Risen (43 page)

Peg had broken down, then. She'd fallen into one of the plastic chairs and bawled like a child. Doc's hand on her shoulder did nothing to ease the pain. She wanted to punch him when he told her to "let it all out," as if she needed his permission. Annie was dead, for Chris'sakes, she had all the reason she needed to cry and wail and moan and carry on. She would pound the floor or throw one of these stupid plastic chairs out the window if she wanted to, she had the right.

Only when he told her that everything would be all right, that it would soon be midnight and she'd have Annie back again, did Peg begin to regain control. He sounded so sure. How could anyone confidently predict a miracle? But there was something in his voice that made her believe him, and by degrees the sobbing stopped and she quit filling tissues with her tears and she experienced a few moments of grace.

As the minutes passed, the fear set in. Panic welled in her chest and she asked Doc for something to calm her down, expecting a pill. Instead he'd come back with the syringe, saying that a pill would take too long to have any effect. She'd let him inject her and soon her head was swimming, but the body shakes had gone away and there was a pleasant mist over everything, muffling sight and sound and thought alike.

***

The instant Tom stepped into Annie's hospital room, he knew that everything was wrong.

Equipment had been removed. Annie sat in bed like a doll, the covers neatly folded over her legs, stripped of her life-sustaining tubes. Peg sat beside the bed, head in her hands.

"Mom?" Tom said. When she didn't answer he marched into the room under Doc Milford's watchful gaze.

"Tom, your mother came to a decision—" Doc began, but Tom cut him off with an angry glance.

"Did she? Or did somebody decide for her?" Tom kneeled before his mother. "Mom? What's going on?"

"I have the forms with her signature. No one coerced her."

"Can you understand what I'm saying? Mom?" He put his hand under Peg's chin and lifted her face. Her eyes were wide and blank, but he could see she was trying to focus on him. "What's he done to you?" he asked.

"I gave her a tranquilizer. She was having a panic attack."

"She isn't tranquilized, she's stoned to the gills," Tom snapped.

He grabbed Peg's arms and shook. Her head lolled on her shoulders, a dead weight. Her lips moved soundlessly, trying to form words that wouldn't come.

"Think about it, Tom," Doc urged. "Think about all that's been happening. If Annie's to have any chance of recovery, any chance at all, it has to come now."

"How? Through Seth?" Tom took Peg's hands. "We're getting out of here, Mom. Come on. I'll help you up."

"I can't let you do that, Tom."

Tom looked over to see Doc rushing at him with something clutched in his upraised hand. A syringe. Tom let go of Peg and whirled and planted his fist into Doc's belly. Doc whuffed and stepped back, still clutching the syringe.

"You don't understand," Doc hissed through clenched teeth. He held his stomach, his breath came in labored gasps.

"I understand enough," Tom said.

"You don't understand anything because you don't know Seth! Seth is life, don't you see that?"

Tom replied with a blow to Doc's mouth that sent the older man reeling. Another one dropped him to the floor where his head impacted on the hard floor. Doc lay unmoving at Peg's feet, the object of her drugged fascination.

Tom stepped around behind Peg and lifted her from behind.

"We have to go," he said. "Come on. You need to stand up. That's it. That's good." He spied her purse on the floor, picked it up and forced it into her hands. "You have to walk now. Hurry. There isn't much time and we have to go."

"Annie...."

"Annie's fine. Hurry. We have to leave."

Tom supported Peg as he ushered her into the corridor. He saw Nurse White marching toward them and too late noticed the scalpel in her hand. The scalpel shot forward and Tom deflected it with his hand. The blade sliced across his palm, cutting deep, but Tom grabbed Claudia's wrist and twisted. She cried out. The scalpel clattered to the floor. Tom shoved her aside and urged Peg on.

Claudia quickly retrieved the scalpel and rushed at Tom's back. He let go of Peg and whirled around in time to grab Claudia's wrist, already descending toward him with the scalpel. He held the wrist with both hands and kneed her hard in the stomach. She doubled over and Tom raised his knee to her face. He heard cartilage crunch and knew he'd broken her nose. Claudia moaned breathlessly and fell to the floor, hands cradling her face as blood streamed between her fingers.

Tom found Peg staring at something on the wall. A clock. It was a quarter to twelve.

The fight had attracted attention. Though the hospital was minimally staffed at this time of night, Curtis Waxler, the night orderly, rushed in their direction from down the hall. A voice called out, "Tom!" and Tom saw Doc striding toward them angrily. A smear of blood stained his chin where Doc had wiped at it with the back of his hand. Caked blood squatted in the corner of his mouth.

"Come on, Mom," Tom said. He tugged at her arm but she stood transfixed by the clock.

"Almost midnight," she said, slurring the words.

"Yes, we have to get away before midnight. Hurry, please."

He considered knocking her cold and dragging her to the car. It couldn't have been much harder than motivating her to walk. Curtis Waxler was almost of top of them when Tom decided to quit pussyfooting around. He reached under his t-shirt and pulled out the pistol he'd stuffed in his jeans, in the small of his back. He aimed at Curtis, gripping the pistol with both hands, and threatened to pull the trigger.

Curtis didn't slow and Tom realized that intimidation was useless. Risen had no fear of death. Josh Lunger had looked Brant in the eye with the pistol aimed straight at his head without so much as a quivering lip. It was useless to point a gun at the Risen unless you intended to use it.

Tom pulled the trigger. Peg jumped at the sound and Curtis Waxler staggered. A red splotch appeared in the center of his chest. Tom fired again and Curtis went down.

Tom swiveled the gun over to point at Doc. Doc looked at him wearily but did not break his stride.

"Oh, come now, Tom," Doc said, and then Tom pulled the trigger and a bullet whizzed by Doc's head and ripped a chunk from one ear. Doc cried out and grabbed the side of his head. Tom's second shot went wild but his third entered Doc's temple squarely and emerged on the opposite side in a shower of bone and brain and blood, tumbling end over end.

Tom grabbed Peg and dragged her toward the door. His patience was gone and his voice was angry as he ordered her to walk, damn it, they were getting the fuck out of there.

The parking lot was eerily quiet as Tom pushed, pulled, and bullied Peg toward her car. Tom heard the distant crack of a gun and knew there would be one more Risen come midnight. Then he heard more shots and realized that the massacre had begun in earnest. Anyone who was not Risen was being openly murdered as midnight approached. Gone was all subterfuge, what little was left. Outside interference was not likely in the next...what? Ten minutes? The Risen would be taking no chances. If they mistakenly killed one of their own, what difference would it make? All would be back come midnight.

A heavy form appeared from the shadows as they reached Peg's ancient Impala. Tom used his last bullet, not waiting to see who it was or to determine if they were friend or foe. It wasn't Brant, and that was all Tom needed to know. The form went down. Tom maneuvered Peg around the body as they passed. It was Clyde Dunwiddey, and he still held a new Beretta pistol in one hand.

Tom managed to get Peg into the car. He took a minute to reload and then started the car and pulled into the street. Peg turned in her seat to keep her eyes on the hospital as they pulled away. It occurred to Tom that she probably knew which lighted window was Annie's.

The car clock said eleven-thirty and for a moment Tom thought they had a chance. Then he remembered that it was later than that when he'd entered the hospital and that the clock in Peg's car had said eleven-thirty for the last three years. He checked his watch. They had twelve minutes to make it to the highway, and he could see that something was happening on the road ahead and he'd have to circle around.

They'd never make it.

It was all up to Brant, who had twelve minutes left to kill Reverend Small and put an end to the madness.

Brant loaded three rounds into the Winchester, raised it to his shoulder a couple of times for practice, and decided he was ready to go to church.

He wished for the pistol. That gun held six shots and would be better in close quarters. While he was at it, he wished for an Uzi or, better still, a few grenades he could lob through the stained glass windows. Instead, he had a hunting rifle and three shots with which to bring down an ancient, evil spirit that had fought this fight before. Brant tried to encourage himself with the thought that Donald Pritchett had brought Seth down sixty years ago, and he tried not to think of the price Donald had paid for his victory...a lifetime locked in a mental asylum. If it came to that, Brant wouldn't try to explain his actions to the authorities. Let them throw him in jail for murder.

There were only a few cars in the parking lot. Contrary to Brant's expectation, the Risen were not gathering at the church. They had spread themselves throughout the town, "converting" those who had not yet discovered Seth and turning Brant's drive through the city streets into a game of stealth and avoidance. Thanks to the prowling Risen, it had taken Brant longer than he'd anticipated to reach the church. Time was woefully short as he tried to figure some way to get inside and find and kill Reverend Small with his pitiful allotment of firepower.

Brant had parked the car a couple of blocks away and sneaked up on the church on foot. From his vantage point in the bushes across the street, he could discern two people on the front steps, standing under the incandescent glare of a single outdoor lamp. Brant shielded his eyes and determined that it was Jack and Dolores Frelich. Jack cradled a shotgun across his chest. Dolores held some kind of rifle, maybe a .22, it was hard to tell from this distance.

An experienced hunter could have picked them off easily, but Brant had no idea how accurate he'd be with Hank's Winchester. The noise might attract attention even on a night as gun-noisy as this one. If he'd had more time he might've scouted for an unlocked basement window and tried to sneak inside, but the clock was ticking and there weren't that many ticks left before midnight. No, it had to be a frontal assault, quick and clean.

He raised the rifle to his shoulder and took aim at Jack Frelich. Then he thought better of it. Even if he did drop Jack with one shot, it would alert Dolores and she'd have time to raise the alarm with anyone inside while Brant was crossing the street. He'd have to get closer to ensure a clean shot and get inside while he still had the advantage of surprise.

Jack and Dolores would be nearly blind under that light. They wouldn't know who he was until he reached the sidewalk in front of the church, even if some kind of general alert had gone out regarding him and Tom. He stepped out from behind the bushes and strode confidently toward the church. He let the rifle dangle at his side as if using it were the last thing on his mind.

Jack and Dolores were engaged in conversation, and Brant was nearly across the street before Dolores noticed him. She slapped Jack on the arm, pointed toward Brant, and Jack turned to look his direction. Brant held up a hand in a friendly greeting but said nothing. Jack did not seem alarmed. The shotgun lay in his arms like a sleeping baby, then it dropped to his side as Jack unfolded his arms and put one hand over his eyes to shield them from the overhead glare, scrutinizing Brant.

Suddenly Jack recognized Brant and stiffened. Brant raised the hunting rifle waist high, pointed it in Jack's direction and pulled the trigger. At that range he couldn't miss. The bullet plowed into Jack's stomach. Brant expended the cartridge and lifted the rifle higher and swung it over to point at Dolores. Her .22 was already on its way to her shoulder when Brant pulled the trigger again and planted a bullet in her chest.

Brant stepped over the bodies and glanced inside to see Jimmy Troost headed toward him at a full run, a few yards from the door. Brant fired again and put his third bullet into Jimmy's belly. Reverend Small looked up from the pulpit where he'd been practicing a sermon before an invisible audience.

Brant thought about reloading the Winchester but that would give Small a chance to run. Instead, he dropped the rifle to the floor and snatched up Jack Frelich's shotgun.

The sanctuary was empty but for himself and the preacher as Brant strode down the center aisle, eyes locked with Small's. With no threat imminent, he wanted to get good and close to his target.

"What are you doing, Brant?" Small asked with infuriating calm.

"I know who you are," Brant said. "I know about Eloise."

"You don't know what you're talking about. Put down the gun."

"What are you afraid of? Being buried alive for another sixty years?"

"You don't understand anything. You don't understand the miracle that's been visited upon this town. You should be joyful, and grateful to Seth for his blessing."