F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (42 page)

 
          
"You're
thinking of me when you say that, yes? I can assure you that power is lusted
after only insofar as it can assure one of more blood."

 
          
Joe
glanced back at Franco's guards. "These fellows seem pretty devoted to
you."

 
          
"Not
out of selflessness or personal regard for me, I assure you. It's
self-preservation. You see, there's a secret, a momentous secret we keep only
to ourselves."

 
          
"And
what's that?"

 
          
"You'll
know tomorrow night. You'll be one of us then. So treasure these moments,
priest. This is your last night with your own blood in your veins."

 
          
Now,
Joe thought, realizing he might not get another chance. It has to be now.

 
          
"Huh?"
he said and stared past Franco's shoulder at the empty darkness. "Who was
that?"

 
          
"What
do you mean?"

 
          
Joe
raised himself on tiptoe again and leaned over the parapet, pointing into the
darkness. "There! I just saw him again. One of your undead flyers. A pal
of yours?"

 
          
Franco
whirled to follow Joe's point. "A flyer? Up here? I should think
not."

 
          
The
instant Franco's back was turned, Joe dropped the drape, levered himself up
onto the parapet, and rolled over it. He heard shouts from behind as his bare
feet landed on the narrow outside ledge. Knowing that if he hesitated even for
an instant he'd either lose his nerve or be caught, he let out a cry of terror
and triumph and launched himself into the air. He spread his arms in a swan
dive, hoping it would carry him beyond the setbacks. He wanted to fall all the
way to the street, to splatter himself on the pavement, leaving nothing but a
mocking red stain for Franco to find.

 
          
The
air that had felt like cold silk against his naked body when he began his fall
was now a knife-edged wind tearing at his skin and roaring in his ears. He
straightened his arms ahead of him, diving headfirst into eternity.

 
          
"Forgive
me, Lord," he said aloud. "I know it means damnation to throw away
the gift of life, but what I was facing—"

 
          
He
broke off with a cry of shock as cold fingers wrapped around his ankle and
Franco's voice shouted, "Your prayers are premature, priest!"

 
          
Joe
looked over his shoulder as his descent slowed and angled to the left. A grinning
Franco gripped him with one hand. Large membranous wings arched from his back,
spreading like a cape behind him.

 
          
Joe
kicked at him with his free foot but this only allowed Franco to grab that
ankle as well. Joe hung helpless in his grip as they glided through the air.
Franco made a full circuit of the building, landing before the same entrance
where Joe had been dropped earlier.

 
          
Barrett
was outside, watching when Joe landed on the pavement.

 
          
"Well,
well, well. Look who's back."

 
          
Joe
wanted to cry.

 
          
Franco's
wings slithered and folded and disappeared into his back as he grabbed Joe by
the back of his neck and hauled him to his feet.

 
          
"Clear
the way," he said. "I'm taking him to Devlin myself."

 
          
Sick
with fear and disappointment and frustration, Joe allowed himself to be marched
through the doors and back to the elevator banks. Franco shoved him into the
car and stepped in after him.

 
          
"Just
the two of us," he said as a couple of
Vichy
tried to crowd in behind him.

 
          
Joe
didn't see any of Franco's retainers. Apparently they hadn't made it down from
the Observation Deck yet. Joe stared at Franco's back, noting the ripped fabric
where the wings had torn through, but no sign of the wings themselves. Where
did they go?

 
          
Franco
stabbed a button, the doors closed and the car began to move. Down.

 
          
He
was smiling when he turned to Joe. "You almost got away with that. I
didn't think you had it in you." He shook his head. "If you'd
succeeded we never would have learned the details of your little vigilante
operation."

 
          
"What
if I don't know any details?"

 
          
Franco's
smile broadened. "Come now, you don't expect me to buy that."

 
          
"But—"

 
          
"Don't
waste your breath. You'll tell us everything you know."

 
          
Joe
swallowed. "Torture?"

 
          
Franco
laughed. "How quaint! Why waste time torturing you when you'll volunteer
the information after you've been turned."

 
          
The
sick, lost feeling gave way to anger and Joe lunged at him. But Franco shoved
him back with one hand and grabbed his throat with the other. Joe struggled for
air as he was lifted off his feet and tossed against the rear wall of the
elevator car.

 
          
"Don't
make me laugh," Franco said.

 
          
"Do
your damnedest." Joe slumped in the corner, gasping and rubbing his
throat. "I'll never be like you."

 
          
"Quite
right, priest. You won't be anything like me."

 
          
The
car stopped and the doors opened. Franco pointed to the right. "That
way."

 
          
Joe
didn't move. Why cooperate in his own death march—or in this case, undeath
march?

 
          
Franco
said, "You can walk or I can drag you by one of your feet."

 
          
Joe
walked, looking for a way out, an escape route, but the hallway was lined with
doors that seemed to lead to offices or utility rooms. Franco stopped as they
came to a mirror set in the wall.

 
          
"Take
a look."

 
          
Joe
glanced at the reflection of his bruised, naked body, his sunken eyes. Not a
pretty sight.

 
          
"Enjoy
it," Franco said. "This is the last time you'll ever see yourself in
a mirror."

 
          
Joe
noticed with a start that the reflection showed him standing alone in the
hallway.

 
          
"So
it's true," he murmured. "The undead cast no reflection."

 
          
"Odd,
isn't it. I used to be interested in physics. You look at me and see me because
light reflects off me onto your retinas. But that same reflected light is not
caught by a mirror. How is that possible? They used to say it was because we
have no souls but neither does the rug you're standing on, and that reflects
perfectly. I tried to sit down and figure it out once but found I didn't care
enough to try. As I told you, once you're turned you care about only one
thing."

 
          
He
grabbed Joe's shoulder and pushed him down the hall. "Enough
philosophizing. "

 
          
As
they moved on, Franco said, "I want to explain something to you, and I
want you to listen. I want you to understand this. By now you've probably
noticed that there are different kinds of undead, different strains or
breeds."

 
          
Joe
had, but he said nothing.

 
          
"There's
a hierarchy among us. No one can explain it—it's as inexplicable as our lack of
reflection or where my wings come from when I want to fly— but it's there. It's
as if the strain gets tainted or attenuated the further it moves from its
source. My immediate get—the ones I turn—retain almost all of their
intelligence; but their get retain a little less, and the get of those retain
even less. And so on down the line through the generations of get until. . .
until we are begetting idiots. But intelligence isn't all that is lost along
the way. Human characteristics leach away as well. The distant generations of get
become more and more bestial until they're like two-legged rabid dogs. We call
them ferals."

 
          
Ferals
... Franco had mentioned them in connection with the assault on
Washington
.

 
          
"Why
are you telling me this?" Joe said. "Why should I care?"

 
          
"You
should care very much. After all, we're discussing your future." He
stopped before a door. "We're here."

 
          
Joe
saw an AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY sign set below a small window.

 
          
"Take
a look. Tell me what you see."

 
          
Joe
stepped up to the glass and peered through. He saw a dimly lit space filled
with pipes and large oval tanks.

 
          
"Looks
like a boiler room."

 
          
"Keep
looking. See anything else. Something moving, perhaps?"

 
          
The
note of glee in Franco's tone made Joe's skin crawl. He searched the shadow but
didn't see—

 
          
Wait.
To the right. Something there, moving from the deeper shadows into the wan
light of an overhead bulb. It looked like a man yet it moved like an animal, on
its toes, hunched forward, fingers bent like claws. As it came under the bulb
Joe saw that it was a man, or had been. Naked, filthy, face twisted into a
perpetual snarl, eyes mad and . . . feral.

 
          
"Dear
God!"

 
          
"God
has nothing to do with Devlin there—Jason Devlin, a young, handsome software
developer on his way up until a few months ago when he was run down in the
basement of the
Flatiron
Building
and killed by a feral. The feral neglected
to behead him, and so Mr. Devlin awoke the following sunset as one of us—as an
undead. For a few days he looked like his old self, but then he began to
devolve. Remember what I told you about the bloodline weakening, attenuating.
He was turned by a feral, and so he became a feral, only more so. He's one of
my line, my most distant get, so I suppose I must claim him as related to
me."

 
          
"How
do you know?"

 
          
"Oh,
I know. We always recognize our get. I keep him around for entertainment. And
as an extra stick to keep the serfs in line. I threaten to feed them to Devlin
if they slack off on their duties. That's about all Devlin is good for now. He
didn't retain enough intelligence to distinguish between friend and foe, which
means he'd be attacking serfs as well as legitimate prey, so I can't even use
him as a guard dog."

 
          
Franco
tapped on the window and the creature burst into motion, leaping at the door
with blinding speed, screaming and clawing at the glass. Joe almost tripped
backpedaling away.

 
          
"Look
at me, priest," Franco said. "Look at me and listen. Remember when
you said you'd never be like me? Didn't you wonder why I agreed? It's because
when you look at Devlin you are seeing your future. I'm going to let Devlin
turn you."

 
          
Joe
couldn't speak, could only shake his head and back away, thinking, no ... no
... this can't be true ... this can't happen ... to be like that thing, that
creature, that monster .. . forever .. . no .. .