F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (58 page)

 
          
Lacey
looked glum. "Then what? If we can't get inside—"

 
          
"I
think I have a idea," Carole said.

 
          
Lacey
brightened. "What?"

 
          
"Just
the start of one. Let me work it through first. How long have we got?"

 
          
"I'd
like to leave as soon as possible," Joe said. "Hit them before they
find out what we did at the Post Office. Or if they do know, catch them while
they're still off balance."

 
          
"I
think we should make the trip by day," Lacey said. "That way the only
ones around to stop us will be living. At night we'll have to dodge the undead
as well."

 
          
"But
I can't help you during the day."

 
          
Lacey
smiled and nudged the letter bag with a toe. "I think Carole and I can
handle any Vichy we meet along the way."

 
          
Joe
wasn't keen on lying helpless in a car trunk while the two women took all the
risks, but he couldn't fault Lacey's logic.

 
          
"All
right then," he said. "We leave at dawn. Will that give you enough
time, Carole?"

 
          
"I
hope so. I'll need to take the car to see if I can find what I need."

 
          
"Okay.
Just get back in time so we can stock up for the trip. We need to find some gas
too. The
Lincoln
's pretty low."

 
          
"No
need," Lacey said. "There's a cool convertible with a full tank
sitting in the garage. We can take that instead."

 
          
"Looks
like you've got all the bases covered. Only one thing left to do before we go.
Carole, drop Lacey off at the church so she can tell them what we did at the
Post Office and to expect reprisals. But most important, tell them the
get-death secret. Have Gerald Vance get on his shortwave and start broadcasting
it around the world."

 
          
"You
think anyone'll believe it?"

 
          
"I
hope so. Maybe in
New York
we'll find a way to give the world more tangible proof."

 
          
"How?"

 
          
Joe
didn't answer. He was working on the beginning of an idea of his own.

 
          
BARRETT
. . .

 
          
It
was a little after
midnight
when James Barrett stepped out of the elevator into the Observation Deck
atrium. A couple of Franco's get-guards pulled pistols and started for him.
Where was Artemis tonight? He was usually the first to get in the face of anyone,
living or undead, who set foot on the deck.

 
          
"What
do you want?"

 
          
Something
in their eyes, their expressions. Was it fear? What was going down here?

 
          
"Franco
said to meet him here," Barrett said.

 
          
"I'll
go check," said one of the guards.

 
          
As
commander of the
Empire
State
Building
's human contingent, Barrett was used to
being taken straight to Franco. Why this extra layer of insulation all of a
sudden?

 
          
After
all, he was responsible for round-the-clock security. He could have stayed
around just on days—the really important time for security—but that meant he'd
never get to see Franco, and Franco would never see him. So he caught a few
winks here and there when he could and made sure he was around for at least
some of the night shift.

 
          
He'd
held the job for six months now. That meant he had nine-and-a-half years of
servitude left. That was the deal with the undead: ten years of service and
they'd turn him. Fine for the other slobs to wait that long, but not him. He'd
risen as high as a living man could go in Franco's organization. He needed to
take the next step, needed to be turned, and soon. But he still hadn't found
the lever to boost him to that stage.

 
          
"Come
with us," said the returning vampire. "But first..."

 
          
He
patted Barrett down and removed the .44 Magnum from his shoulder holster. He
stared at it a moment, then handed it back.

 
          
Barrett
hid his shock. He'd never been frisked before.

 
          
"Let's
go," said the other.

 
          
But
instead of escorting him to the outer deck, he led him into a stairwell to the
left of the elevator bank and down the steps to the eighty-fifth floor. After a
short walk along a hallway, he was passed through another set of guards into a
bare room furnished with only a king-size four-poster bed. Large sheets of
plywood had been bolted over the windows.

 
          
Franco
paced the room, his hands behind his back.

 
          
"There's
been some trouble," he said without preamble, without so much as a glance
at Barrett.

 
          
"Where?"
It must be really serious, he thought. "I haven't heard anything."

 
          
"You
wouldn't," Franco said, his eyes were on the floor as he paced. "I
sent Artemis down to
New Jersey
a few days ago to check up on Olivia and see to it that she was staying
on top of things. If she wasn't—as I was sure was the case—he was to take over.
This evening I received a report from downtown that—"

 
          
He
seemed to catch himself and cast a quick sidelong glance at Barrett. What was
he hiding? He knew that Artemis and a few of his get lived down in the Village.
What had Franco heard?

 
          
Franco
shook his head and went on. "I heard a report that made me suspect that
something might have happened to Artemis. So I sent a flyer down to
check." Finally he looked up at Barrett. "Artemis is dead. So is
Olivia."

 
          
"Oh,
shit," Barrett said. It was the best he could do. He was all but
speechless.

 
          
Artemis
dead? Barrett couldn't wrap his mind around it. Was there a tougher undead son
of a bitch in the world? He doubted it.

 
          
"How?"

 
          
"Staked.
Same as Olivia."

 
          
"Her
guards too?"

 
          
"All
dead."

 
          
"A
massacre! Who—?"

 
          
"I
suspect it has something to do with that vigilante priest. That's the only
answer."

 
          
"But
he's one of you now."

 
          
"His
followers aren't. Maybe when they found out that we turned him, instead of
being demoralized, they went berserk. I don't know."

 
          
Barrett
heard opportunity knocking. Here was a chance to stand out, to maybe shorten
that nine-and-a-half-year wait for immortality.

 
          
A
plan was already forming. Show up down there, pretend to be another refugee,
infiltrate their ranks, wait till the time was right, till they were off guard,
then blow them all away.

 
          
"Want
me to go down and check it out?"

 
          
Franco
shook his head. "No. I need you here. I want you to gather your men from
inside and outside the city and concentrate them around this building. I'm
going to organize a counter strike and I don't want any interruptions. By next
week I'll have gathered a horde of ferals to set loose down there. No quarter,
no survivors. Then I'm going to incinerate the entire area. The flames will be
visible for miles. Not one house or church or synagogue will be left standing.
The rest of the living will hear and understand the consequences of
resistance."

 
          
"I
don't think pulling in your perimeter is such a good idea. That's like your
early-warning system. You don't want—"

 
          
"What
I don't want is to debate it. I did not bring you up here for a discussion. I'm
telling you what to do. Now do it!"

 
          
Barrett
resisted a hot retort. He held up his hands and said, "You're the
boss."

 
          
As
he turned and walked out, he thought, But you're an asshole.

 
          
He
didn't care what Franco said, he wasn't going to pull in all the outriders. His
ass was on the line here too, and if a caravan full of vampire hunters was
headed this way, he wanted to know about it before they reached
Fifth Avenue
.

 
          
Because
invariably vampire hunters were cowboy hunters too.

 
          
LACEY
. . .

 
          
Feeling
tight and on edge, Lacey sat straight and tall in the passenger seat, scanning
the highway ahead and twisting to check out behind as they sped north along
Route 35. Her right hand rested on the .45 semiautomatic cradled in her lap.

 
          
They'd
left before dawn with Carole at the wheel. The Parkway route had been
considered, but rejected. It was a wider road, but offered fewer options should
they run into any
Vichy
. Route 35 was local, but it wasn't as if they had to worry about
traffic lights or anything, and it allowed them to turn off on an instant's
notice. That was good; the sun was rising into a cloudless sky, which was not
so good. Lacey would have preferred a cloudy, rainy day. Better yet, foggy.
Anything to cut the visibility.

 
          
As
she spotted a sign that said
HAZLET
she
felt the Fairlane surge forward. Joe—apparently he'd played around with cars as
a teen—had identified this one as a '57 Fairlane; he'd checked the engine
before they'd left and proclaimed it "hot," mentioning a four-barrel
carburetor and other car talk she couldn't follow. She leaned left to catch a
look at the speedometer.

 
          
"Ninety?"
she said.

 
          
Carole
nodded. She was dressed in some hideous mauve nylon warm-up she'd found last
night in a neighboring house. "The road is straight and level here, and
the sooner we get there, the better."

 
          
"I'll
drink to that."

 
          
Carole
nodded. "I don't know much about cars, but this one handles
beautifully."

 
          
They
merged with Route 9 and headed over a tall bridge. After that it was decision
time.

 
          
"Turnpike
or stay on 9?" Carole said.

 
          
Tough
question. Lacey did not want to run into any
Vichy
.

 
          
"Let's
think about that," Lacey said. "The closer we get to the city, the
thicker the
Vichy
will be. But if I were a
Vichy
, the last place I'd look for someone
traveling would be the Turnpike. It's too open. So I'd concentrate on the back
roads."

 
          
"You're
assuming they think that far ahead. The ones I've met so far haven't been too
bright."

 
          
"But
Joe said they were pretty well organized in the city. Someone with brains is
probably calling the shots. I vote Turnpike."

 
          
Carole
took a deep breath. "All right. Turnpike it is."

 
          
They
followed the green-and-white signs and got on the New Jersey Turnpike North at
Exit 11. They kept to the outer lanes.

 
          
As
they roared along, Lacey felt herself starting to cook in the sunlight pouring
through her side window. She rolled it down a few inches; that helped for a
while, but soon she was perspiring.

 
          
She
was wearing plaid cotton comfy pants and a red V-neck sweater over an
extra-large T-shirt she'd found—it came from some restaurant called Pete and
Elda's and apparently was a prize for eating a whole large pizza. Eventually
she removed the sweater.

 
          
"If
it gets much warmer we'll have to put the top down."

 
          
"I
don't think that would be wise."

 
          
"Why
not? Afraid of developing skin cancer in twenty years?"

 
          
Gallows
humor. Even Carole smiled—a rare event these days.

 
          
Lacey
pulled the T-shirt away from her skin and caught a whiff of herself.

 
          
"Damn,
do I ever need a shower!"

 
          
She'd
tried to bathe in the ocean but it was freezing.

 
          
"Wouldn't
you love to be able to take a bath?" Carole said. "I'd give almost
anything for one."

 
          
"Me
too." Lacey decided Carole's cage was due for a gentle rattle. "You
know, I wish I believed in the soul. I'd trade mine for one good hot
shower."

 
          
"Don't
talk like that," Carole said.

 
          
"It's
true."

 
          
She
glanced at Lacey. "You'd sell your soul that cheaply?"

 
          
"We're
talking hypothetically here, and no, I wouldn't sell it that cheaply. I'd want
at least three hot showers—long ones.

 
          
Carole
looked as if she were about to reply when she glanced in the rearview mirror.
Her expression tightened.

 
          
"Oh,
no."

 
          
Lacey
turned and looked through the convertible's plastic rear window. Two longhaired
men on motorcycles had just roared out of a rest stop and were closing in on
them. They wore dirty cutaway denim jackets and brandished pistols.

 
          
Vichy
.

 
          
"Damn.
Sorry. I guess I made the wrong call."

 
          
She
reached down to the postal bag on the floor by the back seat—next to their
stock of mylar napalm balloons and the canister of chemicals Carole had picked
up from the town's water treatment plant—and came up with a sawed-off ten-gauge
shotgun.

 
          
"Well,
I was hoping this wouldn't happen, but at least we're prepared."

 
          
One
of their pursuers raised a pistol and fired a round over the top of the
Fairlane.

 
          
"A
warning shot across our bow," Lacey said. She worked the shotgun's pump to
chamber a shell. "Let's see how they like—"

 
          
Carole
grabbed her arm. "Dear God, I just thought of something! What if they
shoot into the trunk?"

 
          
"Joe
can handle a bullet or two, as we've already seen."

 
          
Her
grip tightened. "I'm not worried about the bullets so much as the holes
they'll make. The sunlight will come through and—"

 
          
"Shit!"
Three good minds planning this trip and not one of them had thought of that.

 
          
Another
shot—this one whined past Lacey's open window. She stuck her head out and waved
her empty hand. The biker on the left grinned and pointed toward the shoulder.

 
          
Lacey
pulled back inside. "Pull over. But take your time. And when you think
you're going slow enough, start putting the top down.

 
          
Carole
looked at her. "Top down? Wh—?"

 
          
"Can't
explain now. And speaking of top down ..." She began pulling off her
T-shirt.

 
          
"Lacey!"

 
          
"Just
trust me."

 
          
She'd
given up bras long ago. As the car decelerated, she released the roof catches
and tucked the .45 into the postal bag. Then she climbed into the rear. She
laid the shotgun in the sling between the back seat and the roof compartment.

 
          
She
began slipping out of her pants. She still liked to wear panties but she removed
those too.

 
          
The
roof started to rise. The wind swirling around her body felt good as she knelt
on the back seat, gearing herself up for what was to come. One of the
Vichy
, pistol at the ready, pulled his bike up
along the driver side and looked in, probably checking out the number of
occupants. When he saw Lacey his eyes went wide and he let out a whoop.

 
          
As
he dropped back, Lacey said, "As soon as we stop, get out of the car and
start yelling at me to put my clothes on."

 
          
"Why
don't I start right now?"

 
          
"Listen
to me. I want them to see that you're not armed—they'll for sure know I'm not.
I want them off guard. So just act mad and like you think I'm crazy."

 
          
"I'm
sure I can handle that," Carole said.

 
          
The
roof was three-quarters down when the car stopped. Lacey stood and threw her
arms wide.

 
          
"Guys!
Am I glad to see youl Where the fuck you been hiding?"

 
          
The
Vichy pair looked at each other, stopped their bikes half a dozen feet behind
the car, and sat staring. Both still clutched their pistols.

 
          
"Not
as glad as we are to see you, little lady," said the red-bearded one on
the left. "And I do mean see you."

 
          
He
gave his buddy's arm a backhand slap and they both laughed.

 
          
Lacey
heard the car door slam behind her and Carole's voice cry, "Lacey! You put
your clothes on right this instant!"

 
          
"Who's
she?" said the other one who'd twined his salt-and-pepper goatee into a
triad of greasy braids.

 
          
"Just
some lezbo I hooked up with."

 
          
Redbeard
grinned. "Lezzie action. Awright!"

 
          
Braids
set his kickstand and got off his bike. Lacey noticed he had PAGANS written
across the back of his cutaway. She also noticed the bulge behind his fly.
Good. All that blood flowing away from his brain.

 
          
"Lezzie,
huh?" He took a step toward Carole. "No such thing. She just ain't
met the right man yet."

 
          
Oh,
but she has, Lacey thought.

 
          
"Never
mind her." Lacey crawled out on the trunk lid and seated herself cross
legged, giving the two
Vichy
a panoramic view. Braids suddenly lost interest in Carole. "I'm
the one in need of a little male tail, if you know what I'm saying. Been too
damn long since I had a guy to do me right."

 
          
"Well
then," Redbeard said, getting off his bike. He adjusted the bulge in his
pants. "This is your lucky day. You get a double dose."

 
          
"Hey,
I ain't got nothing against a three-way, but I need one guy to start me off
right. You know, get me juiced up. Who's got the biggest dick? I want the
best-hung guy first."

 
          
"That'll
be me," said Redbeard.

 
          
Braids
snorted. "No fuckin way!"

 
          
Here
was the tough part. She had to time this just right or the whole situation
would go to hell in a heartbeat. Lacey clapped her hands and forced a giggle.
"Oh, this is so cool! A cock fight! Show me! Show me! Show me! I'll be the
judge! No-no, wait! I'll be the package inspector!"