"Do you love me?" he asked her.

"Shit," she said. "Is that what
it all comes down to?"

"Yes."

"All right then,
damnit
... I do."

He nodded. "Will we still work for
Vistrot?"

"If he’ll have us."

Byron forced himself to look at Jean-Pierre, who
gazed back at him with a strange ... empathy.

"It's okay," the albino said. "I
understand. Do what you have to do."

Surprising him, Byron felt tears burn behind his
eyes. He straightened. “Okay,” he told Cloire.

"And what about you,
Sofe
?”
Cloire said. “We were friends for a short time, and we can be friends again.
Jean-Pierre has nothing for you. Look at him, he's pathetic. Come, just think
of all the great times we'll have. All you have to do is—just—say—
yes
."

Sophia stepped forward, but it was to the side
of Jean-Pierre that she went. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

"
He's
not pathetic," she said.

“Fine. We don't need you. Step out of the way,
both of you, and let us finish the job. Remember that I'm only sparing you two
out of courtesy and that I'll revoke the privilege if you piss me off. Now
stand down!"

Jean-Pierre raised the .357 and Sophia brought
up her own pistol, a 9mm Beretta. Together, they positioned themselves in front
of Ruegger and Danielle, blocking off the death-squad's line of fire. This was
an irrevocable action and they both seemed to know it; a glance passed between
them, and Byron didn’t miss it.

"Okay, you bastards," said Cloire.
"Prepare to die."

Violence would have certainly erupted, but it
was at this time that help came from a very unlikely source. Booming laughter
broke the tension and the Balaklava emerged
from the nearby forest of swaying bodies. They chuckled and clapped their
hands, and Jagoda put fingers in his mouth and whistled.

"Very good, very good," called Junger,
the bald, tattooed one with the tusks. "You've all put on a marvelous
show, very dramatic."

"
Very
dramatic," concurred
Jagoda.

"But now it must end, because little
Danielle is dying and that's not part of the plan, though it would be worse if
it were Ruegger ... but enough of this. All of you, lower your weapons or we
will do it for you."

They lowered their weapons. The Balaklava were much stronger than all present, and not
even Cloire wanted to fight them. Jagoda walked past Sophia and the albino to
crouch next to Danielle.

Ruegger's eyes burned, but he didn't object as
the bearded one sliced open his wrist and put it to Danielle's mouth. At first,
she resisted, but she wasn't in every sense of the word conscious; her eyes
were open, but Byron doubted she could actually see. The Balaklava's
blood touched her tongue and she swallowed reflexively, growing more vital with
each sip.