F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (65 page)

 
          
Blinking
in the glare, Joe reached in and found the foam-rubber padding Carole had
duct-taped to the lower end of his silver cross. Even through the padding he
felt its heat. Averting his eyes he pulled out the cross and slammed it against
one of the emerging wings. A hiss of burning flesh, a puff of acrid smoke as
Franco writhed and let out a hoarse scream. Then the other wing— with the same
results.

 
          
He
returned the cross to the back pack and zipped it. He blinked to regain his
vision; when it cleared he looked down at Franco's back. The wing tips were now
smoldering lumps of scar tissue. He turned as he heard the door from the
eighty-fifth floor hallway swing open. Members of Franco's get-guard began to
crawl into the stairwell.

 
          
Good.

 
          
He
grabbed the gasping, whimpering Franco and turned him onto his back. The
vampire stared at Joe's face, his expression terrified and confused.

 
          
"I'll
refresh your memory, Franco. You allowed something called Devlin to lunch on
me." Joe's anger flared again as he recalled his terror, his helplessness,
and the searing pain of having his throat ripped open. "Remember?" He
heard his voice growing louder. "Told me I'd soon be just like him.
Remember? " He grabbed Franco by the neck and drew his face close.
"Remember?"

 
          
He
was shouting now and he wanted to rip Franco's head off.

 
          
No.
Not yet.

 
          
He
looked down and saw that the get-guards had reached the steps and were crawling
up, their progress slow, tortured.

 
          
"Come
on, guys," he said. "Move it. I haven't got all day."

 
          
Damn
right. He glanced at his watch. He had maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes before
he became as weak as they.

 
          
He
turned back to Franco and saw that a light had dawned in the undead's eyes—realization,
but not belief.

 
          
"The
priest?" he whispered in a voice like tiny claws scratching stone.
"You? No ..."

 
          
"Yes!"
Joe heard the word hiss out like escaping steam. "The priest. Killing me
wasn't good enough. You had to condemn me to an eternity of depravity, rob me
of every shred of dignity, undo every scrap of good I'd done in my entire life.
At least that was your plan. But it didn't work."

 
          
"How?"
The word was an exhalation.

 
          
"I'm
not even sure myself. All I know is this is how it works out in the end: I
lose, but you lose too."

 
          
He
flinched at a deafening report and the spang of a bullet ricocheting off the
concrete above his head. Another shot and this time the bullet dug into his hip
with a painful sting.

 
          
He
stood and faced them, spreading his arms. "Go ahead. It won't matter. I'm
one of you."

 
          
Not
true. He'd never be one of them, but no reason they shouldn't suffer some
confusion and dismay in their final minutes.

 
          
More
shots. Most were misses because their weak, wavering hands were unable to aim,
but a few hit home. He jerked with the impacts, felt the heat and pain of their
entries, but it was nothing he couldn't bear. Finally they gave it up. He
smiled at the alarm in their faces.

 
          
He
turned to Franco and lifted him in his arms. "Let's go."

 
          
"Where?"

 
          
"To
see the sun. Don't you miss it? We're too late for sunrise, but it promises to
be a beautiful day."

 
          
Franco
grabbed Joe's shirt and pulled on it. A feeble gesture. But Joe was surprised
to see a nasty grin stretch his thin lips.

 
          
"You
idiot! Devlin was my get! That makes you my get as well. When I die, you
die!"

 
          
"I
know," Joe said, returning a grin he hoped was just as nasty: "I'm
counting on that."

 
          
Franco's
jaw dropped open. "N-no! You can't! You—"

 
          
"I
can. Because I don't want to exist like this."

 
          
Joe
pushed through the door at the top of the steps and emerged into the
green-tiled atrium by the elevators. Sunlight, searingly bright, blazed through
the huge windows of the enclosed observation area that lay a few steps up and
beyond. Only a six-foot swath, no more than two feet wide, penetrated the
atrium.

 
          
I'm
here. I've done it.

 
          
Amazing
what someone can do when they don't care if they live or die, he thought. But
they can achieve so much more, achieve the seemingly impossible, when they're
looking to die.

 
          
He
forced himself to look at that swath of direct light. That was where Franco
would meet his end, sealing Joe's fate as well. But first he'd wait for the
get-guards to arrive. He wanted as many as possible on camera when Franco
bought it.

 
          
CAROLE
. . .

 
          
Carole's
stomach clenched as she stared at the monitors. "What is he doing?"
"Just what he said he would," Lacey replied. "Getting as many
get-guards onscreen before he pushes Franco into the sunlight."

 
          
"But
there's a whole stairwell full of guards. Too many of them. He's letting them
get too close. Why doesn't he have the cross out?"

 
          
"What
can they do? After that display in the stairwell they know they can't shoot
him."

 
          
"But
they have those machetes."

 
          
"So?
They can barely lift them. Don't worry, Carole. He's got them beat."
Carole wasn't so sure. A lucky swing from a machete could sever an Achilles
tendon, or worse, a higher swing could catch Joseph's hamstrings. He wouldn't
be able to stand then. He'd go down and they'd swarm over him. One of them
might be strong enough to behead him ...

 
          
Her
chest tightened at the thought. She couldn't, wouldn't lose him.

 
          
"I'm
going up there," she blurted.

 
          
"No
way!" Lacey said. "Our job is to stay here."

 
          
Carole
began pushing the desk away from the door. "No. I can help. I can use the
cross to keep them back."

 
          
Lacey
grabbed her arm. "Carole—"

 
          
Carole
wrenched free. "Please don't fight me on this. I've got to go. I've just
got to."

 
          
"Shit!"
Lacey said. "Then I'll go with you."

 
          
"No."
She cracked the door and peeked out into the hall. Empty. "One of us has
to stay here. That's you."

 
          
Without
looking back, she stepped into the hall and started for the elevators.

 
          
She
heard Considine's voice behind her. "Tell her she's got to go down to one
and catch an express to eighty."

 
          
"Carole—"
Lacey began.

 
          
"I
heard," Carole said over her shoulder.

 
          
"Keep
your gun ready," Lacey called. "You see anything moving, shoot first
and ask questions later."

 
          
"I
will."

 
          
And
she would. Joseph needed her and no one was going to bar her from reaching him.

 
          
BARRETT
. . .

 
          
Barrett
staggered through the
Empire
State
lobby in a daze. His men lay strewn about
like jackstraws. Blue-gray faces everywhere. Those who weren't dead were well
on their way.

 
          
Obviously
they'd been poisoned, but how? The water supply? The breakfast eggs? The
coffee? Didn't much matter now. He just had to remember not to eat or drink
anything within blocks of this building.

 
          
But
all of his men? Surely there had to be a couple who'd missed breakfast. But he
didn't know who and he had no way of contacting them. They were scattered
throughout the building. He'd have to go floor to floor and door to door.

 
          
The
other question was who. Who did this? What did they want? Were they after the
cowboys, to send a message to anyone who collaborated with the enemy? Or were
they after the undead too? If so, they'd be upstairs, on eight-five—where the
vamps would be sitting ducks and the shit would really be hitting the fan.

 
          
Barrett
turned and looked back at the front doors. His first impulse was to cut and
run. As top cowboy the responsibility for all this would be laid on him. But on
the other hand, he'd been looking for a chance to put himself in the spotlight.
Maybe this was opportunity knocking.

 
          
He
had to reach the
Security
Center
. He could get the lay of the land there and
decide what, if anything, he could do. He headed for the elevators. As he
passed the security kiosk in the main lobby he remembered it was equipped with
a couple of monitors.

 
          
He
stepped up to the console and dialed through the various feeds but stopped when
he came to the Observation Deck. He gaped at the scene playing out on the
little black-and-white screen. Some guy with a scarred-up face had Franco. The
head vampire hung in his grip like a rag doll. A couple of get-guards were
crawling through the stairway door. Where were their guns? Why didn't they
shoot?

 
          
They
needed someone to take charge up there and take this fucker out.

 
          
James
Barrett grinned. His moment had come.

 
          
He
searched the drawers of the kiosk looking for something to give him an
advantage, no matter how small, beyond his big gun. He found some pepper spray
and a couple of pairs of handcuffs. He took the spray, then pulled his Magnum
and headed for the elevators.

 
          
As
he approached the Observation Deck express bank, he heard a set of doors slide
open. He started to step back, then reversed field. The car couldn't hold that
many; he might be outnumbered but he had surprise on his side. So he made a
snap decision and charged with both arms held straight out before him, pepper
spray in his left, pistol in the right. He'd reached full speed when a woman
stepped out of the car. He collided with her head on. As they fell to the floor
he began firing into the car. He got off two booming shots before he realized
it was empty.

 
          
Barrett
turned his attention to the woman who was struggling beneath him. He slammed
the heavy barrel of his Magnum against her head, stunning her. Then he rushed
back to the guard kiosk and grabbed the handcuffs. She was stirring as he
returned so he quickly pulled her arms behind her and snapped the cuffs on. He
didn't have the keys and didn't need them to lock her into them. As for getting
her out—not his worry.

 
          
He
stood and looked down at her. A slim brunette. Not bad looking, but not his
type. One thing he knew about her was that she didn't belong here. That meant
she was with the ugly guy on the Observation Deck. And that meant he had a
hostage. Perfecto.