F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (24 page)

 
          
"So
you keep saying, but it has lasted far too long already. The dead serfs total
seven now. Seven! Wait till Franco hears!"

 
          
Gregor
quailed at the thought. "He doesn't have to hear. Not yet."

 
          
"You're
losing control, Gregor. You don't seem to realize that besides our strength and
our special powers, we have two weapons: fear and hopelessness. We cannot
control the cattle by love and loyalty, so if we are to maintain our rule, it
must be through the terror we inspire in them and the seeming impossibility of
ever defeating us. What have the cattle witnessed in your territory,
Gregor?"

 
          
Gregor
knew where this was headed. "Olivia, please, I—"

 
          
"I'll
tell you what they've witnessed," she said, her voice rising.
"They've witnessed your inability to protect the serfs we've induced to
herd the cattle and guard the daylight hours for us. And trust me, Gregor, the
success of one vigilante group will give rise to a second, and then a third,
and before long it will be open season on our serfs. And then you'll have no
control. Because the cattle herders are cowardly swine, Gregor. The lowest of
the low. They work for us only because they see us as the victors and they want
to be on the winning side at any cost. But if we can't protect them, if they
get a sense that we might be vulnerable and that our continued dominance might
not be guaranteed, they'll turn on us in a flash."

 
          
"I
know that, and I'm—"

 
          
"Fix
it, Gregor." Her voice sank to a whisper again. "I will give you till
dawn Friday to remedy this. If not, you'll awaken Friday night to find yourself
heading back to
New York
to face Franco. Is that clear?"

 
          
Dawn
Friday? Gregor could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Here it was Thursday
morning with only a few hours until dawn—too late to take any action now. That
left him one night to catch these marauding swine. And to think he'd just made
her a gift of the pregnant cow's baby. The ungrateful—

 
          
He
swallowed his anger.

 
          
"Very
clear."

 
          
"Good.
I expect you to have a plan by sundown."

 
          
"I
will."

 
          
"Leave
me now."

 
          
As
Gregor turned and hurried up the steps he heard a newborn begin to cry in the
darkness. The sound made him hungry.

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
Joe
yawned and stretched his limbs in the morning light. He'd stayed up most of the
night and let Zev sleep. The old guy needed his rest. Sleep would have been
impossible for Joe anyway. He was too wired. So he'd sat up, staring at the
back of St. Anthony's.

 
          
The
undead had left before first light, dark shapes drifting out the doors and
across the grass like parishioners leaving a predawn service. Joe had felt his
teeth grind as he scanned the group for Palmeri, but he couldn't make him out
in the dimness. He might have gone out the front. By the time the sun had begun
to peek over the rooftops and through the trees to the east, the streets
outside were deserted.

 
          
He
woke Zev and together they walked around to the front of the church.

 
          
The
heavy oak and iron doors, each forming half of a pointed arch, were closed. Joe
pulled them open and fastened the hooks to hold them back. Then, taking a
breath, he walked through the vestibule and into the nave.

 
          
Even
though he was ready for it, the stench backed him up a few steps. When his
stomach settled, he forced himself ahead, treading a path between the two piles
of shattered and splintered pews. Zev walked beside him, a handkerchief pressed
over his mouth.

 
          
Last
night he had thought the place a shambles. He saw now that it was worse. The
light of day poked into all the corners, revealing everything that had been
hidden by the warm glow of the candles. Half a dozen rotting corpses hung from
the ceiling—he hadn't noticed them last night—and others were sprawled on the floor
against the walls. Some of the bodies lay in pieces. Behind the chancel rail a
headless female torso was draped over the front of the pulpit. To the left
stood the statue of Mary. Someone had fitted her with foam rubber breasts and a
huge dildo. And at the rear of the sanctuary was the armless Christ hanging
head down on the upright of his cross.

 
          
"My
church," he whispered as he moved along the path that had once been the
center aisle, the aisle once walked by daily communicants and brides with their
proud fathers. "Look what they've done to my church!"

 
          
Joe
approached the huge block of the altar. When he'd first arrived at St.
Anthony's it had been backed against the far wall of the sanctuary, but he'd
had it moved to the front so that he could celebrate Mass facing his
parishioners. Solid
Carrara
marble, but you'd never know it now. So caked with dried blood, semen,
and feces it could have been made of styrofoam.

 
          
His
revulsion was fading, melting away in the growing heat of his rage, drawing the
nausea with it. He had intended to clean up the place but there was too much to
be done, too much for two men. It was hopeless.

 
          
"Fadda
Joe?"

 
          
He
spun at the sound of the strange voice. A thin figure stood uncertainly in the
open doorway. A timid-looking man of about fifty edged forward.

 
          
"Fadda
Joe, that you?"

 
          
Joe
recognized him now. Carl Edwards. A twitchy little man who used to help pass
the collection basket at
10:30
Mass on Sundays. A transplantee from
Jersey City
—hardly anyone around here was originally
from around here. His face was sunken, his eyes feverish as he stared at Joe.

 
          
"Yes,
Carl. It's me."

 
          
"Oh,
thank God!" He ran forward and dropped to his knees before Joe. He began
to sob. "You come back! Thank God, you come back!"

 
          
Joe
pulled him to his feet.

 
          
"Come
on now, Carl. Get a grip."

 
          
"You
come back to save us, ain'tcha? God sent you here to punish him, didn't
He?"

 
          
"Punish
whom?"

 
          
"Fadda
Palmeri! He's one a them! He's the worst of alia them! He—"

 
          
"I
know," Joe said. "I know."

 
          
"Oh,
it's so good to have ya back, Fadda Joe! We ain't knowed what to do since the
suckers took over. We been prayin for someone like you and now ya here. It's a
freakin miracle!"

 
          
Joe
wanted to ask Carl where he and all these people who seemed to think they
needed him now had been when he was being railroaded out of the parish. But
that was ancient history.

 
          
"Not
a miracle, Carl," Joe said, glancing at Zev. "Rabbi Wolpin brought me
back." As Carl and Zev shook hands, Joe said, "And I'm just passing
through."

 
          
"Passing
through? No. Don't say that! Ya gotta stay!"

 
          
Joe
saw the light of hope fading in the little man's eyes and something twisted
within, tugging at him.

 
          
"What
can I do here, Carl? I'm just one man."

 
          
"I'll
help! I'll do whatever ya want! Just tell me!"

 
          
"Will
you help me clean up?"

 
          
Carl
looked around and seemed to see the cadavers for the first time. He cringed and
turned a few shades paler.

 
          
"Yeah
... sure. Anything."

 
          
Joe
looked at Zev. "Well? What do you think?"

 
          
Zev
shrugged. "I should tell you what to do? My parish it's not."

 
          
"Not
mine either."

 
          
Zev
jutted his beard at Carl. "I think maybe he'd tell you differendy."

 
          
Joe
did a slow turn. The vaulted nave was utterly silent except for the buzzing of
the flies around the cadavers. A massive cleanup job. But if they worked all
day they could make a decent dent in it. And then—

 
          
And
then what?

 
          
Joe
didn't know. He was playing this by ear. He'd wait and see what the night
brought.

 
          
"Can
you get us some food, Carl? I'd sell my soul for a cup of coffee."

 
          
Carl
gave him a strange look.

 
          
"Just
a figure of speech, Carl. We'll need some food if we're going to keep
working."

 
          
The
man's eyes lit again.

 
          
"That
means ya staying?"

 
          
"For
a while."

 
          
"I'll
getcha some food," he said excitedly as he ran for the door. "And
coffee. I know someone who's still got coffee. She'll part with some of it for
Fadda Joe." He stopped at the door and turned. "Ay, and Fadda, I
never believed any of them things was said aboutcha. Never."

 
          
Joe
tried but he couldn't hold it back.

 
          
"It
would have meant a lot to have heard that from you then, Carl."

 
          
The
man lowered his eyes. "Yeah. I guess it woulda. But I'll make it up to ya,
Fadda. I will. You can take that to the bank."

 
          
Then
he was out the door and gone. Joe turned to Zev and saw the old man rolling up
his sleeves.

 
          
"Nu?"
Zev said. "The bodies. Before we do anything else, I think maybe we should
move the bodies."

 
          
ZEV
. . .

 
          
By
early afternoon, Zev was exhausted. The heat and the heavy work had taken their
toll. He had to stop and rest. He sat on the chancel rail and looked around.
Nearly eight hours work and they'd barely scratched the surface. But the place
did look and smell better.

 
          
Removing
the flyblown corpses and scattered body parts had been the worst of it. A foul,
gut-roiling task that had taken most of the morning. They'd carried the corpses
out to the small graveyard behind the church and left them there. Those people
deserved a decent burial but there was no time for it today.

 
          
Once
the corpses were gone, Father Joe had torn the defilements from the statue of
Mary and then they'd turned their attention to the huge crucifix. It took a
while but they finally found Christ's plaster arms in the pile of ruined pews. Both
still were nailed to the sawed-off crosspieces of the crucifix. While Zev and
Joe worked at jury-rigging a series of braces to reattach the arms,

 
          
Carl
found a mop and bucket and began the long, slow process of washing the fouled
floor of the nave.

 
          
Now
the crucifix was intact again—the life-size plaster Jesus had his arms
reattached and was once again nailed to his refurbished cross. Joe and Carl had
restored him to his former position of dominance. The poor Nazarene was upright
again, hanging over the center of the sanctuary in all his tortured splendor.

 
          
A
grisly sight. Zev never could understand the Catholic attachment to these
gruesome statues. But if the undead loathed them, then Zev was for them all the
way.

 
          
His
stomach rumbled with hunger. At least they'd had a good breakfast. Carl had
returned from his food run this morning with fresh-baked bread, peanut butter,
and two thermoses of hot coffee. He wished now they'd saved some. Maybe there
was a crust of bread left in the sack.

 
          
He
headed back to the vestibule to check and found an aluminum pot and a paper bag
sitting by the door. The pot was hot and full of beef stew, the sack contained
three cans of Pepsi.

 
          
He
poked his head out the doors but saw no one on the street outside. It had been
that way all day—he'd spy a figure or two peeking in the front doors; they'd
hover there for a moment as if to confirm that what they had heard was true,
then they'd scurry away.

 
          
He
looked down at the meal that had been left. A group of the locals must have
donated from their hoard of canned stew and precious soft drinks to fix this.
Zev was touched.

 
          
He
was about to call out to Joe and Carl when a shadow fell across the floor. He
looked up and saw a young woman in a leather jacket standing in the doorway.
The first thing he did was check for her right ear for one of those cursed
crescents. Easy enough to see with her close-cropped, almost boyish brown hair.
She didn't. Such a relief.

 
          
"Yes?"
He straightened and faced her. "Can I help you?"

 
          
"Isn't
this St. Anthony's church?" she said, making a face as she looked around
at the destruction.

 
          
"It
was. We're trying to make it so again."

 
          
Her
gaze had come to rest on his yarmulke. "But you're a—"

 
          
"A
rabbi, yes. Rabbi Zev Wolpin, at your service." He gestured around him at
the church. "Such a long story, you wouldn't believe."