The Lord’s Work
F. PAUL WILSON resides at the Jersey Shore and is the author of forty-plus books and nearly a hundred short stories spanning science fiction, horror, adventure, medical thrillers and virtually everything in between.
His novels regularly appear on the New York Times Bestsellers List. He was voted Grand Master by the World Horror Convention and received the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Horror Writers Association. He has also received the Bram Stoker Award, the Porgie Award, the Prometheus and Prometheus Hall of Fame Awards, the Pioneer Award from the RT Booklovers Convention, the Inkpot Award from ComiCon, and is listed in the 50th anniversary edition of Who’s Who in America.
Over eight million copies of his books are in print in the US and his work has been translated into twenty-four languages. He has also written for the stage, screen and interactive media. The author’s latest thrillers, Ground Zero and Fatal Error, both star his urban mercenary, Repairman Jack, while Jack: Secret Histories kicked off a young-adult trilogy starring a fourteen-year-old Jack.
Vampires finally rule the world. They use humans as either slaves or livestock, but there are still a few who have the courage to fight back against their undead masters ...
~ * ~
AND WHAT ARE you doing, Carole? What are you DOING? You’ll be after killing yourself, Carole. You’ll be blowing yourself to pieces and then you’ll be going straight to hell. HELL, Carole!
“But I won’t be going alone,” Sister Carole Flannery muttered.
She had to turn her head away from the kitchen sink now. The fumes stung her nose and made her eyes water, but she kept on stirring the pool chlorinator into the hot water until it was completely dissolved. She wasn’t through yet. She took the beaker of No Salt she’d measured out before starting the process and added it to the mix in the big Pyrex bowl. Then she stirred some more. Finally, when she was satisfied that she was not going to see any further dissolution at this temperature, she put the bowl on the stove and turned up the flame.
A propane stove. She’d seen the big white tank out back last week when she was looking for a new home; that was why she’d chosen this old house. With New Jersey Natural Gas in ruins, and JCP&L no longer sending electricity through the wires, propane and wood stoves were the only ways left to cook.
I really shouldn’t call it cooking, she thought as she fled the acrid fumes and headed for the living room. Nothing more than a simple dissociation reaction—heating a mixture of calcium hypochlorate with potassium chloride. Simple, basic chemistry. The very subject she’d taught bored freshmen and sophomores for five years at St Anthony’s high school over in Lakewood.
“And you all thought chemistry was such a useless subject!” she shouted to the walls.
She clapped a hand over her mouth. There she was, talking out loud again. She had to be careful. Not so much because someone might hear her, but because she was worried she might be losing her mind.
She’d begun talking to herself in her head—just for company of sorts—to ease her through the long empty hours. But the voice had taken on a life of its own. It was still her own voice, but it had acquired a thick Irish brogue, very similar to her dear, sweet, dead mother’s.
Maybe she’d already lost her mind. Maybe all this was merely a delusion. Maybe vampires hadn’t taken over the entire civilized world. Maybe they hadn’t defiled her church and convent, slaughtered her sister nuns. Maybe it was all in her mind.
Sure, and you’d be wishing it was all in your mind, Carole. Of course you would. Then you wouldn’t be sinning!
Yes, she truly did wish she were imagining all this. At least then she’d be the only one suffering, and all the rest would still be alive and well, just as they’d been before she went off the deep end. Like the people who’d once lived in this house. The Bennetts—Kevin, Marie, and their twin girls. She hadn’t known them before, but Sister Carole felt she knew them now. She’d seen their family photos, seen the twins’ bedroom. They were dead now, she was sure. Or maybe worse. But either way, they were gone.
But if this was a delusion it was certainly an elaborate, consistent delusion. Every time she woke up—she never allowed herself to sleep too many hours at once, only catnaps—it was the same: quiet skies, vacant houses, empty streets, furtive, scurrying survivors who trusted no one, and—
What’s that?
Sister Carole froze as her ears picked up a sound outside, a hum, like a car engine. She hurried in a crouch to the front door and peered through the sidelight. It was a car. A convertible. Someone was out driving in—
She ducked down when she saw who was in it. Scruffy and unwashed, lean and wolfish, bare-chested or in cut-off sweatshirts, the driver wearing a big Texas hat, all guzzling beer. She didn’t know their names or their faces, and she didn’t have to see their earrings to know who—what—they were.
Collaborators. Predators. They liked to call themselves cowboys. Sister Carole called them scum of the earth.
They were headed east. Good. They’d find a little surprise waiting for them down the road.
As it did every so often, the horror of what her life had become caught up to Sister Carole then, and she slumped to the floor of the Bennett house and began to sob.
Why? Why had God allowed this to happen to her, to His Church, to His world?
Better question: why had she allowed these awful events to change her so? She had been a Sister of Mercy.
Mercy! Do you hear that, Carole? A Sister of MERCY!
She had taken vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, had vowed to devote her life to teaching and doing the Lord’s work. But now there was no money, no one worth losing her virginity to, no Church to be obedient to, and no students left to teach.
All she had left was the Lord’s work.
Believe you me, Carole, I’d hardly be calling the making of plastic explosive and the other horrible things you’ve been doing the Lord’s work. It’s killing! It’s a SIN.’
Maybe the voice was right. Maybe she would go to hell for what she was doing. But somebody had to make those rotten cowboys pay.
~ * ~
King of the world.
Al Hulett leaned back in the passenger seat of the Mercedes convertible they’d just driven out of somebody’s garage, burning rubber all the way, and let the cool breeze caress his sweaty head. Stan was driving, Artie and Kenny were in the back seat, everybody had a Heineken in his fist, and they were tooling along Route 88 toward the beach, catching some early summer rays on the way. He casually tossed his empty backward, letting it arc over the trunk, and heard it smash on the asphalt behind them. Then he closed his eyes and grooved.
The pack. Buddies. The four of them had been together since grammar school in Camden. How many years was that now? Ten? Twelve? Couldn’t be more than a dozen. No way. Whatever, the four of them had stuck together through it all, never breaking up, even when Stan pulled that short jolt in Yardville on a B&E, even when the whole world went to hell.
They’d come through it all like gold. They’d hired out to the winners. They were the best hunting pack around. And Al was one of them.
King of the fucking world.
Well, not king, really. But at least a prince ... when the sun was up.
Night was a whole different story.
But why think about the night when you had this glorious summer day all to—
“Shit! Goddam shit!”
Stan’s raging voice and the sudden braking of the car yanked Al from his reverie. He opened his eyes and looked at Stan.
“Hey, motherfu—”
Then he saw him. Or, rather, it. Dead ahead. Dead ahead. A corpse, hanging by its feet from a utility pole.
“Oh, shit,” Kenny said from behind him. “Another one. Who is it?”
“I dunno,” Stan said, then he looked at Al from under the wide brim of his cowboy hat. “Whyn’t you go see.”
Al swallowed. He’d always been the best climber, so he’d wound up the second-storey man of the team. But he didn’t want to make this climb.
“What’s the use?” Al said. “Whoever he is, he’s dead.”
“See if he’s one of us,” Stan said.
“Ain’t it always one of us?”
“Then see which one of us it is, okay?”
Stan had this pale, cratered skin. Even though he was in his twenties he still got pimples. He looked like the man in the moon now, but in the old days he’d been a pizza face. Once he almost killed a guy who’d called him that. And he had this crazy blond hair that stuck out in all directions when he didn’t cut it, but even when he cut it Mohican style like now, all shaved off on the sides and all, it looked crazier than ever. Made Stan look crazier than ever. And Stan was pretty crazy as it was. And mean. He’d been thinking he was hot shit ever since he got out of Yardville. His big head had got even bigger when the bloodsuckers made him pack leader. He’d been pissing Al off lately but this time he was right: somebody had to go see who’d got unlucky last night.
Al hopped over the door and headed for the pole. What a pain in the ass. The rope around the dead guy’s feet was looped over the first climbing spike. He shimmied up to it and got creosote all over him in the process. The stuff was a bitch to get off. And besides, it made his skin itch. On the way up he’d kept the pole between himself and the body. Now it was time to look. He swallowed. He’d seen one of these strung-up guys up close before and—
He spotted the earring, a blood-splattered silvery crescent moon dangling on a fine chain from the brown-crusted earlobe, an exact replica of the one dangling from his own left ear, and from Stan’s and Artie’s and Kenny’s. Only this one was dangling the wrong way.
“Yep,” he said, loud so’s the guys on the ground could hear it. “It’s one of us.”
“Damn!” Stan’s voice. “Anyone we know?”
Al squinted at the face but with the gag stuck in its mouth, and the head so encrusted with clotted blood and crawling with buzzing, feeding flies, darting in and out of the gaping wound in the throat, he couldn’t make out the features.
“I can’t tell.”
“Well, cut him down.”
This was the part Al hated most of all. It seemed almost sacrilegious. Not that he’d ever been religious or anything, but someday, if he didn’t watch his ass, this could be him.
He pulled his Special Forces knife from his belt and sawed at the rope above the knot on the climbing spike. It frayed, jerked a couple of times, then parted. He closed his eyes as the body tumbled downward. He hummed Metallica’s “Sandman” to blot out the sound it made when it hit the pavement. He especially hated the sick, wet sound the head made if it landed first. Which this one did.
“Looks like Benny Gonzales,” Artie said.
“Yep,” Kenny said. “No doubt about it. That’s Benny. Poor guy.”
They dragged his body over to the kerb and drove on, but the party mood was gone.
“I’d love to catch the bastards who’re doing this shit,” Stan said as he drove. “They’ve gotta be close by around here somewhere.”
“They could be anywhere,” Al said. “They found Benny back there, killed him there—you saw that puddle of blood under him -and left him there. Then they cut out.”
“They’re huntin’ us like we’re huntin’ them,” Kenny said.
“But I wanna be the one to catch ‘em,” Stan said.
“Yeah?” said Artie from the back. “And what would you do if you did?”
Stan said nothing, and Al knew that was the answer. Nothing. He’d bring them in and turn them over. The bloodsuckers didn’t like you screwing with their cattle.
Kings of the world ... princes of the day ...
If you could get used to the creeps you were working for, it wasn’t too bad a set-up. Could have been worse, Al knew—a lot worse.
They all could have wound up being cattle.
Al didn’t know when the vampires had started taking over. People said it began in Eastern Europe, some time after the communists got kicked out. The vampires had been building up their numbers, waiting for their chance, and when everything was in turmoil, they struck. All of a sudden it was the only thing on the news. Dracula wasn’t a storybook character, he was real, and he was suddenly the new Stalin in charge of Eastern Europe.
From there the vampires spread east and west, into Russia and the rest of Europe. They were smart, those bloodsuckers. They hit the government and military bigwigs first, made them their own kind, then threw everything into chaos. Not too long after that they crossed the ocean. America thought it was ready for them but it wasn’t. They hit high, they hit low, and before you knew it, they were in charge.
Well, almost in charge. They did whatever they damn well pleased at night, but they’d never be in charge around the clock because they couldn’t be up and about in the daylight. They needed somebody to hold the fort for them between sunrise and sunset.
That was where Al and the guys came in. The bloodsuckers had found them hiding in the basement of Leon’s pool hall one night and made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.
They could be cattle, or they could be cowboys and drive the cattle.
Not much of a choice as far as Al could see.
You see, the bloodsuckers had two ways of killing folks. They had the usual way of ripping into your neck and sucking out your blood. If they got you that way, you became one of them come the next sundown. That was the method they used when they were taking over a place. They got themselves a bunch of instant converts that way. But once they had the upper hand, they changed their feeding style. Smart, those bloodsuckers. If they got too many of their kind wandering around, they’d soon have nobody to feed on—a world full of chefs with nothing to cook. So after they were in control, they’d string their victims up by their feet, slit their throats, and drink the blood as it gushed out of them. When you died that way, you stayed dead. Something they called true death.
But they’d offered Al and Stan and the guys undeath. Be their cowboys, be their muscle during the day, herd the cattle and take care of business between sunrise and sunset, do a good job for twenty years, and they’d see to it that you got done in the old-fashioned way, the way that left you like them. Undead. Immortal. One of the ruling class.
Twenty years and out. Like the army. They gave you these crescent-moon earrings to wear, so they’d know you were on their side when they ran into you at night, and they let you do pretty much what you wanted during the days.
But the nights were theirs.
Being a cowboy wasn’t so bad, really. You had to keep an eye on their nests, make sure no save-the-world types—Stan liked to call them rustlers—got in there and started splashing holy water around and driving stakes into their cold little hearts. And if you wanted brownie points, you went out each day and hunted up a victim or two to have ready for them after sundown.
Those brownie points were nothing to sneer at either. Earn enough of them and you got to spend some stud time on one of their cattle ranches—where all the cows were human. And young.
Neither Al nor Stan nor any of their pack had been to one of the farms yet, but they’d all heard it was incredible. You came back sore.
Al didn’t particularly like working for the vampires. But he couldn’t remember ever liking anybody he’d worked for. The bloodsuckers gave him the creeps, but what was he supposed to do? If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Plenty of guys felt the same way.
But not all. Some folks took it real personal, called Al and Stan and the boys traitors and collaborators and worse. And lately it looked like some of them had gone beyond the name-calling stage and were into throat-slitting.
Benny Gonzales was the fifth one in the last four weeks.
Apparently the guys who were behind this wanted to make it look like the vampires themselves were doing the killings, but it didn’t wash. Too messy. These bodies had blood all over them, and a puddle beneath them. When the bloodsuckers slit somebody’s throat, they didn’t let a drop of it go to waste. They licked the platter clean, so to speak.
“We gotta start being real careful,” Stan was saying. “Gotta keep our eyes open.”
“And look for what?” Kenny said.
“For a bunch of guys who hang out together—a bunch of guys who ain’t cowboys.”
Artie started singing that Willie Nelson song, “Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow up to be Cowboys” and it set Stan off.
“Knock it off, god damn it! This ain’t funny! One of us could be next! Now keep your fucking eyes open!”
Al studied the houses drifting by as they cruised into Point Pleasant Beach. Cars sat quietly along the kerbs of the empty streets and the houses appeared deserted, their empty blind windows staring back at him. But every so often they’d pass a yard that looked cared for, and those houses would be defiantly studded with crosses and festooned with garlands of garlic. And every so often you could swear you saw somebody peeking out from behind a window or through a screen door.
“You know, Stan,” Al said. “I’ll bet those cowboy killers are hiding in one of them houses with all the garlic and crosses.”
“Maybe,” Stan said. “But I kinda doubt it. Those folks tend to stay in after sundown. Whoever’s behind this is working at night.”
That made sense to Al. The folks in those houses hardly ever came out. They were loners. Dangerous loners. Armed loners. The vampires couldn’t get in because of all the garlic and crosses, and the cowboys who’d tried to get in—or even take off some of the crosses -usually got shot up. The vampires had said to leave them be for now. Sooner or later they’d run out of food and have to come out. Then they’d get them.
Smart, those bloodsuckers. Al guessed they figured they had plenty of time to outwait the loners. All the time in the world.
They were cruising Ocean Avenue by the boardwalk area now, barely a block from the Atlantic. What a difference a year made. Last year at this time the place was packed with the summer crowds, the day-trippers and the weekly renters. Now it was deserted. The sun was high and hot but it was like winter had never ended.
They were gliding past the empty, frozen rides when Al caught a flash of colour moving between a couple of the boardwalk stands.
“Pull over,” he said, putting a hand on Stan’s arm. “I think I saw something.”
The tyres screeched as Stan made a sharp turn into Jenkinson’s parking lot.
“What kind of something?”
“Something blonde.”
Kenny and Artie let out cowboy whoops and jumped out of the back seat. They tossed their Heineken empties high and let them smash in glittery green explosions.
“Shut the fuck up!” Stan said. “You tryin’ to queer this little round-up or what? Now you two head down to the street back there and work your way back up on the boards. Me and Al’ll go up here and work our way down. Get going.”
As Artie and Kenny trotted back to the Risden’s Beach bath houses, Stan squared his ten-gallon hat on his head and pointed toward the miniature golf course at the other end of the parking lot. Al took the lead and Stan followed. Arnold Avenue ended here in a turret-like police station, still boarded up for the winter, but its big warning sign was still up, informing anyone who passed that alcoholic beverages and dogs and motorbikes and various other goodies were prohibited in the beach and boardwalk area by order of the mayor and city council of Point Pleasant Beach. Al smiled. The beach and the boardwalk and the sign were still here, but the mayor and the city council were long gone.
Pretty damn depressing up on the boards. The big glass windows in Jenkinson’s arcade were smashed and it was dark inside. The lifeless video games stared back with dead eyes. All the concession stands were boarded up, the paralysed rides were rusting and peeling, and it was quiet. No barkers shouting, no kids laughing, no squealing babes in bikinis running in and out of the surf. Just the monotonous pounding of the waves against the deserted beach.
And the birds. The seagulls were doing what they’d always done. Probably the only thing they missed was the garbage the crowds used to leave behind.
Al and Stan headed south, scouring the boardwalk as they moved. The only other humans they saw were Kenny and Artie coming up the other way from the South Beach Arcade.
“Any luck?” Stan called.
“Nada,” Kenny said.
“Yo, Alphonse!” Artie said. “How many Heinies you have anyway? You seein’ things now? What was it—a blonde bird?”
But Al knew he’d seen something moving up here, and it hadn’t been no goddam seagull. But where ...?
“Let’s get back to the car and keep moving,” Stan said. “Don’t look like we’re gonna make us no brownie points up here.”
They’d all turned and were heading back up the boards when Al took one last look back ... and saw something moving. Something small and red, rolling across the boards toward the beach from between one of the concession stands.
A ball.
He tapped Stan on the shoulder, put a finger to his lips, and pointed. Stan’s eyes widened and together they alerted Artie and Kenny. Together the four of them crept toward the spot where the ball had rolled from.
As they got closer, Al realized why they’d missed this spot on the first pass. It was really two concession stands—a frozen yogurt place and a salt water taffy shop—with boards nailed up over the space between to make them look like a single building.
Stan tapped Al on the shoulder and pointed to the roof of the nearer concession stand. Al nodded. He knew what he wanted: the second-storey man had to do his thing again.
Al got to the top of the chain-link fence running behind the concession stands and from there it was easy to lever himself up to the roof. His sneakers made barely a sound as he crept across the tar of the canted roof to the far side.
The girl must have heard him coming, because she was already looking up when he peeked over the edge. Al felt a surge of satisfaction when he saw her blonde ponytail and long thick bangs.
He felt something else when he saw the tears streaming down her cheeks from her pleading eyes, and her hands raised, palms together, as if praying to him. She wanted him to see nothing—she was begging Al to see nothing.
For an instant he was tempted. The pleas in those frightened blue eyes reached deep inside and touched something there, disturbed a part of him so long unused he’d forgotten it belonged to him.
And then he saw she had a little boy with her, maybe seven years old, dark-haired but with eyes as blue as hers. She was pleading for him as much as herself. Maybe more than herself. And with good reason. The vampires loved little kids. Al didn’t understand it. Kids were smaller, had less blood than adults. Maybe their blood was purer, sweeter. Someday, when he was undead himself, he’d know.
But even with the kid there, Al might have done something stupid, might have called down to Stan and the boys that there was nothing here but some old tom cat who’d probably taken a swat at that ball and rolled it out. But when he saw that she was pregnant—very pregnant—he knew he had to turn her in.
As much as the bloodsuckers loved kids, they went crazy for babies. Infants were the primo delicacy among the vampires. Al once had seen a couple up then fighting over a newborn.
That had been a sight.
He sighed and said, “Too bad, honey, but you’re packing too many points.” He turned and called down toward the boardwalk. “Bingo, guys. We struck it rich.”
She screamed out a bunch of hysterical “No’s” and the little boy began to cry.
Al shook his head regretfully. It wasn’t always a pleasant job, but a cowboy had to do what a cowboy had to do.
And besides, all these brownie points were going to bring him that much closer to some stud time at the nearest cattle farm.
~ * ~
Sister Carole checked the Pyrex bowl on the stove. A chalky layer of potassium chloride had formed in the bottom. She turned off the heat and immediately decanted off the boiling upper fluid, pouring it through a Mr Coffee filter into a Pyrex brownie pan. She threw out the scum in the filter and put the pan of filtrate on the window sill to cool.
She heard the sound of a car again and rushed to a window. It was the same car, with the same occupants—
No, wait. There had been only four before. Two in front and two in back. Now there were three squeezed into the back and they seemed to be fighting. And did that third head in front, sitting with the red-haired cowboy in the passenger seat, belong to a child? Oh, my Lord, yes. A child! And in the back a woman, probably his mother. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the poor thing was pregnant!
Sister Carole suddenly felt as if something were tearing apart within her chest. Was there no justice, was there no mercy anywhere?
She dropped to her knees and began to pray for them, but in the back of her mind she wondered why she bothered. None of her prayers had been answered so far.
Sacrilege, Carole! That’s SACRILEGE! Now tell me why you’d be thinking the Lord would answer the prayers of such a SINNER? God doesn’t answer the prayers of a SINNER!
Maybe not, Carole thought. But if He’d answered somebody’s prayers somewhere along the line, maybe she wouldn’t have been forced to turn the Bennetts’ kitchen into an anarchist’s laboratory.
The Lord helped those who helped themselves, didn’t He? Especially when they were doing the Lord’s work.
~ * ~
Artie and Kenny had been fighting over the blonde since they’d all left Point. She’d put up a fight at first, but she’d been nothing but a blubbering basket case for the last few miles. By the time the Mercedes hit Lakewood, Artie and Kenny were ready to start swinging at each other.
The blonde’s little boy—Joey, she called him—looked up with his baby blues from where he was sitting on Al’s lap and said, “Are they gonna hurt my mommy?”
Stan must have overheard. He said, “They better not if they know what’s good for ‘em.” He looked at Al and jerked his head toward the back seat. “Straighten them out, will ya?”
Al turned in his seat and grabbed Artie since he was closest.
“You ain’t gonna do shit to her, Artie!”
Artie slammed his hand away. “Yeah? And what are we gonna do? Save her for you? Bullshit!”
Artie could be a real asshole at times.
“We’re not saving her for me,” Al said. “For Gregor. You remember Gregor, don’t you, Artie?”
Some of Artie’s bluster faded. Gregor was the bigshot bloodsucker in charge of the Jersey Shore. One mean son of an undead bitch. You didn’t mess with Gregor. Al knew Artie was probably thinking of Gregor’s smile, how most times it looked painted on, how with all those sharp teeth of his he managed to look both happy and very, very hungry at the same time. Gregor was a big guy, with broad shoulders, dark hair, and a pale face. All the vampires looked pale. But that wasn’t what made Al’s skin crawl every time he got near one. It was something else, something you couldn’t see or smell, something you felt. But they had to meet with Gregor every night and tell him how things had gone while he was cutting his Z’s or whatever it was the bloodsuckers did when the sun was up. It was part of the job.
“Course,” Artie said. “Course I know Gregor. But I don’t wanna suck her blood, man,” he said, jamming his hand down between the blonde’s legs. “I got other things in mind. It’s been a long time, man—a long time—and I gotta—”
“What if you screw up the baby?” Al said. “What if she starts having the baby and it’s born dead? All because of you? What’re you gonna tell Gregor then, Artie? How you gonna explain that to him?”
“Who says he has to know?”
“You think he won’t find out?” Al said. “I tell you what, Artie. And you, too, Kenny. You guys want to get your jollies with this broad, fine. Go ahead. But if that’s what you’re gonna do, Stan and me are stopping the car here—right here—and walking away Am I right Stan?” ‘
Stan nodded. “Fuckin’ ay.”
“And then you two clowns can explain any problems to Gregor yourselves tonight when we meet. Okay?”
Artie pulled his hand away from the blonde and sat on it.
“Jesus, Al. I’m hurtin’ bad.”
“We’re all hurtin’, Artie. But some of us just ain’t ready yet to get killed for a little pregnant poontang, know what I mean?”
Stan seemed to think that was real funny. He laughed the rest of the way down County Line Road.
~ * ~
Sister Carole finished her prayers at sundown and went to check on the cooled filtrate. The bottom of the pan was layered with potassium chlorate crystals. Potent stuff. The Germans had used it in their grenades and land mines during World War One.
She got a clean Mr Coffee filter and poured the contents of the pan through it, but this time she saved the residue in the filter and let the liquid go down the drain.
Lookit after what you’re doing now, Carole! You’re a sick woman! SICK! You’ve got to be stopping this and praying to God for guidance’ Pray, Carole! PRAY.
Sister Carole ignored the voice and spread out the potassium chlorate crystals in the now-empty pan. She set the oven on LOW and placed the pan on the middle rack. She had to get all the moisture out of the potassium chlorate before it would be of any use to her.
So much trouble, and so dangerous. If only her searches had yielded some dynamite, even a few sticks, everything would have been so much easier. She’d searched everywhere—hunting shops, gun stores, construction sites. She found lots of other useful items, but no dynamite. Only some blasting caps. She’d had no choice but to improvise.
This was her third batch. She’d been lucky so far. She hoped she survived long enough to get a chance to use it.
~ * ~
“You’ve outdone yourselves this time, boys.”
Gregor stared at the four cowboys. Ordinarily he found it doubly difficult to be near them. Not simply because the crimson thirst made a perpetual test of being near a living font of hot, pulsing sustenance when he’d yet to feed, urging him to let loose and tear into their throats; but also because these four were so common, such low-lifes.
Gregor was royalty. He’d come over from the Old Country with the Master and had helped conquer America’s East Coast. Now he was in charge of this region and was in line to expand his responsibilities. When he was moved up he would no longer be forced to deal directly with flotsam such as these. Living collaborators were a necessary evil, but that didn’t mean he had to like them.
Tonight, however, he could almost say truly that he enjoyed their presence. He was ecstatic with the prizes they had brought with them.
Gregor had shown up shortly after sundown at the customary meeting place outside St Anthony’s church. Of course, it didn’t look much like a church now, what with all the crosses broken off. He’d found the scurvy quartet waiting for him as usual, but they had with them a small boy and—dare he believe his eyes—a pregnant woman. His knees had gone weak at the double throb of life within her.
“I’m extremely proud of all of you.”
“We thought you’d appreciate it,” said the one in the cowboy hat. What was his name? Stanley. That was it. Stan.
Gregor felt his grin grow even wider.
“Oh, I do. Not just for the succulence of the prizes you’ve delivered, but because you’ve vindicated my faith in you. I knew the minute I saw you that you’d make good cowboys.”
An outright lie. He’d chosen them because he guessed they were low enough to betray their own kind, and he had been right. But it cost him nothing to heap the praise on them, and perhaps it would spur them to do as well next time. Maybe better. Although what could be better than this?
“Anything for the cause,” Stan said.
The redheaded one next to him—Al, Gregor remembered—gave his partner a poisonous look, as if he wanted to kick him for being such a boot-lick.
“And your timing could not be better,” Gregor told them. “Why? Because the Master himself is coming for a visit.”
Al’s mouth worked as if it had suddenly gone dry. “Dracula?”
Gregor nodded. “Himself. And I will present this gravid cow to him as a gift. He will be enormously pleased. This will be good for me. And trust me, what is good for me will eventually prove to be good for you.”
Partly true. The little boy would go to the local nest leader—he’d been pastor of St Anthony’s during his life and he had a taste for young boys—and the pregnant female would indeed go to the Master. But the rest was a laugh. As soon as Gregor was moved out of here, he’d never give these four walking heaps of human garbage another thought. But he smiled as he turned away.
“As always, may your night be bountiful.”
~ * ~
A little after sundown, Sister Carole removed the potassium chlorate crystals from the oven. She poured them into a bowl and then gently, carefully, began to grind them down to a fine powder. This was the touchiest part of the process. A little too much friction, a sudden shock, and the bowl would blow up in her face.
You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Carole. Sure, and you’ll be thinking that would solve all your problems. Well, it won’t, Carole. It will merely start your REAL problems! It will send you straight to HELL!
Sister Carole made no reply as she continued the grinding. When the powder was sifted through a 400 mesh, she spread it onto the bottom of the pan again and placed it back in the oven to remove the last trace of moisture. While that was heating she began melting equal parts of wax and Vaseline, mixing them in a small Pyrex bowl.
When the wax and Vaseline had reached a uniform consistency she dissolved the mix into some camp stove gasoline. Then she removed the potassium chlorate powder from the oven and stirred in three per cent aluminum powder to enhance the flash effect. Then she poured the Vaseline-wax-gasoline solution over the powder. She slipped on rubber gloves and began stirring and kneading everything together until she had a uniform, gooey mess. This went on the windowsill to cool and to speed the evaporation of the gasoline.
Then she went to the bedroom. Soon it would be time to go out and she had to dress appropriately. She stripped to her underwear and laid out the tight black skirt and red blouse she’d lifted from the shattered show window of that deserted shop down on Clifton Avenue. Then she began squeezing into a fresh pair of black pantyhose.
You’re getting into THOSE clothes again, are you? You look cheap, Carole! You look like a WHORE!
That’s the whole idea, she thought.
~ * ~
Al walked home. He could have driven but he liked to keep a low profile. He didn’t care to have too many survivors knowing he was a cowboy. Not that there were all that many people left running around free, but until they caught up with the guys who were behind the cowboy killings, he’d play it safe. Which was why he’d removed his earring tonight, and why he lived alone.
Well, one of the reasons he lived alone.
Stan, Artie, and Kenny lived together in one of the big mansions off Hope Road. They liked to brag that one of the Mets used to live there. Big deal. Al spent all day with those guys. He couldn’t see spending all night too. They were okay, but enough was enough already. He’d taken over a modest little ranch that gave him everything he needed.
Except maybe some electricity. The other three were always yapping about the generator in their place. Maybe Al would get one. Candles and kerosene lamps were a drag.
He looked up. At least there was a moon out tonight. Almost full. Amazing how dark a residential street could be when there was no traffic, no streetlights. At least he had his flashlight, but he held that in reserve. Batteries were like gold.
He’d just turned onto his block when he heard the voice. A woman’s voice.
“Hey, mister.”
He jammed his hand in his pocket and found his earring, ready to flash it if the owner of the voice turned out to be one of the bloodsuckers, and ready to keep it hidden if it belonged to somebody looking for a new cowboy to kill.
He clicked on his flashlight and beamed it towards the voice.
A woman standing in the bushes. Not undead. Maybe thirty, and not bad looking. He played the light up and down her. Short dark hair, lots of eye make-up, a red sweater tight over decent-sized boobs, a short black skirt very tight over black stockings.
Despite the warning bells going off in his brain, Al felt a stirring in his groin.
“Who’re you?”
She smiled. No, not bad looking at all.
“My name’s Carol,” she said. “You got any food?”
“I got a little. Not much.”
Actually, he had a lot of food, but he didn’t want her to know that. Food was scarce, worth more than batteries, and the vampires made sure their cowboys always had plenty of it.
“Can you spare any?”
“I might be able to help you out some. Depends on how many mouths we’re talking about.”
“Just me and my kid.”
The words jumped out before he could stop them: “You’ve got a kid?”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “She’s only four. She don’t eat much.”
A four-year old. Two kids in one day. Almost too good to be true. The whole scenario started playing out in his mind. She could move in with him. If she treated him right, they could play house for a while. If she gave him any trouble she and her brat would become gifts to Gregor. That was where they were going to wind up anyway, but no reason Al couldn’t get some use out of her before she became some bloodsucker’s meal.
And maybe he’d get real lucky. Maybe she’d get pregnant before he turned her in.
“Well... all right,” he said, trying to sound reluctant. “Bring her out where I can see her.”
“She’s home asleep.”
“Alone?” Al felt a surge of anger. He already considered that kid his property. He didn’t want any bloodsucker sneaking in and robbing him of what was rightfully his. “What if—?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got her surrounded by crosses.”
“Still, you never know. We’d better take her along to my place where she’ll be safe.”
Did that sound sufficiently concerned?
“You must be a good, man,” she said softly.
“Oh, I’m the best,” he said. And I’ve got this friend behind my fly who’s just dying to meet you.
He followed her back to the corner and around to the middle of the next block to an old two-storey colonial set back among some tall oaks on an overgrown lot. He nodded with growing excitement when he saw a child’s red wagon parked against the front steps.
“You live here? Hell, I must’ve passed this place a couple of times already today.”
“Really?” she said. “I usually stay hidden in the basement.”
“Good thinking.”
He followed her up the steps and through the front door. Inside there were candles burning all over the place, but the heavy drapes hid them from outside.
“Lynn’s sleeping upstairs,” she said. “I’ll just run up and bring her down.”
Al watched her black-stockinged legs hungrily as she bounded up the bare wooden stairway, taking the steps two at a time. He couldn’t wait to get her home.
And then it hit him: why wait till they got to his place? She had to have a bed up there. What was he doing standing around here when he could be upstairs getting himself a preview of what was to come?
“Yoo-hoo,” he said softly as he put his foot on the first step. “Here comes Daddy.”
But the first step wasn’t wood. Wasn’t even a step. His foot went right through it, as if it was made of cardboard. As Al looked down in shock he saw that it was made of cardboard—painted cardboard. His brain was just forming the question Why? when a sudden blast of pain like he’d never known in his life shot up his leg from just above his ankle.
Screaming, he lunged back, away from the false step, but the movement tripled his agony. He clung to the newel post like a drunk, weeping and moaning for God knew how long, until the pain eased for a second. Then slowly, gingerly, accompanied by the metallic clanking of uncoiling chain links, he lifted his leg out of the false tread.
Al let loose a stream of curses through his pain-clenched teeth when he saw the bear trap attached to his leg. Its sharp, massive steel teeth had embedded themselves in the flesh of his lower leg.
But fear began to worm through the all-enveloping haze of his agony.
The bitch set me up!
Stan had wanted to find the guys who were killing the cowboys. But now Al had, and he was scared shitless. What a dumb-ass he was. Baited by a broad—the oldest trick in the book.
Gotta get outta here!
He lunged for the door but the chain caught and brought him up short with a blinding blaze of agony so intense that the scream it elicited damn near shredded his vocal cords. He toppled to the floor and lay there moaning and whimpering until the pain became bearable again.
Where were they? Where were the rest of the cowboy killers? Upstairs, laughing as they listened to him howl like a scared kitten? Waiting until he’d exhausted himself so he’d be easy pickings?
He’d show them.
Al pulled himself to a sitting position and reached for the trap. He tried to spread its jaws but they were locked tight on his leg. He wrapped his hand around the chain and tried to yank it free from where it was fastened below but it wouldn’t budge.
Panic began to grip him now. Its icy fingers were tightening on his throat when he heard a sound on the stairs. He looked up and saw her.
A nun.
He blinked and looked again
Still a nun. He squinted and saw that it was the broad who’d led him in here. She was wearing a bulky sweater and loose slacks, and all the make-up had been scrubbed off her face, but he knew she was a nun by the wimple she wore—a white band around her head with a black veil trailing behind.
And suddenly, amid the pain and panic, Al was back in grammar school, back in Our Lady of Sorrows in Camden, before he got expelled, and Sister Margaret was coming at him with her ruler, only this nun was a lot younger than Sister Margaret, and that was no ruler she was carrying, that was a baseball bat—an aluminium baseball bat.
He looked around. Nobody else, just him and the nun.
“Where’s the rest of you?”
“Rest?” she said.
“Yeah. The others in your gang? Where are they?”
“There’s only me.”
She was lying. She had to be. One crazy nun killing all those cowboys? No way! But still he had to get out of here. He tried to crawl across the floor but the chain wouldn’t let him.
“You’re makin’ a mistake!” he cried. “I ain’t one o’ them!”
“Oh, yes you are,” she said, coming down the stairs.
“No. Really. See?” He touched his right ear lobe. “No earring.”
“Maybe not now, but you had one earlier.” She stepped over the gaping opening where the phony tread had been and moved to his left.
“When? When?”
“When you drove by earlier today. You told me so yourself.”
“I lied!”
“No you didn’t. But I lied. I wasn’t in the basement. I was watching through the window. I saw you and your three friends in that car.” Her voice suddenly became cold and brittle and sharp as a straight razor. “I saw that poor woman and child you had with you. Where are they now? What did you do with them?”
She was talking through her teeth now, and the look in her eyes, the strained pallor of her face frightened the hell out of Al. He wrapped his arms around his head as she stepped closer with the bat.
“Please!” he wailed.
“What did you do with them?”
“Nothing!”
“Lie!”
She swung the bat, but not at his head. Instead she slammed it with a heavy metallic clank against the jaws of the trap. As he screamed with the renewed agony and as his hands automatically reached for his injured leg, Al realized that she must have done this sort of thing before. Because now his head was completely unprotected and she was already into a second swing. And this one was aimed much higher.
~ * ~
You’ve done it again, Carole! AGAIN! I know they’re a bad lot, but look what you’ve DONE!
Sister Carole looked down at the unconscious man with the bleeding head and trapped, lacerated leg and she sobbed.
“I know,” she said aloud.
She was so tired. She’d have liked nothing better now than to sit down and cry herself to sleep. But she couldn’t spare the time. Every moment counted now.
She tucked her feelings—her mercy, her compassion—into the deepest, darkest pocket of her being where she couldn’t see or hear them, and got to work.
The first thing she did was tie the cowboy’s hands good and tight behind his back. Then she got a wash cloth from the downstairs bathroom, stuffed it in his mouth, and secured it with a tie of rope around his head. That done, she grabbed the crow bar and the short length of two by four from where she kept them on the floor of the hall closet; she used the bar to pry open the jaws of the bear trap and wedged the two by four between them to keep them open. Then she worked the cowboy’s leg free. He groaned a couple of times during the process but he never came to.
She bound his legs tightly together, then grabbed the throw rug he lay upon and dragged him and the rug out to the front porch and down the steps to the red wagon she’d left there. She rolled him off the bottom step into the wagon bed and tied him in place. Then she slipped her arms into her knapsack loaded with all her necessary equipment and she was ready to go. She grabbed the wagon’s handle and pulled it down the walk, down the driveway apron and onto the asphalt. From there on it was smooth rolling.
Sister Carole knew just where she was going. She had the spot all picked out.
She was going to try something a little different tonight.
~ * ~
Al screamed and sobbed against the gag. If he could just talk to her he knew he could change her mind. But he couldn’t get a word past the cloth jammed against his tongue.
And he didn’t have long. She had him upside down, strung up by his feet, swaying in the breeze from one of the climbing spikes on a utility pole, and he knew what was coming next. So he pleaded with his eyes, with his soul. He tried mental telepathy.
Sister, sister, sister, don’t do this! I’m a Catholic! My mother prayed for me every day and it didn’t help, but I’ll change now, I promise! I swear on a stack of fucking Bibles I’ll be a good boy from now on if you’ll just let me go this time.
Then he saw her face in the moonlight and realized with a final icy shock that he truly was a goner. Even if he could make her hear him, nothing he could say was going to change this lady’s mind. The eyes were empty. No one was home. The bitch was on autopilot.
When he saw the glimmer of the straight razor as it glided above his throat, there was nothing left to do but wet himself.
~ * ~
When Sister Carole finished vomiting, she sat on the kerb and allowed herself a brief cry.
Go ahead, Carole. Cry your crocodile tears. A fat lot of good it’ll do you when Judgement Day comes. No good at all. What’ll you say then, Carole? How will you explain THIS?
She dragged herself to her feet. She had two more things to do. One of them involved touching the fresh corpse. The second was simpler: starting a fire to attract the other cowboys and their masters.
~ * ~
Gregor watched as Cowboy Stan ran in circles around his dead friend’s swaying, upended corpse.
“It’s Al! The bastards got Al! I’ll kill them all! I’ll tear them to pieces!”
Gregor wished somebody would do just that. He’d heard about these deaths but this was the first he’d seen—an obscene parody of the bloodletting rituals his nightbrothers performed on the cattle. This was acutely embarrassing, especially with the Master newly arrived from New York.
“Show yourselves!” Stan screamed into the darkness. “Come out and fight like men!”
“Someone cut him down,” Gregor said.
One of the other two from Cowboy Stan’s pack finished stamping out the brush fire at the base of the utility pole and began to climb.
“Let him down easy, Kenny!” Stan yelled.
“The only thing I can do is cut the rope,” the one on the pole called back.
“Dammit, Al was one of us! Cut it slow and I’ll ease him down. C’mere, Artie, and help me.”
The one called Artie came over and together they caught their friend’s body as it slumped earthward and—
The flash was noonday bright, the blast deafening as the shock wave knocked Gregor to the ground. His first instinct was to leap to his feet again, but he realized he couldn’t see. The bright flash had fogged his night vision with a purple, amoebic after-image. He lay quiet until he could see again, then rose to a standing position.
He heard a wailing sound. The cowboy who had been on the pole lay somewhere in the bushes, screaming about his back, but the other three—the two living ones and the murdered one—were nowhere to be seen. Gregor began to brush off his clothes as he stepped forward, then froze. He was wet, covered with blood and torn flesh. The entire street was wet and littered with bits of bone, muscle, skin, and fingernail-size pieces of internal organs. There was no telling what had belonged to whom.
Gregor shuddered at the prospect of explaining this to the Master.
Tonight’s murder of Al had been embarrassing enough by itself. But this ... this was humiliating.
~ * ~
Sister Carole saw the flash and heard the explosion through the window over the sink in the darkened kitchen of the Bennett house. No joy, no elation. This wasn’t fun. But she did find a certain grim satisfaction in learning that her potassium chlorate plastique worked.
The gasoline had evaporated from the latest batch and she was working with that now. The moon provided sufficient illumination for the final stage. Once she had the right amount measured out, she didn’t need much light to pack the plastique into soup cans. All she had to do was make sure she maintained a loading density of 1.3 G./c.c. Then she stuck a 3 blasting cap in the end of each cylinder and dipped it into the pot of melted wax she had on the stove. And that did it. She now had waterproof block charges with a detonation velocity of about 3300 M/second, comparable to 40 per cent ammonia dynamite.
“All right,” she said aloud to the night through her kitchen window. “You’ve made my life a living hell. Now it’s your time to be afraid.”
~ * ~
The Master’s eyes glowed redly in the Stygian gloom of the mausoleum. Even among the Old Line of the undead, the Master was fearsome-looking with his leonine mane, his thick moustache, jutting nose, and aggressive chin. But his eyes seemed to burn with an inner fire when he was angry.
His voice was barely a whisper as he pierced Gregor with his stare.
“You’ve disappointed me, Gregor. Earlier this evening you petitioned me for greater responsibility, but you’ve yet to demonstrate that you can handle what you have now.”
“Master, it is a temporary situation.”
“So you keep saying, but it has lasted far too long already. Besides our strength and our special powers, we have two weapons: fear and hopelessness. We cannot control the cattle by love and loyalty, so if we are to maintain our rule, it must be through the terror we inspire in them and the seeming impossibility of ever defeating us. What have the cattle witnessed in your territory, Gregor?”
Gregor feared where this was headed. “Master—”
“I’ll tell you what they’ve witnessed, Gregor,” he said, his voice rising. “They’ve witnessed your inability to protect the serfs we’ve induced to herd the cattle and guard the daylight hours for us. And trust me, Gregor, the success of one vigilante group will give rise to a second, and then a third, and before long it will be open season on our serfs. And then you’ll have real trouble. Because the cattle herders are cowardly swine, Gregor. The lowest of the low. They work for us only because they see us as the victors and they want to be on the winning side at any cost. But if we can’t protect them, if they get a sense that we might be vulnerable and that our continued dominance might not be guaranteed, they’ll turn on you in a flash, Gregor.”
“I know that, Master, and I’m—”
“Fix it, Gregor.”The voice had sunk to a whisper again. “I will be in this territory for three days. Remedy this situation before I leave or I shall place someone else in charge. Is that clear?”
Gregor could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Removed? And to think he’d just made the Master a gift of the pregnant cow. The ungrateful—
He swallowed his anger, his hurt.
“Very clear, Master.”
“Good. It is only a few hours until dawn—too late to take any action now—but I expect you to have a plan ready to execute tomorrow night.”
“I will, Master.”
“Leave me now.”
As Gregor turned and hurried up the steps, he heard an infant begin to cry in the depths of the mausoleum. The sound made him hungry.
~ * ~
Sister Carole spent most of the next day working around the house. She knew it was only a matter of time before she was caught and she wanted to be ready when they came for her.
I wish they’d come for you NOW, Carole. Then this shame, this monstrous sinfulness would be over and you’d get what you DESERVE!
“That makes two of us,” Sister Carole said.
She didn’t want to go out again tonight but knew she had to.
Her only solace was knowing that sooner or later it was going to end—for her.
~ * ~
Gregor smiled as one of his assistants smeared make-up on his face. He would have preferred to have kept his plan to himself but he couldn’t use a mirror and he wanted this to look right. Scruffy clothes, a cowboy hat, a crescent-on-a-chain earring, and a ruddy complexion.
He was going to decoy these vigilante cattle into picking on him as their next cowboy victim. And then they’d be in for quite a surprise.
He could have sent someone else, could have sent out a number of decoys, but he wanted this kill for himself. After all, the Master was here, and his presence mandated bold and extraordinary measures.
He checked the map one last time. He had marked all six places where the dead cowboys had been found. The marks formed a rough circle. Gregor set out alone to wander the streets within that circle.
~ * ~
Miles later, Gregor was becoming discouraged. He’d walked for hours, seeing no one, living or undead. He was wondering if he should call it quits for tonight and return tomorrow when he heard a woman’s voice.
“Hey, mister. Got any food?”
~ * ~
As Sister Carole led the cowboy back to the house, she had a feeling something was wrong. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she sensed something strange about this one. He wore the earring, he’d reacted just the way all the others had, but he’d been standoffish, keeping his distance, as if he was afraid to get too close to her. That bothered her.
Oh, well, she thought. God willing, in a few moments it would be over.
She rushed into the candlelit foyer but when she turned she found him poised on the threshold. Still standoffish. Could there be such a thing as a shy collaborator?
“Come in,” she said. “Have a seat while I fetch Lynn.”
As he stepped inside, she dashed upstairs, being sure to take the steps two at a time so it wouldn’t look strange hopping over the first. She went straight to the bedroom and began rubbing off her makeup, all the while listening for the clank of the bear trap when it was tripped.
Finally it came and she winced as she always did, anticipating the shrill, awful cries of pain. But none came. She rushed to the landing and looked down. There she saw the cowboy ripping the restraining chain free from its nail, then reaching down and opening the jaws of the trap with his bare hands.
With her heart pounding a sudden mad tattoo in her chest, Sister Carole realized then that she’d made a terrible mistake. She’d expected to be caught some day, but not like this. She wasn’t prepared for one of them.
Now you’ve done it, Carole! Now you’ve really DONE IT!
Shaking, panting with fear, she dashed back to the bedroom and followed the emergency route she’d prepared.
~ * ~
Gregor inspected the dried blood on the teeth of the trap. Obviously it had been used before.
So this was how they did it. Clever. And nasty.
He rubbed the already healing wound on his lower leg. The trap had hurt, startled him more than anything else, but no real harm had been done. He straightened, kicked the trap into the opening beneath the faux step, and looked around.
Where were the rest of the petty revolutionaries? There had to be more than this lone woman. Or was there? The house had an empty feel.
This was almost too easy. Gregor had had a bad moment there on the threshold. He couldn’t cross it unless invited across. He’d still be out there on the front porch if the silly cow hadn’t invited him in.
But one woman doing all this damage? The Master would never believe it.
He headed upstairs, gliding this time, barely touching the steps. Another trap would slow him up. He spotted the rope ladder dangling over the window sill as soon as he entered the bedroom. He darted to the window and leaped through the opening. He landed lightly on the overgrown lawn and sniffed the air. She wasn’t far –
He heard running footsteps, a sudden loud rustle, and saw a leafy branch flashing toward him. Gregor felt something hit his chest, pierce it, and knock him back. He grunted with the pain, staggered a few steps, then looked down. Three metal tines protruded from his sternum.
The cow had tied back a sapling, fixed the end of a pitchfork to it, and cut it free when he’d descended from the window. Crude but deadly—if he’d been human. He yanked the tines free and tossed them aside. Around the rear of the house he heard a door slam.
She’d gone back inside. Obviously she wanted him to follow. But Gregor decided to enter his own way. He hurled himself through the dining room window.
The shattered glass settled. Dark. Quiet. She was here inside. Where? Only a matter of time—a very short time—before he found her. He was making his move toward the rear rooms of the house when the silence was shattered by a bell, startling him.
He stared incredulously at the source of the noise. The telephone? But how? The first things his nightbrothers had destroyed were the communication networks. Without thinking, he reached out to it.
The phone exploded as soon as he lifted the receiver.
The blast knocked him against the far wall, smashing him into the bevelled glass of the china cabinet. Again, just as with last night’s explosion, he was blinded by the flash. But this time he was hurt. His hand ... agony ... he couldn’t remember ever feeling pain like this. And he was helpless. If she had accomplices, he was at their mercy now.
But no one attacked him, and soon he could see again.
“My hand!” he screamed when he saw the ragged stump of his right wrist.
Already the bleeding had stopped and the pain was fading, but his hand was gone. It would regenerate in time but—
He had to get out of here and get help before she did something else to him. He didn’t care if it made him look like a fool, this woman was dangerous!
Gregor staggered to his feet and started for the door. Once he was outside in the night air he’d feel better, he’d regain some of his strength.
~ * ~
In the basement, Sister Carole huddled under the mattress and stretched her arm upward. Her fingers found a string that ran the length of the basement to a hole in one of the floorboards above, ran through that hole and into the pantry in the main hall where it was tied to the handle of an empty teacup that sat on the edge of the bottom shelf. She tugged on the string and the teacup fell. Sister Carole heard it shatter and snuggled deeper under her mattress.
~ * ~
What?
Gregor spun at the noise. There. Behind that door. She was hiding in that closet. She’d knocked something off a shelf in there. He’d heard her. He had her now.
Gregor knew he was hurt—maimed—but even with one hand he could easily handle a dozen cattle like her. He didn’t want to wait, didn’t want to go back without something to show for the night. And she was so close now. Right behind that door.
He reached out with his good hand and yanked it open.
Gregor saw everything with crystal clarity then, and understood everything as it happened.
He saw the string attached to the inside of the door, saw it tighten and pull the little wedge of wood from between the jaws of the clothespin that was tacked to the third shelf. He saw the two wires—one wrapped around the upper jaw of the clothespin and leading back to a dry cell battery, the other wrapped around the lower jaw and leading to a row of wax-coated cylinders standing on that third shelf like a collection of lumpy, squat candles with firecracker-thick wicks. As the wired jaws of the clothespin snapped closed, he saw a tiny spark leap the narrowing gap.
Gregor’s universe exploded.
~ * ~
I’m awake! Gregor thought. I survived!
He didn’t know how long it had been since the blast. A few minutes? A few hours? It couldn’t have been too long—it was still night. He could see the moonlight through the hole that had been ripped in the wall.
He tried to move but could not. In fact, he couldn’t feel anything. Anything. But he could hear. And he heard someone picking through the rubble toward him. He tried to turn his head but could not. Who was there? One of his own kind—please let it be one of his own kind.
When he saw the flashlight beam he knew it was one of the living. He began to despair. He was utterly helpless here. What had that explosion done to him?
As the light came closer, he saw that it was the woman, the she-devil. She appeared to be unscathed ...
And she wore the headpiece of a nun.
She shone the beam in his face and he blinked.
“Dear sweet Jesus!” she said. Her voice was hushed with awe. “You’re not dead yet? Even in this condition?”
He opened his mouth to tell her what she no doubt already knew very well: that there were only certain ways the undead could succumb to true death, and a concussive blast from an explosion was not one of them. But his jaw wasn’t working right, and he had no voice.
“So what are we going to do with you, Mr Vampire?” she said. “I can’t risk leaving you here for the sun to finish you—your friends might show up first and find a way to fix you up. Not that I can see how that’d be possible, but I wouldn’t put anything past you vipers.”
What was she saying? What did she mean? What had happened to him?
“If I had a good supply of holy water I could pour it over you, but I want to conserve what I’ve got.”
She was quiet a moment, then she turned and walked off. Had she decided to leave him here? He hoped so. At least that way he had a chance.
But if she wanted to kill him, why hadn’t she said anything about driving a stake through his heart?
Gregor heard her coming back. She had yellow rubber gloves on her hands and a black plastic bag under her arm. She rested the flashlight on a broken timber, snapped the bag open, and reached for his face. He tried to cringe away but again, no response from his body. She grabbed him by his hair and ... lifted him. Vertigo spun him around as she looked him in the face.
“You can still see, can’t you? Maybe you’d better take a look at yourself.”
Vertigo again as she twisted his head around, and then he saw the hallway, or what was left of it. Mass destruction—shattered timbers, the stairs blown away, and ...
Pieces of his body—his arms and legs torn and scattered, his torso twisted and eviscerated, his intestines stretched and torn. Gregor tried to shout out his shock, his horror, his disbelief, but he no longer had lungs.
Vertigo again, worse than before, as she dropped his head into the black plastic bag.
“What I’m going to do, Mr Vampire, is clean up as much of you as I can, and then I’m going to put you in a safe place, cool, dark, far away from the sun. Just the sort of place your kind likes.”
His remaining hand was tossed into the bag and landed on his face. Then a foot, then an indescribably mutilated, unidentifiable organ, then more, and more, until what little light there was left was shut out and he was completely covered.
What was she doing? What had she meant by “just the sort of place your kind likes”?
And then the whole bag was moving, dragging across the floor, ripping as it caught on the debris.
“Here you are, Mr Vampire,” she said. “Your new home.”
And suddenly the bag was falling, rolling, tumbling down a set of stairs, tearing open as it went, disgorging its contents in the rough descent. More vertigo, the worst yet, as Gregor’s head tumbled free and bounced down the last three steps, rolled and then lay still with his left cheek against the cellar floor.
The madwoman’s voice echoed down the stairwell. “Your kind is always bragging about how you’re immortal. Let’s see how you like your immortality now, Mr Vampire. I’ve got to find another house, so I won’t be around to see you any more, but truly I wish you a long, long immortality.”
Gregor wished his lungs were attached so he could scream. Just once.
~ * ~
Sister Carole trudged through the inky blackness along the centre of the road, towing her red wagon behind her. She’d loaded it with her Bible, her rosary, her holy water, the blasting caps, and other essentials.
You’re looking for ANOTHER place? And I suppose you’ll be starting up this same awful sinfulness again, won’t you? When is it going to END, Carole? When are you going to STOP?
“I’ll stop when they stop,” Sister Carole said aloud to the night.
~ * ~