F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (49 page)

 
          
"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."

 
          
Joe
picked up the knife Lacey had used to cut her thumb, and idly ran his finger
along the edge.

 
          
"All
myths have a spark of truth at their core. Look at it this way: doesn't the
existence of transcendent Evil indicate that there must be a counterbalancing
transcendent Good?"