F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (51 page)

 
          
"We've
got to get him inside!" Carole cried close to his ear.

 
          
Other
hands grabbed his right arm.

 
          
Lacey.
Carole. They had him and were supporting him, tugging him forward on his
rubbery legs.

 
          
They
burst through the broken door and into the shady interior.

 
          
But
even inside the sunlight pursued him through the doorway and sizzled through
the big picture window, chased him like a fiery predator, reaching for him with
flaming talons of light. He shook off Carole and Lacey and stumbled headlong on
into the deeper, shadier areas of the front room.

 
          
Not
enough. The reflected sunlight, from the glass table top, even the walls and
floors, felt toxic, like scalding acid.

 
          
More—he
needed more protection. No basements in these bungalows. He spotted the alcove
to his right and veered for it. The bedrooms. He barreled into the one toward
the rear. It faced north and west—the darkest place in the house at the moment.
His legs finally gave way and he collapsed in a heap next to the bed. Thank God
the curtains were closed. He grabbed the flowered yellow bedspread and rolled
it around him, cocooning himself with the stench of his own seared flesh.

 
          
The
touch of the fabric against his scorched skin sent waves of agony to his bones,
but stronger than the pain was the numbing lethargy seeping through his limbs
and mind. Only fear kept him from succumbing, fear that his tolerance to
sunlight had been only temporary and now was deserting him. Was it a sign that
whatever remnants of humanity that had lingered with him last night were ebbing
away, leaving him more like the creatures he loathed? He prayed not.

 
          
He
prayed especially that he wasn't turning feral. He saw the creature's ravaged
face now, the one Franco had called Devlin, remembered its mad eyes, devoid of
reason, compassion, or any feeling even remotely human, heard its bestial
screams as it clawed at the door, remembered its talons sinking into his
shoulders, felt its hot foul breath on his throat just before its fangs tore
into his flesh.

 
          
And
worse, he remembered Franco's parting words.

 
          
.
. . when you look at Devlin you are seeing your future . . . he didn't retain
enough intelligence to distinguish between friend and foe . . . sol can't even
use him as a guard dog . . . in less than two weeks you'll be just like Devlin,
only a little less intelligent, a little more bestial. . .

 
          
Was
he losing his mind along with his tolerance for sunlight? Was his descent
incomplete, still in progress? Was he still changing, devolving further into an
even lower life form? Was this another step down the road toward Devlin's fate?

 
          
He
heard Carole's voice from somewhere in the room.

 
          
"Joseph!
Joseph, are you all right?"

 
          
He
could only nod under the bedspread, and even that was an effort. He dared not
speak, even if his numb lips would permit it.

 
          
"The
mattress!" Carole's voice again. "Help me with it."

 
          
"Help—help
you what?" Lacey said.

 
          
"We've
got to tilt it up against the window. That way when the sun comes around behind
the house it won't shine into the room."

 
          
Carole
. .. wonderful Carole . .. always thinking ...

 
          
The
lethargy deepened, tugging Joe toward sleep, or something like it... the
deathlike undead daysleep. He tried to fight it. He'd thought, he'd hoped that
he'd escaped falling victim to the undead vermin hours, hiding from the sun,
slithering around at night. Now that hope was lost. He was more like them than
he'd thought or wished or prayed against, and was falling closer and closer to
their foul state with every passing hour.

 
          
The
nightmarish thought chased him into oblivion.

 
          
CAROLE
. . .

 
          
"We
almost lost him."

 
          
The
two of them slumped on the front room's rattan furniture, Carole in a chair,
Lacey half stretched out on the sofa.

 
          
"I
know," Carole replied.

 
          
Oh,
how she knew. That had been too close. Her insides were still shaking. The
sight of his skin starting to smoke and cook as he was walking . .. caused by
this same sunlight bathing her now in its warmth .. . she'd never forget it.
Worse, the reek of his burnt flesh still hung in the air.

 
          
Lacey
kicked at the cocktail table, almost knocking its glass top onto the floor.
"I don't know what to say, I don't know what to think, I don't know what
to do! This is just so awful. It's a nightmare!"

 
          
Carole
looked down at her trembling hands. How things had changed. Early last evening
she'd been ready to drive a stake through his heart. And now she wanted him to
survive.

 
          
For
as the three of them had talked during the dark hours, Carole had begun to
sense a plan. Not her plan . . . the Lord's. She thought about all the twists
and turns of the past thirty-six hours.

 
          
After
leaving her partially demolished house, why had she turned left instead of
right? If she'd turned the other way she never would have run into Lacey. It
was because of Lacey that she'd returned to the church and the convent. And it
was there that she'd been staring out her convent room window just at the
instant a winged vampire had flown away from the rectory. There were so many
other things she could have been doing at that moment, yet she'd been standing
at the window, watching the night. She'd been holding Father—no, he doesn't
want to be called "Father" anymore ... a hard habit to break—Joseph's
cross at that moment. Had that inspired her?

 
          
Imagine
if she hadn't seen the departing vampire. She wouldn't have searched the
rectory basement and found Joseph's body. But what had inspired her to bring
him to the beach? At the time she'd thought it a good place because it was
deserted and they could dig more quickly in the sand.

 
          
But
had Divine Inspiration been at work? For if they'd tried to bury Joseph
somewhere besides the beach, he wouldn't have been exposed to the first rays of
the morning sun. That brief exposure seemed to have partially undone the
vampires' work. The purifying rays had healed his wound and burned away some of
the undead taint. Not all—a few more minutes in the light surely would have
burned away too much, leaving him truly dead—but enough so that he remained
Joseph instead of something foul and evil. What had inspired Carole to pull him
into the shadows of his grave just in time to save him?

 
          
Yes...
save him. For what?

 
          
The
only answer that made any sense was that Joseph had been chosen to become the
mailed fist of God, a divine weapon against the undead.

 
          
But
the poor man was going through the tortures of the damned to become that
weapon. Pain, disfigurement, self-loathing, the debasement of blood hunger—why
did it have to be this way? Why did he have to suffer so? Were these trials a
fire through which he had to pass to be tempered as a weapon?

 
          
The
thought of fire brought her back to the sun . . .

 
          
"How
long was Joseph in the sunlight this morning?"

 
          
Lacey
shrugged. "I don't know. An hour maybe? It's hard to say. Certainly no
more than that."

 
          
"An
hour," Carole mused. "Not much. That's an hour longer than any true
vampire can stand, but maybe it's enough."

 
          
"Enough
for what?"

 
          
"For
the war the three of us are going to wage."

 
          
She
placed her hand over the spot where Joseph had touched her shoulder at sunrise.
More than an hour ago but her skin still tingled, as if his hand were still
resting there. That single touch, that gentle weight of his hand on her
shoulder, meant more to her than his embrace outside the church when they'd
been reunited a few nights ago.

 
          
Despite
what had been done to him and how the sun had disfigured him, despite what he
had become, she sensed the desperate struggle within him against the undead
taint in his flesh, in his mind, in his being, and she admired him more than
ever for that refusal to be dominated. He'd win, she knew he would win.

 
          
God
help her, she still loved him. More than ever.

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
He
awoke in a snap. No lingering drowsiness, no stretching or yawning. Asleep,
then awake, with tentacles of a dream still clinging to him.

 
          
The
dream . . . more like a nightmare—or in this case, a daymare. He remembered
clinging to the lip of a rocky precipice, his feet dangling and kicking over an
infinity of swirling darkness. But not empty darkness. This seemed alive, and
it had been beckoning him, calling to him all day . . .

 
          
The
worst thing was that a part of him had longed to answer, tried to convince the
rest of him to let go and tumble into that living abyss.

 
          
He
shook off the memory and pushed at the fabric enshrouding him. After an instant
of panicked deja-vu—had he been buried again?—he remembered rolling himself in
the bedspread this morning. He pulled his way free and found himself on the
floor of the rear bedroom. The room was hot, stuffy, and dusty, but not dark.
He lifted his head. Over the naked top of the double box spring he saw its
mattress tilted against the west window. Orange sunlight leaked around its
edges. The sun was setting but not down yet.

 
          
Not
down yet...

 
          
A
sudden surge of excitement pushed him to his feet. He stepped closer to the
mattress, surprised at not feeling stiff and sore after a whole day on wooden
flooring. A ray of sunlight, dust motes swirling like fireflies along its path,
was poking past the right edge to light up a square on the room's east wall.
Hesitantly, Joe edged his hand toward the ray. This could hurt. This could be
like sticking his hand into a pot of boiling water.

 
          
He
gritted his teeth. Hell, what was he waiting for? Fast or slow, if he was going
to burn, he was going to burn.

 
          
He
shot his hand forward and back, in and out of the ray. It felt hot but nothing
like boiling water. He looked at his palm where the sun had licked it. No
blisters. Not even red.

 
          
He
tried it again, this time holding his hand in the light. Hot, but bearable.
Definitely bearable.

 
          
Taking
a breath, he tipped the mattress back, letting the light flood into the room
and bathe him. He gasped at the sudden blast of heat and squinted in the
brightness, but held his ground. He could do this. Yeah, he could do this.

 
          
With
jubilation spurring him, he hurried out into the front room where he found Carole
asleep on the couch. He stopped and stared down at her, captivated. Her face in
sleep had relaxed into a soft, gentle innocence, as if the last few months had
never happened. This was the Carole he'd known. He wanted to wake her but
couldn't bring himself to break the spell.

 
          
He
stepped back to the alcove and peeked in the front bedroom. Lacey lay huddled
under the covers.

 
          
Okay,
let them both sleep.

 
          
Back
to the front room where he slipped as quietly as possible through the broken
door and out into the light. He walked a few steps north to where sunlight
gushed between the bungalow and its neighbor. He bathed in its flow, spread his
arms and dared it to harm him.

 
          
"Joseph?
Are you all right?"

 
          
Carole's
voice. He turned and saw her approaching across the boards. Her features hadn't
yet fully recomposed themselves into their harder, waking look. He wanted to
throw his arms around her but knew that would be a mistake.

 
          
"Yes.
Fine. At least for now. How long till sunset do you think?"

 
          
She
glanced at her watch. "It set at 7:11 yesterday, so—"

 
          
"Are
you sure? I seem to remember the sun setting later than that in May."

 
          
Carole
shrugged. "I guess I never got around to switching to Daylight Savings
Time. Not much point, is there."

 
          
"I
guess not. So you keep a log?"

 
          
"In
my head. It's very important to know when the sun is going to be around and
when it's not."

 
          
Of
course it was. And he should have known that a former science teacher like
Sister Carole would be methodical as all hell about it.

 
          
"When
does it set tonight?"

 
          
"About
a minute later. Around forty-five minutes from now." She looked up from
her watch. "You seem to be able to tolerate the first and last hours of
sunlight."

 
          
"Why
is that, do you think?"

 
          
"It
may be due to your sun exposure before you turned. Maybe it burned some of the
undead taint out of you, leaving you tolerant to the more attenuated rays of
the sun."

 
          
"Attenuated?"

 
          
"As
it nears the horizon, the sun's rays have to travel through more layers of
atmosphere to reach you. Those extra layers absorb and refract the light. It's
that same refraction that causes the sun and moon to look darker and larger
when they're low in the sky."

 
          
"Well,
thank you, God, for refraction." He was glad he didn't have to face the
prospect of never seeing the sun again.

 
          
"Then
again," Carole said, a faint smile playing about her lips,
"refraction may have nothing to do with it, and you should be thanking God
directly."

 
          
"Why?"

 
          
"Maybe
He's given you these extra two hours as an edge over the undead. Two hours
during which you can move about while they can't."

 
          
Joe
thought about that. Two hours ... if he was going to make a strike against the
undead, those two hours offered the perfect windows. He didn't know about God
Himself arranging this, but he knew a good thing when he saw it. He was not
going to waste this advantage.

 
          
"I
like the way you think, Carole. But first we need an agenda. And the first
thing on that agenda should be contacting the church and letting those people
know I'm still alive."

 
          
"But
you can't let them see you like this, or let them know you—"

 
          
"Absolutely
not. We'll have to think of something that'll keep them together and fighting
on without me. Because I'll be fighting my own war. I want to take the fight to
the undead, get in their faces and hit them where it will really hurt: New
York."

 
          
Yes.
Franco. He wanted to see that smug son of a bitch again—and when he did, it
would be on his terms, not Franco's.

 
          
"What's
this about 'my' war?" Lacey said. Joe turned to see her standing behind
them, rubbing her eyes. "This is our fight too, Unk."

 
          
He
smiled. "I could use the help, but..."

 
          
The
thought of either of these two precious people getting hurt because of him ...
he couldn't go there.

 
          
"But
what?" Lacey said. "You're afraid we'll get killed or something? I
figure we're as good as dead if we do nothing, so we might as well go down
doing something. Better than sitting on our asses and waiting for the ax to
fall."

 
          
Carole
rolled her eyes. "You have such a way with words."

 
          
Lacey
shrugged. "Am I right or am I right?"

 
          
Joe
had to admit she was right. He faced the reddened, swollen sun as it neared the
rooftops. He could look at it now, and it barely heated his skin.

 
          
"Okay
then," he said. "But we'll have to run this like a military
operation."

 
          
"Does
that mean you want to be made general?" Lacey said through another yawn.

 
          
"No.
Carole's the most experienced. She should be our general."

 
          
Carole
waved her hands. "Oh, no. Not me."

 
          
Lacey
squinted at him. "You know much about military operations?"

 
          
"Not
a thing. But I figure we need reconnaissance and intelligence. And most of all,
we need to practice before we head for
New York
."

 
          
Lacey
nodded. "Sort of like an out-of-town tryout before hitting Broadway,
right?"

 
          
"Right.
And I think the local nests can provide just the sort of rehearsals we'll
need."

 
          
LACEY
. . .

 
          
"We
have to tell the parishioners something" Joe said. "Any ideas?"

 
          
Lacey
watched him, looking for the first signs of what she knew must come. They were
back in the bungalow, seated around the cocktail table in the same places as
last night. A single candle set on the glass top lit their faces.

 
          
"Why
don't we tell them the truth?" Carole said.

 
          
Lacey
shook her head. "This is one case where the truth shall not set them free.
Besides, it's too . .. complicated."

 
          
"How
about a form of the truth?" Joe said. "We'll tell them that the
vampires attacked me, tried to turn me, but failed. I survived but I'm badly
hurt. I need time to recover and until I do... until I'm back to my old
self"— which will be never, he thought grimly—"I've got to stay out
of sight."

 
          
"Right,"
Lacey said, liking the idea. "You're in hiding until you heal up because
they're out there looking for you, trying to finish the job they started."

 
          
"Works
for me," Joe said. "How about you, Carole?"

 
          
"Well..."
She frowned. "It's not exactly true."

 
          
"But
it's not exactly false," he said.

 
          
She
shrugged. "I've no objection, but if I were in their place I'd be
wondering why you wouldn't want to heal up among them ... safety in numbers and
all that."

 
          
Joe
didn't answer. All of a sudden he seemed distracted. Lacey watched his right
hand trail down to his abdomen and press on it.

 
          
Her
heart sank. The hunger ... it was starting.

 
          
She
force-fed brightness into her tone. "We'll just say that you feel it's
safer to stay away. Your presence there might trigger an assault on the church,
causing unnecessary casualties. When you're fully healed you'll return. But
till then they must be brave and vigilant and keep up the fight,
blah-blah-blah."

 
          
Joe
nodded absently, both hands over his stomach now. "Good . . . sounds
good."

 
          
Carole
said, "Then the next question is, how do we get this message to
them?"