F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (54 page)

 
          
He
shook his head. "All those years at St. Anthony's . . . you loving me, I
loving you, longing for you, and neither of us knew. Imagine if things had been
different... what a team we'd have made, Carole."

 
          
"We're
a team now, at least part of one."

 
          
"Yes,
but the possibilities ... all gone now." He laid his head back on her
thighs. "Gone for good."

 
          
She
began stroking his hair again. "We're together now."

 
          
"But
look what it took for us to find out how we felt about each other. You've been
through a living hell since Easter week, and I. . . I'm not even human anymore."

 
          
"I
don't care what you are. I know who you are."

 
          
After
a while he said, "Sex is out of the question, you know."

 
          
"Yes.
We both still have our vows."

 
          
"I
don't mean that. I mean . . . one of the changes in me . . . one of the things
they stole from me ... I don't think I ever can."

 
          
Carole
said nothing. It didn't matter.

 
          
They
stayed this way a long time, Joseph lying still against her thighs, Carole
stroking his hair, soothing him, murmuring to him. In the world outside the
horror still raged all about them, but here, in this moment, in this place,
she'd found a sliver of peace, the closest to heaven she'd ever been.

 
          
CAROLE
. . .

 
          
Lacey
burst out laughing. She couldn't help it.

 
          
Joe
glanced up from where he sat across from her at the little dining room table.
"What's so funny?"

 
          
"I
was just thinking what a cozy little domestic scene this is. Here's Papa Joe,
sharpening stakes to drive through undead hearts. There's Momma Carole at the
sink mixing up a batch of napalm. And here's baby Lacey cleaning her 9mm
pistols." She laughed again. "We're the new nuclear family!"

 
          
Carole
turned from the sink where she was stirring a strange mix with a large wooden
spoon, and gave her a wry smile. "Nuclear... there's a thought."

 
          
"No,
Carole," Joe said. "Don't go there."

 
          
What
a change in Carole and Joe. Their meeting in the bedroom had transformed them.
They'd come out leaning close to each other. Lacey wouldn't have been surprised
if they started holding hands, but they didn't. Joe seemed so much more at ease
in her presence, and Carole ... well, Carole positively glowed.

 
          
All
because of me, Lacey thought. Did I have the situation and solution nailed or
what? Am I brilliant or am I brilliant?

 
          
After
Joe had fed, they went their separate ways. Joe took the car to Lake-wood to
work out a plan of attack on the Post Office. Carole walked down to the
abandoned business district on
Arnold Avenue
to do what she termed some
"shopping." Lacey hoped that neither of them ran into
Vichy
along the way.

 
          
Her
own job was simpler. Armed with a makeshift siphon, she'd been assigned the
task of finding gasoline.

 
          
That
had proved a cinch. Her first stop had been the garage behind the bungalow
where she discovered an old Ford convertible with a full tank. She found a
dusty five-gallon gas can, probably for a motorboat, and filled that.

 
          
Carole
returned later with a shopping cart loaded with boxes of different brands of
soap flakes, some lighter fluid, plus a bag of sundries from a party supply
shop. She immediately set up in the kitchen and went to work filling the house
with fumes.

 
          
Lacey
held up one of the 9mm rounds and showed it to Joe.

 
          
"Look
at this. Hollow point. They're all hollow points."

 
          
Joe
shook his head. "Nasty things. I hear they make a little hole going in and
a great big hole coming out."

 
          
"Why
would the undead be carrying automatics loaded with these?"

 
          
"To
protect against humans, I imagine," Joe said. "They're strong,
they're fast, but that's not enough if they're attacked by a mob." He
pointed to the round. "That's probably what the Vichy will be using
against us this morning—if they get the chance."

 
          
"Let's
go over the plan again," Lacey said.

 
          
She
wasn't crazy about it. As much as she respected her uncle's intelligence, he'd
had no military training, had never engaged in any sort of violent activity.
Lacey had at least studied martial arts. That wasn't much, but it had trained
her on how to size up an opponent, how to look for strategic openings. Joe's
plan seemed to depend on too many variables.

 
          
"Okay,"
Joe said. "The
Vichy
guards spend most of their time hanging around on the front steps. When
they're not smoking they're sleeping. They're bored and don't take their job
seriously. No one's ever attacked them on duty like that and they probably
think no one ever will. We're going to change that."

 
          
"Hitting
them at dawn I understand, but why napalm? Why don't we just shoot them?"

 
          
"Because
we're not marksmen—or, excuse me, markswomen—and we can't afford a protracted
gun battle because my clock will be running. If they hold out past my sun
tolerance, we'll have lost more than the battle. We won't be able to take them
by surprise again. But more than that, the more bullets flying, the greater
chance of you or Carole getting hit."

 
          
"But
how do we know the napalm will work?"

 
          
Joe's
idea was for the three of them to climb to the roof of the building across the
street and each toss a napalm-filled balloon onto the
Vichy
as they lounged on the Post Office steps
below. The street wasn't wide and it was an easy throw from the roof. Or so he
said.

 
          
"Oh,
it will work," Carole said from the sink. "Have no fear of
that."

 
          
"But
it has to ignite."

 
          
"We'll
make sure one of them's smoking before we toss."

 
          
"That
doesn't guarantee it will light."

 
          
Joe
leaned back, staring at her. For a moment she thought he was angry but couldn't
be sure. So hard to gauge emotions when a face has no expression.

 
          
"You're
right," he said finally. "It doesn't." He turned toward the
kitchen. "Do we have any gasoline left, Carole?"

 
          
"A
little. Why?"

 
          
"Save
half a dozen ounces or so. We're going to bring along a Molotov cocktail."
He turned back to Lacey. "Better?" "You mean throw that first,
then the napalm?" He nodded. "Yeah," Lacey said. "That'll
work."

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
"Oh,
no!" Joe said as he heard a thwacking noise and the car began to vibrate.
He slammed a fist against the steering wheel. "Damn!"

 
          
They'd
left an hour before dawn. The plan had been to loop north of
Lakewood
through Howell and approach downtown from
the west. They were on
Aldrich Road
when the noise began.

 
          
"What's
wrong?" Carole said. She sat next to him in the front, Lacey sat in the
rear with the arsenal.

 
          
"Can
you believe it? We've got a flat!"

 
          
He
popped the trunk and jumped out. Of all times for something like this to
happen.

 
          
"Can't
we drive on the rim?" Carole said.

 
          
"Any
other time I'd say fine, but we can't risk the racket it will make."

 
          
He
lifted the trunk lid and was relieved to find the spare present and inflated.

 
          
Nearly
half an hour later they were rolling again.

 
          
"That
took too long," Carole said. "Maybe we should put this off till
tomorrow."

 
          
She's
probably right, Joe thought. What's another day?

 
          
But
something inside wouldn't allow him to agree. He was primed and ready for a
little payback. More than ready—aching.

 
          
"Let's
see how things look," he said. "If we can't do it the way we planned,
we'll call it off."

 
          
He
looked at Carole and wanted to take her hand. He couldn't believe it. All these
years she'd been as attracted to him as he'd been to her, and neither of them
had had a clue. How sad, he thought. And how wonderful to be past that now.

 
          
They
reached
Lakewood
just as the sun was rising. They parked two
blocks from the business district and lugged their milk crate full of bottles,
balloons, and guns between the buildings until they wound up in an alley across
the street and half a block up from the Post Office. The three-man
Vichy
day shift was on the job, so to speak,
smoking and lounging on the steps. One of them sat near a shotgun that leaned
against a wall; the other two had holstered pistols.

 
          
Carole
was looking at her watch. "We'll have to call it off. By the time we carry
all this stuff up to the roof and start the attack"—she looked up at Joe—
"it will be too late for you."

 
          
Joe
looked at the brightening sky. Damn. She was right.

 
          
"All
right. Let's head back to the car and—"

 
          
"Wait,"
Lacey said. "Give me a minute here."

 
          
"For
what?" Joe said.

 
          
Her
jaw was set and her eyes had gone flat and cold. She worked the slide on one of
her pistols and stuck it into the waistband of her jeans at the small of her
back.

 
          
"Lacey?"

 
          
Before
Joe could stop her she stepped out onto the sidewalk and began walking toward
the
Vichy
. He wanted to call her back but didn't dare
reveal himself. With the sun lighting her back, she moved briskly, hips
swaying, arms swinging at her sides. Joe could only peek around the corner and
pray.

 
          
She
was halfway to the Post Office before they noticed her.

 
          
"Hey,
girl," one of them said, shading his eyes as he squinted into the glare.
"Where you goin?"