F Paul Wilson - Novel 10

by Midnight Mass (v2. 1)

  He entered the bedroom on the left and pulled open a dresser drawer. No good. Women's underwear. A thought struck him: What if two old spinsters kept this as a summer place? Under no circumstances was he putting on a house dress. He'd rather keep the sheet.

  He tried the other bureau and found an assortment of shirts and Bermudas. He tried a pair of green plaid shorts first and, though a little loose in the waist, they fit. The top shirt on the pile was a yellow-flowered Hawaiian.

  After he pulled it on he looked down at himself. Not a big improvement over that old sheet. He must look like the bennie from hell. He stepped to the mirror over the dresser to catch a full view. The mirror was blurred.

  This place was in dire need of some spring cleaning.

  He leaned forward to wipe away the dust but his hand rubbed across clean glass. He leaned closer and noticed that the room behind him reflected clear and sharp, yet he remained a blur.

  "Oh, God!"

  "Unk?" he heard Lacey say from the front room. Seconds later she was at his side with the flashlight, her reflection the only distinguishable human in the mirror. "What's wrong?"

  Feeling weak—from hunger as well as the horror before him—he leaned against the dresser and pointed to the mirror. "Look at me—if you can."

  She gasped. "Is that... ?"

  "That's what's left of my reflection."

  Carole's image joined them in the glass. He saw her stiffen and stare.

  After a moment she said, "You're not completely gone."

  "No, but nobody can tell me that's not more proof that I'm no longer human. What have I become? I'm asking you both again: What am I?"

  The hunger worsened. He grabbed his abdomen and doubled over.

  "Joe?" Lacey asked.

  "Hungry. Can't remember the last time I ate."

  He turned away and stalked to the kitchen where he began to open the cabinets and paw through their contents. Mostly condiments and spices.

  "Damn it all!" he shouted. "Didn't these people eat?"

  "It's a summer home," Carole said softly. "Nobody leaves food over the winter."

  "God, I'm starving."

  "We've got food," Lacey said.

  "Right," Carole said. "You remember Mrs. Delmonico, don't you?"

  "Of course I do," Joe said. "I only died. I didn't lose my memory." He looked from Lacey's stricken face to Carole's stony expression and back again. "Sorry. That was supposed to be a joke."

  "Oh, yeah!" Lacey's forced laugh sounded awful. "Funny!" Her smile cracked and she sobbed. Once.

  "Lacey, I'm sorry," Joe said.

  She held up a hand as she pulled herself together. "I'm okay. Really."

  No, you aren't, he thought. Not a single one of us is anywhere near okay.

  "We should eat something," Carole said. "Who knows when we'll get another chance."

  Joe looked at her. "What were you saying about Mrs. Delmonico?"

  "She baked some bread and made us peanut butter sandwiches."

  "Peanut butter! God, I can't remember the last time I had a peanut butter sandwich."

  He followed Carole and Lacey to the cocktail table. Carole pulled out the sandwiches, unwrapped them, and handed a half to Joe. Manners reminded him to wait but hunger forced his hands toward his mouth. He took a deep bite and gagged.

  His gorge rose in revulsion as he turned and spat it into his hand.

  "What's in that? I thought you said it was peanut butter."

  Lacey sat across the table with the other half of Joe's sandwich. She'd taken a bite and was staring at him.

  He nodded to her. "Tastes awful, doesn't it."

  Lacey shook her head. "Tastes fine," she said around her bite.

  Carole leaned forward. "What did it taste like to you, Father?"

  How could he describe something so awful? "Try to imagine rancid meat... in spoiled milk ... laced with hot tar . . . and you're only part way there."

  With a glance at Lacey, Carole pulled the book bag up onto her lap and reached inside. With a single quick movement she removed something and held it under his nose.

  "How about this?"

  Joe recoiled, almost tipping over backward in his chair. It felt like pure ammonia shoved up his nose.

  "Damn! What's that? Get it away!"

  Carole showed him the flaky clove between her fingers. "Just garlic."

  A queasy nausea slithered through Joe's hunger pains. He'd always loved garlic, the more the better. But now . . .

  "I don't understand this!" Lacey cried. She was leaning away from the table with her eyes squeezed shut. "You can stand in sunlight and walk into a home without being invited in, but you don't cast a full reflection and you can't stand garlic. What's going on?"

  Joe shook his head. "I wish I knew." Hunger gave him a vicious kick in the abdomen, doubling him over. "I do know I've got to eat. Isn't there anything else around?"

  "Yes," Lacey said. She was looking past him, a strange light dancing in her eyes. "Yes, I believe there is."

  She grabbed the flashlight and hurried to the kitchen. Joe heard her opening drawer after drawer, rattling utensils. Apparently she found what she was looking for because she returned to the table and stood beside him with her hands behind her back.

  "Close your eyes and open your mouth," she said.

  "This is no time for games, Lacey. I'm starving."

  A smile appeared; it looked painted on. "Humor me, Unk. Open your mouth and close your eyes."

  Joe complied, and then things started happening—fast. He sensed Lacey move closer, heard a gasp of shock—Carole?—then felt something warm and firm and wet pressed into his mouth. He'd never tasted anything like it— utterly delicious. He opened his eyes and saw Lacey close, a steak knife in one hand, and the other—

  —pressed against his mouth.

  Joe flung himself backward, and this time he did go over, landing on his back. He felt no pain, only revulsion at the sight of his niece's bloody thumb, and at himself the way he licked his lips and wanted more. A glimpse of Carole's white face and stricken expression over Lacey's shoulder was the final blow.

  Instead of climbing back to his feet, Joe rolled onto his side, facing away from them, and sobbed with shame. He wished he could dissolve into a liquid and seep between the floorboards to hide from their eyes. For he knew how they must be looking at him—with the same revulsion as he'd felt about the undead before . . . before . . .

  And worse. He realized that his hunger was gone. Just those few drops of Lacey's blood had sated him.

  He groaned. He wanted to crawl out of this house and their sight on his belly like the lesser being he'd become.

  No ... he wanted to die. Truly die.

  Keeping an arm across his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the loathing in their faces, he rolled over onto his back and tore open his shirt, baring his chest.

  "Do it, Carole. I don't want to be this way. End it now. Please."

  No response, no sound of movement.

  Joe uncovered his eyes and found Carole and Lacey staring at him from where he'd left them at the table. They looked like mannequins, but their expressions reflected more shock than revulsion.

  He pounded a fist against his chest, over his heart. "Please, Carole! I'm begging you. If you've ever cared the slightest for me, either of you, you won't let me to go on as the creature I am now."

  Carole only shook her head.

  He looked at his niece. "Lacey? Please? You can do this one thing for me, can't you?"

  Tears streamed down her cheeks as she shook her head. "No. I can't. You're too . . . you."

  Back to Carole: "You hate the undead, Carole. I can tell. So why won't you put this sick dog out of his misery? "

  "I could never hate you, Father Joe, but I could loathe you if you ... if you were one of them. But it's plain that you loathe yourself more than I ever could, and that. . . that means you're not one of them."

  "But I'm halfway there. What if this is just some sort of transitional phas
e and by tomorrow I'll be fully undead."

  She shook her head. "There is no transitional phase."

  "You don't know that!" He was shouting now.

  Carole didn't raise her voice, only shifted her gaze to the side and said, "I do. I've seen how the change goes, and you are different. You're asking one of us to drive a stake through your heart. I can't say for sure, but I doubt very much that any undead in the history of time has made such a request. The very fact that you've asked is proof that you aren't one of them."

  "Then in God's name, what am I?"

  "A weapon, perhaps."

  A weapon? The word stirred him. Joe sat up and hugged his knees against his chest.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Do you have any desire to continue what you started at the church?"

  Joe hadn't given it a thought. He'd been too preoccupied with figuring out what had happened to him. But now that he did think about it. . .

  "I don't see how it's possible. I can't see them following an undead priest."

  "You're not undead."

  "I'm certainly not their Father Joe any longer."

  "You'll always be—"

  "No. I can't be a priest anymore. How can I when I can't ever say Mass again? I can't look at a cross or touch one without getting burned. I certainly can't taste the consecrated bread and wine—assuming I didn't burst into flame trying to say the prayers to consecrate it."

  "Father Joe—"

  "Don't call me that again. I am no longer a priest, so stop calling me 'Father.' It's an insult to all those who still deserve the title. From now on it's Joe, just plain Joe."

  "Very well, J—" Carole seemed to have trouble with the name. "Very well, Joseph. You don't want to go back to leading your parish. Do you have any desire to go on fighting the undead?"

  "More than ever."

  And with those three words a whole world of possibilities opened up before Joe. He struggled back to his feet. He felt excited, the first positive emotion he'd experienced since leaping from the observation deck the other night.

  Carole had called him a weapon. He could see that she was right. By some strange quirk of fate he'd become a sort of half-breed. There had to be a way he could use that against the undead. Make them pay for what they'd done to his world, to his friends and loved ones, to him.

  "I think it's time to fight back."

  While there's still time... on the chance that I'll become like that feral who killed me ... Devlin.

  A terrible purpose surged through him. Yes, fight back, and maybe somewhere down the road he'd meet again with Franco. If he didn't, and if somewhere along that road he met his end—his final end—well, that was all right too. In fact, he'd welcome it. He had no illusions that he and Carole and Lacey and whoever else they picked up along the way could drive the undead horde back to Europe, but when he met his inevitable end he wanted to know he'd taken as many as possible with him.

  OLIVIA . . .

  "My, my," Olivia asked. "Wherever can he be?" She was enjoying this. Artemis paced between the beds in the sleeping room. "I don't know."

  Immediately after sunset he had gone over to the church area to watch the rectory for the priest's emergence. He'd wanted her to come along but her get had protested. Olivia had feigned reluctance in giving in to their wishes. In truth, she had no intention of leaving this building until she was sure the vigilantes had been identified and removed. Jules, darling Jules, had gone in her place.

  "Perhaps he sneaked out a back door."

  "The building has only two doors and we had both covered."

  "Then he must be still inside."

  "He's not!" Artemis cried. "I sneaked inside to check. He was left in the basement and he's not there now. He's not anywhere in the rectory!"

  How odd, Olivia thought. "Could he have sneaked out a window then?"

  "Possible, but unlikely."

  "Then it must be a miracle!"

  Artemis halted his pacing and glared with his good eye. "Not funny, Olivia."

  "And not breaking the back of the insurrection, either. So much for Franco's coup."

  "He's not going to be happy." Artemis looked worried. "And as usual he'll blame everyone but himself."

  "Poor Artemis."

  He took a quick step toward her, index finger raised and jabbing toward her face.

  "Don't think you'll get off free, Olivia. Especially when he learns how you've been hiding under a rock the whole time."

  Olivia stiffened. The last thing she needed was to be on Franco's bad side, especially when she was short on serfs.

  "I'm not the enemy, Artemis," she said, wrapping it in her most conciliatory tone.

  "You're certainly not acting like an ally."

  "Let's think about this logically. If he's not in the rectory, then he's out of it."

  Artemis rolled his single eye. "Brilliant."

  "Just follow along with me. If he's out, then he got out either under his own power or was carried out."

  He shook his head. "I had one of your serfs watching the building all day. If his followers had found him there'd have been an outcry and lots of milling about. But he reported no unusual activity or even interest in the rectory."

  "Which leaves us with one conclusion: the priest left the rectory without being seen."

  "That means he's roaming the streets right now, looking to feed." Artemis rolled his eye again. "That's not good."

  "Why not? Isn't that what Franco wanted?"

  "He wanted the priest feeding on his followers, not random strangers. That defeats the whole purpose of this little exercise."

  Olivia couldn't help smiling. "I believe it's looking more and more like I may get my full-scale attack on the church after all."

  "What you'll get," Artemis shouted, "is your lazy cowardly ass out of this hole in the ground and out there looking for him!"

  Olivia backed up a step. "It's too late now. Dawn's almost here."

  Artemis pounded a fist against his thigh. "All right then. First thing after sunset. Me, you, and all your get on the street, looking. We need to find him before he goes feral. If we're too late he won't be able to tell us anything about his vigilantes."

  Olivia slumped on the edge of her bed and wrung her hands. Outside? Searching? She'd never thought she'd be afraid of the night, but she was.

  LACEY . . .

  "What was it like being dead?"

  Lacey couldn't help it. She had to ask.

  After bandaging her thumb, they'd sat around for hours and hours telling their stories: what had happened to Joe after he'd been abducted, Carole telling how she'd escaped the vampire who'd been after her, and Lacey skimming over her gang rape that she couldn't remember too well anyway but describing in detail the odd events in the Post Office. No one had any explanation for what had gone down there.

  Then they discussed how Joe might best wield himself against the enemy.

  With all the talk, Lacey had found herself gradually getting used to the unthinkable: that her uncle had somehow died and risen from the grave without becoming one of the undead—not quite one of them, at least. He didn't look like himself, not with that unrecognizable, disfigured face, but the more he'd talked, the easier it became to accept that, though horribly changed, he was still his old self. The undead had changed his body, but the man within remained untouched.

  And with that acceptance, the death question had grown in her mind. Now, with steely predawn light turning the black of the ocean to slate gray, the conversation had lagged. So .. .

  Joe shook his head. "I don't remember."

  "Are you sure? Think. Wasn't there a light or a voice or a presence or some indication that there's something out there?"

  "Sorry, Lacey. I remember that feral biting and tearing at me, and the next thing I knew I was wrapped in a sheet under the sand. That's all. Nothing in between."

  "Well, I guess that proves it then: this is it. There's no hereafter."

  "Oh, but there is," Joe told her. />
  "You were dead and experienced nothing transcendental, so how can you say that?"

  "Because I believe."

  As much as she loved him—and even in the strange state he was in, Lacey still loved him—she found his resistance to reason exasperating.

  "After all that's just happened to you, how can you possibly still believe in a provident god?"

  Joe glanced at Carole. "Tell her, Carole."

  Carole's brown eyes looked infinitely sad. "I don't think I can. God seems terribly far away these days."

  The simple statement, delivered so matter-of-factly, seemed to shock Joe. He stared at Carole a moment, then sighed. "Yeah, He does, doesn't He. Almost as if He's forgotten about us. But we can't let ourselves think that way. It only leads to despair. We've got to believe that there's a purpose to all—"

  "A purpose?" Lacey wanted to throw something. "What possible purpose could there be to all this worldwide death and misery?"

  "Only God knows," Joe said.

  Lacey snorted derisively. "Which means nobody knows."

  Joe was looking at her. "Why did you ask me in the first place?"

  "You mean, about what it was like being dead? Well, think about it: how many times do you get a chance to talk to someone who's been dead—someone who's not trying to rip out your throat, I mean?"

  "Just idle curiosity?"

  "Not idle. You're my uncle and I just. . . wanted to know."

  "Would you have believed me if I told you I saw a light, or a golden stairway, or a glowing tunnel? Or how about pearly gates and St. Peter with the Book of Life in his hands?"

  "Probably not."

  "Then why ask at all?"

  "I don't know."

  "I think you do. I think you're in the market for a little transcendence yourself, just like everyone else. Am I right?"

  Joe's scrutiny was making her uncomfortable.

  "Just because I don't believe doesn't mean I don't want to. Don't you think I'd love to feel that a little spark of me will continue on into eternity after this body is gone? But I can't get past the idea that it's only wishful thinking, something we, as a sentient species, have yearned for so deeply and for so long that we've surrounded that need with all manner of myths to convince ourselves that it's real."