Midnight Mass

Joe felt himself lifted by his feet, dragged along the roof, and then he was falling. They'd thrown him off the roof!

No. The cold, steely grip never released his ankles. And now he was rising instead of falling, being carried through the air.

But to where?

- PART TWO -

TWILIGHT MAN

- 6 -

JOE . . .

Joe had lost all track of time during the seemingly endless flight. But he knew when it ended: the cold fingers released their grip on his ankles and he fell. Before he could cry out his terror, he hit hard, head first. Only the multi-layered padding of his blanket cocoon kept him from cracking his skull.

"This is the priest," said a harsh voice. "Search him and take him upstairs. Franco is waiting for him."

Joe was then rolled over—kicked over was more like it. As he felt the ropes binding him loosen, he tightened his fists and prepared to fight. But when the blanket was pulled away from his face he found himself blinded by light.

Fluorescent light. Somebody had electricity.

As he blinked in the brightness he was kicked again, in the ribs this time. He struggled to a sitting position and felt something cold and hard as steel slam against the side of his head.

"Easy, god-boy," said a new voice to his left, and someone on his right brayed a harsh laugh.

Joe groaned with the pain and clutched his stinging scalp. He blinked again, and finally he could see.

He sat on a sidewalk in a pool of light outside the brass and glass revolving doors of a massive granite building. The rest of the world around him lay dark and quiet. A red canopy blocked out much of his view above. He did notice the number 350 above the revolving doors. Surrounding him were half a dozen men wearing earrings he knew too well. The nearest held a huge revolver; most likely its long barrel was what had slammed against his head.

Vichy.

The one next to the gun-toter was playing with a knife with a nasty reverse-curve blade, twirling it on a fingertip as he said, "This supposed to be one of them vigilantes from down the shore, huh? The guy that killed Gregor?" He kicked Joe's thigh. "Don't look so tough. Hey, Barrett. What say we soften him up before passin him on to Franco?"

Vigilante? Joe thought. Zev had mentioned something about a group that was killing off the local Vichy. Was that why he'd been brought here— wherever it was?

"Not on my watch," said the one with the gun. Barrett. The same voice that had called him god-boy. He was dressed in a tan silk Armani suit with a white shirt open at the collar. It looked tailor-made for him. "He won't want damaged goods. When the damage gets done, Franco will want to do it."

Joe looked around. "Where am I?"

"In big trouble," said Barrett.

The one with the knife, bearded and denimed, brayed again. "Yeah. Big trouble! Wouldn't wanna be you no-how."

"Drag him up to the office," said Barrett. "We'll search him there."

A pair of the Vichy grabbed him under the arms and roughly hauled him through a glass door set beside the revolving door. They entered a vaulted lobby of polished gray-beige marble. At the opposite end, floor to ceiling in chrome and marble, was a bas relief image of a building known the world over.

The Empire State Building. I'm in New York.

They'd kidnapped him and flown him to Manhattan. For what purpose?

And then he remembered . . . Franco is waiting. . .

The old Saturday Night Live running gag about General Franco still being alive flashed through his brain, then fled in terror.

When the damage gets done, Franco will want to do it. . .

A two-way radio squawked. Joe saw Barrett unclip it from his belt. He turned away and spoke into it. Joe looked around for an escape route, but even if he could break away from the pair who held him, the lobby area was acrawl with Vichy.

After Barrett finished his call, they led him past the remnants of metal detectors that had been kicked down and smashed, past a newsstand with outdated papers and magazines, a ruined souvenir shop, a deserted Au Bon Pain, then to a bank of elevators with black and chrome doors. Only two cars seemed to be working. The others stood open, dark, and empty. After a short ride with the suit, the beard, and two others to the third floor, Joe was propelled down a hallway to a large, desk-filled room lined with computers and monitors. A few scurvy Vichy lounged around, but three other men, older, more conventionally dressed, worked the equipment. They appeared to be under guard.

"Search him," Barrett said. "And I don't mean just pat him down. Search him. Confiscate any contraband here and dispose of it."

He was hiding nothing, of course. He'd been armed with his silver cross back in Lakewood but that had been stripped from him and left behind.

Barrett's words filtered through to his muddled brain. Confiscate? Contraband? Barrett didn't fit the typical Vichy mold. He dressed like a Wall Street broker and spoke like an educated man. What was he doing here?

BARRETT . . .

James Barrett watched Neal search the priest, making sure he didn't miss anything. Neal was not the brightest bulb in the box.

But he did a good job this time, turning all the priest's pockets inside out, removing his socks and shoes.

"He's clean," Neal said.

"You'd better be sure."

"I'm sure."

They hustled him back down to the first floor for a swift, ear-popping ride toward the top of the building. The red numbers on the readout counted the passing floors by leaps of ten. Barrett had always liked that. It was the way he'd planned his career at Bear Stearns to go: to the top by leaps and bounds. But being a hotshot investment banker these days was like being a poster boy for obsolescence.

He heard Neal chuckle. He was grinning through his beard at the priest and shaking his head. "I'm glad I ain't you. Holy shit, am I glad I ain't you. I don't know what Franco's got planned but it ain't gonna be pretty, I can tell you that."

Barrett watched the priest clench his fists. He was scared. Doing a decent job of hiding it, but not perfect. He looked like he wanted to ask who Franco was but said nothing. Probably afraid his voice would crack or waver and betray his terror.

When the elevator stopped on the eightieth floor, Neal shoved him out.

"Come on, god-boy," Barrett said. "Still one more leg to go."

They guided him around a corner to the other bank. This ride was short— only six floors. At the eighty-sixth they pushed him out into the green marble atrium.

"Hold it right there!" said a voice.

The atrium held half a dozen undead. One of them stepped toward them.

"Ah, shit," Neal muttered. "Fuckin Artemis."

"Who's this?" said the vampire, tall and lean with a ruined left eye that was little more than a lump of scar tissue.

Artemis was head honcho of Franco's security and no one—at least no one living—knew what had happened to that eye. Whatever it was, Barrett hoped it had hurt. Artemis was a grandstanding prick.

"It's the one Franco's been waiting for," Barrett told him.

Artemis's face contorted in fury. "The vigilante priest?" he shouted. "And you bring him here like this?"

"He's been searched, and Franco—"

"I don't give a damn if he's been searched! You don't bring a terrorist up here and leave him a single place to hide anything! Here's how you bring a terrorist to Franco!"

And with that he began tearing at the priest's clothing, ripping it off him. The priest tried to fend him off but Artemis was too strong. Less than a minute later he stood naked in the atrium.

Barrett admired the priest's musculature. Especially his low back. Lots of good meat there. Big filets.

Artemis tossed the shredded clothing at Barrett.

"Now he can see Franco! I'll take it from here. You two get back to your posts."

"We want him when Franco's through with him," Neal said.

Artemis laughed. "Oh, I doubt that. Not in the condition he'll be in."

"Shit," said Neal as the doors pincered closed. "I hate that fuck."

Barrett said nothing. Who knew if the elevator camera was on and this little scene was being taped. Say or do the wrong thing now and you could face repercussions later.

Neal banged his fist against the side wall of the elevator car. "And I hate takin his shit."

So did Barrett. But sometimes that was what you had to put up with to get where you wanted to go. And Barrett knew where he wanted to go: to the top. He'd been on the fast track for advancement at Bear Stearns and he was looking for a way to fast-track himself with the undead. He needed a lever to convince Franco to turn him now instead of later.

He glanced at Neal. Just like the rest of the cowboys. Never a thought past his next meal and his next trip out to one of the cattle farms where he could screw anything in sight. Maybe he occasionally thought of someday, ten years from now, being turned and joining the ranks of the undead.

But ten years was too long for Barrett. He wanted an express route to undeadland. Once he was one of them he knew he could rocket through the ranks. They were all lazy sons of bitches. He'd show them how to get things done. If he could get himself turned, he'd have Franco's job within a year. He knew it.

"Treats us like fuckin dogs," Neal said.

No argument there. But that didn't mean you had to live in a kennel and eat dog food.

Most of the cowboys had moved mattresses into the offices and stayed right here in the Empire State Building. It was convenient, had light and power, and was safer than living outside where you could be bushwhacked by some angry living or one of the more feral undead who wouldn't be deterred by your earring.

James Barrett deserved better. He had an elegant Murray Hill brownstone all to himself. He'd hooked up a generator to power lights, a refrigerator, and an electric stove. The stove was important. It allowed him to indulge in his new passion: cooking.

Barrett had recognized long ago that there were two ways of living your life: as predator or as prey. He'd decided early on that he'd be a predator. And predators ate meat. One problem, though, was the lack of meat since the undead had taken over. Or so he'd thought until he realized that there was plenty of fresh meat to be had. Every night he and the cowboys were called upon to dispose of a new round of bloodless corpses. It had occurred to him what a shame it was to waste all that good red meat.

Long pork, as human flesh was known in certain parts of the world, was really quite tasty. He'd learned to butcher the meatier corpses and now had a good supply of steaks in his freezer.

But meaty corpses were harder and harder to come by these days. That was why it was such a shame to let someone like that priest go to waste.

But who knew? Maybe there'd be something salvageable left after Franco got through with him.

Somehow, though, he doubted it.

JOE . . .

Joe's knees felt soft and he almost stumbled as the scar-faced vampire pushed him up a short flight of steps. What were they planning for him? He wanted to shout that he wasn't a vigilante and didn't know who they were, but that would simply give them a good laugh.

He stepped into a glassed-in space that had once been a souvenir-snack bar area—nothing but blackness beyond that glass—then was shoved through a door onto the Observation Deck. Cool night air, propelled by a gusty wind, raised gooseflesh on his bare skin, but the sight of dozens of pairs of undead eyes watching him weakened his knees again.

He was a goner. He could see that now. As good as dead. Or worse. Fear crowded his throat, but he swallowed it. He straightened his shoulders. At least he could go out with dignity ... as much as he could muster without a stitch of clothing.

The crowd of undead, all armed with pistols and machetes, grinned and pointed to him. The scarred one grabbed one of his arms and hauled him before another of their kind standing by the Observation Deck wall, staring out into the night. He turned at their approach, and smiled when his cold gaze came to rest on Joe.

"So . .. this is the man who has chosen to vex me."

He was almost as tall as Joe, with broad shoulders, a blond leonine mane and mustache. A jutting nose and aggressive chin dominated his face.

His excellent English did not completely hide an Italian accent. Joe noted that he was the only undead on the deck who wasn't armed.

"A big one, this vigilante priest"—he glanced at Joe's genitals—"but not exactly built like a stallion, is he."

This brought a laugh from his guards or retainers or whatever they were.

Joe stared past him, focusing on the impenetrable darkness over Franco's right shoulder, and said nothing.

The vampire clucked his tongue in mock concern. "Chilly? Under different circumstances I might relish your discomfiture, but not tonight." He turned to one of the undead holding Joe. "Find him a blanket or something to wrap about him."

The one-eyed guard said, "But Franco—"

"Do it." His dead eyes lit briefly with an inner fire.

The underling stood firm. "Just hours ago he killed Gregor."

The other undead milling around nodded and murmured, as if this were a telling fact.

That name again ... Gregor. The second time he'd heard it tonight. Joe stood there wondering who Gregor was. The only thing he knew was that he hadn't killed him—at least not knowingly. "Just hours ago" he'd been searching for Lacey. Had the same thing happened to her? Whisked away into the night. No. Lacey had disappeared during the daylight hours. Where was she then? He prayed her circumstances were better than his.

"I don't care!" Franco said. "It will be our blanket, you dolt! It won't conceal a cross, so you'll have nothing to worry about! Move! I've already wasted too much time waiting for his arrival."

A few moments later some sort of fabric was roughly thrown over Joe's shoulders. Apparently they couldn't find a blanket; this was like a window drape. He pulled it close around him, grateful for the shelter it provided from the wind.

"Thank you," he said, deciding to play this as cool as he could.

"Oh, don't think I did it for your sake. I did it for mine. I want your complete attention." He motioned Joe to the wall. "Come. Let me show you my domain."

Something had been nagging at Joe since he'd stepped out on the deck ... something wrong . . . something missing . . . and now he realized what it was.

He'd been up here once in his life, in his teens, when his father had brought him. The reason for the trip had been a French exchange student staying with them for the summer. They'd gone to the Statue of Liberty that summer too. Strange. He'd grown up only a short distance from these American landmarks but probably never would have visited them if not for the presence of a foreigner.

He remembered that on his one and only visit here there'd been high safety fencing all around the Observation Deck, with tall, pointed steel tines curving inward like fishhooks. Now most of that was gone, torn away. It made sense, though: The undead weren't worried about one of their own becoming a suicide jumper, and the fence would only hinder the fliers.

Joe approached the wall, eyeing its upper edge. It ran about mid-chest high. Eternity—and perhaps salvation—waited on the other side.

As he came up beside Franco, the vampire waved his arm at the darkness. "There it is: mine, as far as I can see."

Joe's heart broke as he took in the vista, not for what he could see—moonlight glinting off the crown of the Chrysler Building off to the left—but for what he couldn't.

Darkness. The city was dark. Any light he saw was reflected from the moon or this building. Everything else was dead and dark. This wasn't the New York he'd known. This was its corpse.

"The first thing we did was kill the power," Franco said. "It has a numbing psychological effect, especially in a place like Manhattan. People here were so used to light everywhere, all the time, and then it was gone. It serves another purpose. It makes the few who are left light fires to cook, to stay warm on the cooler nights. We home in on those fires. They're like beacons to us. Manhattan is pretty well cleaned out now, but the other boroughs still teem with survivors. We hunt them judiciously, preserving them like a natural resource."

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"But I keep this building alight. More psychological warfare. The tallest building in this fabled city, its most recognizable landmark, and we have it. I live here with some of my get, just one floor down. Why should I hide in a basement when I can seal off windows in this magnificent building that affords me such a unique view of my domain. I wish those Islamic thugs had left the Trade Towers alone. They were even taller. How I'd love to be standing atop one of them now."

So full of himself, Joe thought, wondering how he could turn that to his advantage.

Franco shrugged resignedly. "But I suppose the Empire State will do. Its generators power everything in the building." He pointed to the cameras ringing the deck. "It has an excellent security system to help our serfs protect us during the day. No one moves in this building without being watched and taped. I like to review the tapes now and again, and punish any slackers I catch. As an extra security measure, we've cut the power to all but two of the elevators."

He held his hand over the edge of the wall. A red glow lit his palm from below.

"But my favorite accessory is the filters they have for the spotlights that bathe the upper floors. Red, white, and blue for July Fourth, red and green for Christmas. We use only red now. It's our color. The color of blood. More psychological warfare." He turned to Joe and smiled. "You're pretty adept at psychological warfare yourself."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Joe said, tearing himself away from the dark vista.

Franco stared at him. "I can't tell whether you're being obtuse or coy. I'm talking about your campaign against the serfs in your area."

"Serfs?"

"Oh, I forget. They like to call themselves cowboys, you people like to call them collaborators—"

"Vichy," he said, thinking with a pang of Zev. "Some of us call them Vichy."

"Vichy." Franco nodded. "I like that. It shows a sense of history, though it gives them more cachet than they deserve." He waved his hand as if shooing a fly. "But my point is, you and your minions have caused more trouble than anyone I can remember."

Again the temptation to tell this beast that Joe had no idea what he was talking about, but he suppressed it. He was good at suppressing temptation.

"It was the terrorist aspects of your campaign that worked. The serfs are such disloyal scum, and so very susceptible to fear. You had the local contingent quaking in their boots. But you made a grave tactical error when you revealed yourself and took back your church. That gave you a face, and you weren't so terrifying anymore. Or so I thought. But when you sent Gregor into true death I decided I wanted to meet you."

Joe had to ask—because he wanted to know and because he sensed that the question might unsettle Franco—"Who the hell is Gregor?"

Franco stared at him a moment. "I suppose it's possible you didn't know his name. Same with Angelica, I imagine. But you and yours have sent two important subordinates to true death in a matter of a few days. No one has ever done that."

Angelica . . . could that be the flying undead that Zev told him about?

"Those winged ones," Joe said, taking a stab in the dark. "They always give me the creeps."

"Of course they do. They're supposed to. Psychological warfare again. Strike terror into the hearts of the cattle." He sighed. "I never cared for either of them. Angelica was too impetuous and Gregor too grasping, but the fallout from their deaths has been, well, vexing. But only temporarily."

He turned back to the night with another grandiose wave of his arm.

"My kingdom. We're facing east, you know. Long Island is out that way. We're well established there."

Joe stretched up on tiptoe, leaned over the top of the parapet, and looked down instead of out. Red light from the banks of spotlights bathed his face. Beyond them, far below and out of sight, empty pavements beckoned.

Not yet, he thought. The guards were too close. They'd stop him before he got over. He eased back and watched his host.

"We've already started the cattle ranches," Franco was saying. "We fenced off large sections of Levittown and populated them with females fifteen to thirty years old. As a reward to the serfs, we set them loose in there to impregnate the cows. Soon we'll have crops of calves to raise." He swiveled his head and smiled. "More psychological warfare."

"More like rape and brutality," Joe said, reflexively raising a fist. How he wished—

His arm was grabbed and twisted backward. A glance showed the scar-eyed one behind him. All around he heard pistols being cocked and machetes drawing from belts.

"Will you stop!" Franco snapped at his guards. "He is a lone, naked, unarmed man! What can he possibly do to me? Now get back, all of you and give us some room!"

"But Franco—"

"Now, Artemis! I won't say it again!"

With obvious reluctance, one-eyed Artemis and the other guards moved off. Not too far, but far enough to give Joe a chance to do what he needed to do ... if he had the nerve. All he needed was a way to distract Franco.

The vampire turned his gaze eastward again. "We made so many mistakes in the Old World. We failed to control the undead population. We just rolled through, letting our numbers spread geometrically. The Middle East was the easiest. Hardly a cross to be found. Same with India and China. We did what no president or shuttling diplomat ever could. We brought peace to every place we've touched. Indian undead now sup with Pakistanis, Greeks with Cypriots, North Koreans with South, and most amazing of all, Israeli and Palestinian undead hunting together." He smiled. " 'Blessed be the peacemakers.' Isn't that how it goes. I think I should be sainted. What's the term the Church uses? Canonized. Yes, I should be canonized, don't you think?"

Joe ignored the question. "You can't survive without the living, and there'll never be peace between the living and the undead."

"Oh, but there will. We'll control our population here in the Americas and we'll control yours, and eventually Pax Nosferatu will embrace the whole world. Here in the New World we will do things right, right from the beginning. The Old World and the Third World are now full of starving and dying undead." He glanced at Joe. "Yes, dying. We need very little blood to survive, but we need it every night. Go two nights without it and you are weak; go two more nights and your are prostrate, virtually helpless. Unless someone comes on the fifth or sixth night and feeds you blood—a very unlikely event—you will enter true death and never awaken."

"May it be ever so," Joe said, "unto the last generation."

Franco frowned. "Don't push me, priest."

"Or what?" Joe said, finding courage in the realization that he had nothing to lose. "You'll show me no mercy? I'm not expecting any."

"You don't want to plead, offer me a deal?"

Joe shook his head. He knew there'd be no deals for him. He wouldn't deal with these things.

"Then kindly stop interrupting my story. I'm getting to the good part—my part. The task of taking the New World fell to me. I decided to learn from recent history and not repeat it. As I'm sure you know, we struck on December twenty-first, the longest night of the year. I started with Washington, loosing the ferals on Camp David and the Pentagon and Langley first, then the senate and congressional office buildings next."

"Ferals?" Joe said. "What are they?"

Franco smiled, broadly, cruelly. "In time, dear priest. In a very short time you shall learn more than you wish to know about ferals."

The prospect sent a shudder through Joe. He eyed the top of the parapet again.

"I wanted to strike at the heart of the country's defenses—drive a stake through it, as I like to say—but more than anything I wanted the president. We found him. I turned him, personally, and a few days later we had him on

TV, live, via satellite, putting on a show for his nation. Did you happen to catch it?"

Joe shook his head. He'd been banished to the retreat house by then. He'd seen the beginning of the broadcast but had left the room, sickened. He hadn't seen, but he'd heard . . .

"Such a shame. You missed a psychological knockout punch. The president of the United States on his knees before a menstruating White House intern, lapping her blood. Clever, don't you think? Too bad Clinton wasn't still in office—turn around being fair play and all—but apparently he's holed up on the West Coast. Your current president did a good job, though. Really got into the part, if you know what I mean. And much more effective because he is—or rather, was—a bit more dignified than Clinton."

Joe glared at him. "You sicken me. All of you."

"But that's the whole point, priest. Physical, spiritual, and civic malaise. It's a pattern I've perfected: Go for the political and religious leaders first. See to it that they are turned early in the infiltration. It does terrible things to the morale of the citizenry when word gets around that the local mayor and congressman, along with the ministers, priests, and rabbis, are out hunting them every night. They stop trusting anyone, and when there's no trust, there's no organized resistance." He looked at Joe. "Somehow we missed you when your area was invaded. Lucky you."

"Funny," Joe said, hoping he sounded brave. "I don't feel lucky."

"But you should. You've been very lucky, and you've proven yourself quite adept at turning my game back on me. I try to hammer home that resistance is futile, then you come along and show that it can work, however briefly."

"More than briefly," Joe said. "You're going to see a lot more of it, especially if you try moving west."

"Am I? Somehow, I don't think so. Not after I'm through with you. And as for moving west, I'm in no hurry. I'm going to consolidate the East Coast, get the cattle farms established"—he wagged his finger—"all the while keeping the undead population interspersed among the living to prevent any bombing attacks. Then I may skip the Midwest altogether and take California next. I haven't decided. That's not to say I haven't been active. I regularly send trucks into the hinterlands, dropping off a few ferals here and there as they go, to wreak sporadic havoc. I don't want anyone out there feeling safe. I want them looking over their shoulders, suspicious of their neighbors, jumping at the slightest noise. As I said, I'm in no hurry, and I have all the time in the world." He shook his head. "But when I do make a move, you'll be part of it."

Joe went cold inside. "If you think ..." He paused, choosing his words. Let Franco think he'd given into the inevitability of becoming one of his kind. "If you think I'm going to help you, even after you turn me into one of you, think again."

"I sense an arrogance in you, priest. And I will see it brought down. You are mere cattle to me, yet you look at me as vermin. I won't tolerate that."

"Who do you think you're kidding?" he said, wondering if he could provoke Franco into lashing out and killing him. "You and your kind are ticks on the ass of humanity, and you know it."

But Franco appeared unruffled. "Perhaps we were, but the anatomy has changed now: we're the ass and rebellious cattle like you are the biters." He leaned closer, staring into Joe's eyes. His breath stank of old blood. "I'll bet you think that even after we make you one of us you'll be able to resist the blood hunger."

Joe couldn't help blinking, stiffening—he'd said as much to Zev just the other day—and that let Franco know he'd struck a nerve.

"You do, don't you? You really think you could resist!" He tilted his head back and laughed. "Your naivete is almost charming. You have no idea what you face. You change when you turn, priest. Everything turns inward. You awake from death and there's only one being in the world that matters: you. All your memories will be intact but devoid of feeling. The people you loved and hated will run together and redivide into two critical categories: those who can supply you with blood and those who can't. You'll have to sate that thirst. You'll have no choice. That hunger above all. The world exists for you. All the other undead around are inconveniences you must endure in order to secure a steady supply of blood. For the red thirst is insatiable. As I told you, we need very little blood to survive but would spend our waking hours immersed in it if we could. We're lazy, we're petty, and we don't want anyone to have more blood than we do."

Please, God, Joe prayed, if You're listening, don't let me end up like that. I beg You. He peeled his tongue away from the roof of his dry mouth and managed to speak.

"Sounds like you've got a lock on the seven deadly sins."

"Perhaps. I never thought of that. What are they? Envy, anger, greed, lust, pride, avarice, and sloth, right. I think you might be right. Except that sex becomes meaningless. How we used to laugh at those Anne Rice novels. The undead as tortured Byronic aesthetes. Ha! We'd read them aloud to each other and howl. Her fictional undead are so much more interesting than the real thing. We're boring. We care nothing for art or music or fashion or surroundings. We bore each other and we bore ourselves. The only thing we care about, the only lust left to us, is blood."

"What about power?"

"You're thinking of me when you say that, yes? I can assure you that power is lusted after only insofar as it can assure one of more blood."

Joe glanced back at Franco's guards. "These fellows seem pretty devoted to you."

"Not out of selflessness or personal regard for me, I assure you. It's self-preservation. You see, there's a secret, a momentous secret we keep only to ourselves."

"And what's that?"

"You'll know tomorrow night. You'll be one of us then. So treasure these moments, priest. This is your last night with your own blood in your veins."

Now, Joe thought, realizing he might not get another chance. It has to be now.

"Huh?" he said and stared past Franco's shoulder at the empty darkness. "Who was that?"

"What do you mean?"

Joe raised himself on tiptoe again and leaned over the parapet, pointing into the darkness. "There! I just saw him again. One of your undead flyers. A pal of yours?"

Franco whirled to follow Joe's point. "A flyer? Up here? I should think not."

The instant Franco's back was turned, Joe dropped the drape, levered himself up onto the parapet, and rolled over it. He heard shouts from behind as his bare feet landed on the narrow outside ledge. Knowing that if he hesitated even for an instant he'd either lose his nerve or be caught, he let out a cry of terror and triumph and launched himself into the air. He spread his arms in a swan dive, hoping it would carry him beyond the setbacks. He wanted to fall all the way to the street, to splatter himself on the pavement, leaving nothing but a mocking red stain for Franco to find.

The air that had felt like cold silk against his naked body when he began his fall was now a knife-edged wind tearing at his skin and roaring in his ears. He straightened his arms ahead of him, diving headfirst into eternity.

"Forgive me, Lord," he said aloud. "I know it means damnation to throw away the gift of life, but what I was facing—"

He broke off with a cry of shock as cold fingers wrapped around his ankle and Franco's voice shouted, "Your prayers are premature, priest!"

Joe looked over his shoulder as his descent slowed and angled to the left. A grinning Franco gripped him with one hand. Large membranous wings arched from his back, spreading like a cape behind him.

Joe kicked at him with his free foot but this only allowed Franco to grab that ankle as well. Joe hung helpless in his grip as they glided through the air. Franco made a full circuit of the building, landing before the same entrance where Joe had been dropped earlier.

Barrett was outside, watching when Joe landed on the pavement.

"Well, well, well. Look who's back."

Joe wanted to cry.

Franco's wings slithered and folded and disappeared into his back as he grabbed Joe by the back of his neck and hauled him to his feet.

"Clear the way," he said. "I'm taking him to Devlin myself."

Sick with fear and disappointment and frustration, Joe allowed himself to be marched through the doors and back to the elevator banks. Franco shoved him into the car and stepped in after him.

"Just the two of us," he said as a couple of Vichy tried to crowd in behind him.

Joe didn't see any of Franco's retainers. Apparently they hadn't made it down from the Observation Deck yet. Joe stared at Franco's back, noting the ripped fabric where the wings had torn through, but no sign of the wings themselves. Where did they go?

Franco stabbed a button, the doors closed and the car began to move. Down.

He was smiling when he turned to Joe. "You almost got away with that. I didn't think you had it in you." He shook his head. "If you'd succeeded we never would have learned the details of your little vigilante operation."

"What if I don't know any details?"

Franco's smile broadened. "Come now, you don't expect me to buy that."

"But—"

"Don't waste your breath. You'll tell us everything you know."

Joe swallowed. "Torture?"

Franco laughed. "How quaint! Why waste time torturing you when you'll volunteer the information after you've been turned."

The sick, lost feeling gave way to anger and Joe lunged at him. But Franco shoved him back with one hand and grabbed his throat with the other. Joe struggled for air as he was lifted off his feet and tossed against the rear wall of the elevator car.

"Don't make me laugh," Franco said.

"Do your damnedest." Joe slumped in the corner, gasping and rubbing his throat. "I'll never be like you."

"Quite right, priest. You won't be anything like me."

The car stopped and the doors opened. Franco pointed to the right. "That way."

Joe didn't move. Why cooperate in his own death march—or in this case, undeath march?

Franco said, "You can walk or I can drag you by one of your feet."

Joe walked, looking for a way out, an escape route, but the hallway was lined with doors that seemed to lead to offices or utility rooms. Franco stopped as they came to a mirror set in the wall.

"Take a look."

Joe glanced at the reflection of his bruised, naked body, his sunken eyes. Not a pretty sight.

"Enjoy it," Franco said. "This is the last time you'll ever see yourself in a mirror."

Joe noticed with a start that the reflection showed him standing alone in the hallway.

"So it's true," he murmured. "The undead cast no reflection."

"Odd, isn't it. I used to be interested in physics. You look at me and see me because light reflects off me onto your retinas. But that same reflected light is not caught by a mirror. How is that possible? They used to say it was because we have no souls but neither does the rug you're standing on, and that reflects perfectly. I tried to sit down and figure it out once but found I didn't care enough to try. As I told you, once you're turned you care about only one thing."

He grabbed Joe's shoulder and pushed him down the hall. "Enough philosophizing. "

As they moved on, Franco said, "I want to explain something to you, and I want you to listen. I want you to understand this. By now you've probably noticed that there are different kinds of undead, different strains or breeds."

Joe had, but he said nothing.

"There's a hierarchy among us. No one can explain it—it's as inexplicable as our lack of reflection or where my wings come from when I want to fly— but it's there. It's as if the strain gets tainted or attenuated the further it moves from its source. My immediate get—the ones I turn—retain almost all of their intelligence; but their get retain a little less, and the get of those retain even less. And so on down the line through the generations of get until. . . until we are begetting idiots. But intelligence isn't all that is lost along the way. Human characteristics leach away as well. The distant generations of get become more and more bestial until they're like two-legged rabid dogs. We call them ferals."

Ferals ... Franco had mentioned them in connection with the assault on Washington.

"Why are you telling me this?" Joe said. "Why should I care?"

"You should care very much. After all, we're discussing your future." He stopped before a door. "We're here."

Joe saw an AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY sign set below a small window.

"Take a look. Tell me what you see."

Joe stepped up to the glass and peered through. He saw a dimly lit space filled with pipes and large oval tanks.

"Looks like a boiler room."

"Keep looking. See anything else. Something moving, perhaps?"

The note of glee in Franco's tone made Joe's skin crawl. He searched the shadow but didn't see—

Wait. To the right. Something there, moving from the deeper shadows into the wan light of an overhead bulb. It looked like a man yet it moved like an animal, on its toes, hunched forward, fingers bent like claws. As it came under the bulb Joe saw that it was a man, or had been. Naked, filthy, face twisted into a perpetual snarl, eyes mad and . . . feral.

"Dear God!"

"God has nothing to do with Devlin there—Jason Devlin, a young, handsome software developer on his way up until a few months ago when he was run down in the basement of the Flatiron Building and killed by a feral. The feral neglected to behead him, and so Mr. Devlin awoke the following sunset as one of us—as an undead. For a few days he looked like his old self, but then he began to devolve. Remember what I told you about the bloodline weakening, attenuating. He was turned by a feral, and so he became a feral, only more so. He's one of my line, my most distant get, so I suppose I must claim him as related to me."

"How do you know?"

"Oh, I know. We always recognize our get. I keep him around for entertainment. And as an extra stick to keep the serfs in line. I threaten to feed them to Devlin if they slack off on their duties. That's about all Devlin is good for now. He didn't retain enough intelligence to distinguish between friend and foe, which means he'd be attacking serfs as well as legitimate prey, so I can't even use him as a guard dog."

Franco tapped on the window and the creature burst into motion, leaping at the door with blinding speed, screaming and clawing at the glass. Joe almost tripped backpedaling away.

"Look at me, priest," Franco said. "Look at me and listen. Remember when you said you'd never be like me? Didn't you wonder why I agreed? It's because when you look at Devlin you are seeing your future. I'm going to let Devlin turn you."

Joe couldn't speak, could only shake his head and back away, thinking, no ... no ... this can't be true ... this can't happen ... to be like that thing, that creature, that monster .. . forever .. . no .. .

"Ah!" Franco said with a grin. "That's what I've been waiting for. That look of doomed horror, the realization that your darkest nightmare is about to come true. Where is your arrogance now, priest?"

"No," Joe whispered as he found his voice. "God, no, please!"

"That's right. Pray to your god. Beg him like so many before you. But He's not going to help you. In less than two weeks you'll be just like Devlin, only a little less intelligent, a little more bestial. Won't that be an inspiration to your parishioners? But before you're too far gone, you'll have a talk with the charming undead woman I've placed in charge of your area. You'll fill Olivia in on all the details of your little vigilante operation, and then you'll be sent back to prey upon your parishioners." I won t!

"Oh, but you will. And you'll take the most trusting, the most devoted first, because they'll be the easiest. Isn't this a coup? Isn't this so much better than killing you? If you simply died, you'd be a martyr, a rallying point. But this way, you're still around, and you've turned against them. You are feeding on them! Imagine how they'll feel. If you're lucky you won't survive long. I'm suspecting they'll gather together and stake you—for your own good. And theirs, of course. And then where will that leave them besides sick at heart and demoralized? Where will they be after killing their beloved Father Joe? Why, they'll go back to where they were before you came. Hiding, waiting for the inevitable."

"No! What's been started is bigger than one man! They know now they can fight you, and they'll keep on fighting you!"

Franco put his hand on the door handle. "Well, we'll just have to see about that, won't we."

He pushed the lever down and shoved the door inward. "Bon appetit, Devlin."

Joe turned and ran, sprinting down the hall, looking for an unlocked door. He heard a howl behind him as he tried the first one he came to—locked. Without looking back he leaped across the hall to the next. The knob turned, the door swung inward—a chance!—and then he was struck from behind with unimaginable force. It drove him through the doorway and into the room where he went down under a growling fury made flesh. He tried to fight back but the savagery of the claws and fangs tearing at his flesh, ripping at his throat overcame him. He felt his skin tear, felt hot fluid gush over his chin and chest, heard an awful guzzling, lapping noise as something fed off him. He tried to rise, to throw it off but he had no strength. He felt his mind growing cold, the world growing distant, life becoming a dream, a receding memory. Joe saw one last flash of light, intolerably bright and then all was darkness and nothingness . . .

- 7 -

CAROLE . . .

Unable to sleep, Carole sat at the window, watching the night, waiting for the dawn that was still hours away. Returning to the convent, to this room, her room, the room where she'd had to kill Bernadette . .. sleep was unthinkable. Even if it weren't, her bed was occupied.

Lacey, poor thing, had collapsed when she'd heard that Father Joe was missing. A couple of the male parishioners had helped carry her here—Carole had emptied her wagon and carried her duffel and her personal items herself, afraid to let anyone else near them.

They'd placed her on Carole's bed. What an ordeal Lacey had suffered tonight. Carole had gleaned a few details from her jumbled jabber on the way to the church and had shut her ears to the rest. And then to learn that her uncle had disappeared while searching for her. It was more than anyone should have to bear.

When was it going to end?

She waited, expecting to hear Bernadette's voice shout an answer, but the voice was silent. Carole hadn't heard from it since she'd reentered the convent.

She looked at Lacey, curled into a fetal position under the blanket. Father Joe's niece. She hadn't quite believed her, but the way she'd been greeted by the parishioners had left little doubt. Some of them had even recognized Carole. She'd been uncomfortable with their joy at knowing she was still alive, especially uncomfortable with their earnest questions about how she had managed to survive and how she'd been spending her time. She couldn't tell them, couldn't tell anyone.

A little while ago Carole had left Lacey and made a quick trip back to the church to see if Father Joe had been found. He hadn't. But one of the parties searching for him had returned with his large silver cross. He'd had it with him when he'd gone out earlier this evening. They'd found it on the roof of a nearby office building.

Carole had asked if she might take the cross back to Lacey and let her keep it until her uncle returned. Because Father Joe would return. He was too good, too strong, too faithful a man of God to fall victim to the undead. He— only a small part of her believed that. She'd seen too much . . . too much. . . . Yet she forced herself to hope. She placed the cross on the windowsill, as a guardian, as a beacon, calling him home.

She closed her eyes and listened. Silence. The convent was virtually empty. The rooms were available to the parishioners but most of them felt safer in the church—in its basement, in the choir loft, anywhere so long as they were within those walls. Carole could understand that from their perspective, but for her the convent was home. Though she felt orphaned now, it would always be home.

She turned back to the window and gripped the upright of his cross, thinking, Come back, Father Joe. We need you. I need you. We—

What was that? By the rectory. .. something taking to the air from the roof. . . something large . . . man-size . . .

Terror gripped Carole's heart in an icy, mailed fist. A vampire, one of the winged kind, flying away from the rectory ...

Somehow she knew in that instant that they'd done something terrible to Father Joe.

"Oh, no!" she whispered. "No! Not him!"

She grabbed the silver cross, pulled a flashlight from her duffel, and ran for the hall. She hurried down the stairs and out into the night. Holding the cross before her as a shield, she ran across the little graveyard, trampling the fresh-turned earth of graves that hadn't been there before, and arrived at the rectory.

A small building, holding only three bedrooms and two offices, it stood dark and empty. This was priest territory and would be the last place the parishioners would think to occupy.

Carole turned the knob and the door swung open. She flicked on her flash and directed the beam up and down and around before stepping inside.

"Father Joe?" she called, knowing that if her worst fears were true he wouldn't be able to answer. "Father Joe, are you here?"

No response. No sound except for the crickets cheeping in the lawn behind her. She moved through the rectory, checking the two downstairs offices first, then the upstairs bedrooms. Empty, just as she'd expected.

Only one place left: the basement.

Knowing what she was almost certain to find, Carole feared to go there. But she had to. Too much depended on this.

She opened the door. Light in one hand, cross in the other, she started down. No blood on the steps. That was good. Maybe it had just been a flyer looking over the church complex, doing reconnaissance for the undead or hunting for stragglers. Carole prayed that was so, but expected that prayer to go unanswered like all her others.

She reached the floor and flashed her light around. She allowed her hopes to rise when she saw nothing on her first pass. But then as she moved to the rear of the space, where old suitcases and cracked mirrors and warped bureaus were sent to die, she spotted something protruding from beneath an old mattress. A step closer and she realized what it was: a bare foot, its toes pointing ceilingward. Too big for a woman's... a man's foot.

"Please, God," she said again, whispering this time. "Please, oh, please. Let it not be him."

She pressed the cross against the foot. No flash of light, no sizzle of flesh. Whoever it was hadn't turned yet. She leaned the cross against the wall, gripped the edge of the mattress. . . and hesitated. Her mouth felt full of sand, her heart pounded in her chest like a trapped animal. She didn't want to do this. Why her? Why did it always seem to fall to her?

Taking a breath and clenching her teeth, Carole tilted the mattress back and aimed her light at the shape beneath it. She found herself staring into the glazed dead eyes of Father Joseph Cahill.

Images leaped at her like a frantic slide show— —his slack, blood-spattered face—

—the wild ruin of his throat—

—his blood-matted chest—

With a cry torn from some deep lost corner of her soul, Carole dropped to her knees beside him. Her arms took on a life of their own and, for some reason her numbed brain couldn't fathom, began pounding her fists on his chest. She heard a voice screaming incoherently. Her own.

After a while, she didn't know how long, she stilled her hands and slumped forward, letting her forehead rest on his bare shoulder, moaning, "God, dear God, why must this be?"

And for a fleeting moment, even as she spoke, she wondered how she could still believe in God, or stay true to a god who could allow this to happen to the finest man she'd ever known. This was it, this was the end of everything. Where could she go from here? She'd only hung on this long in the hope that he'd return. He had, but only for a few days before this—this!

She straightened and looked at Father Joe again, averting her eyes from his genitals. To kill him was bad enough, but to leave him like this: naked, torn, bloodied, with not a shred of dignity . . .

Well, what did she expect from vermin?

And yet, look at his face—ignore the severed arterial stumps protruding from his throat and focus on the face. It seemed at peace, and still held a quiet dignity no one could steal.

Carole lost more time sobbing. Then, from somewhere, she found the strength to rise. She wanted to stay by his side, never leave him, never let anyone else near him, but she knew that couldn't be. She couldn't stay here and neither could he. She knew what had to be done. She had work to do. The Lord's work.

She wandered the basement until she found a dusty old sheet draped over a chair. She pulled it off and, with infinite care, wrapped it around Father Joe . .. her Father Joe. She tried to lift him but he was too heavy. She needed help ...

OLIVIA . . .

"Someone is here. From Franco."

Olivia lifted her mouth from the bloody throat of the spindly old man strapped to the table in the feeding room.

"Who is it?"

Jules, the unofficial leader of her get-guards, shrugged. "I've never seen him before. All I know is that he says his name is Artemis and his eye—"

"I know about his eye."

Artemis . . . one of Franco's closest get. This must be important if he'd sent Artemis. It had to be about Gregor. Damn that fool.

She looked down at the quivering old man, still alive but in shock and not too much longer for this world. His blood was as thin as his scrawny body. She remembered India. She had been with the first wave through the Middle East, through Riyadh and Baghdad and Cairo and Jerusalem. Lots of blood there, but then they'd moved on to India, lovely, overcrowded India . . . she had quite literally bathed in blood in Bombay.

But here, good cattle were hard to come by of late. She wasn't sure whether that was a result of a thinning of the herd or a thinning of the number of serfs at her disposal. Franco was either going to have to send her more serfs or widen her territory.

Olivia would have much preferred another territory altogether, a peaceful one with no foment. But, thanks to Gregor's demise, she'd inherited this one and was stuck with it, at least until it was tamed.

She pointed to the old man as she rose. "You can finish him after you bring Artemis to the sleeping room. I wish to meet with him alone."

Jules frowned. "Do you think that's wise? Everything is so unsettled."

"We have nothing to fear from Artemis."

Jules turned and headed back upstairs.

Olivia paced the feeding room. She was going stir crazy down here. She hadn't left the Post Office once throughout this long, long night. She'd been about to go out earlier but Gregor's death changed that. She'd been sequestered in the basement ever since. Only half a night, but she felt humiliated. She was supposed to be the predator, the fox, the wolf, but here she was, cowering like a frightened hare in its burrow.

Yes, she was here at the insistence of her get, but she hadn't put up much of a fight. Gregor was foolish but he'd been tough. If the vigilantes had managed to kill him, they could kill her, and she might well be their next target.

She'd sent serfs and one of her get out to find the source of the explosion, to see if that was what had done in Gregor. They'd returned with a tale of a blasted house with Gregor's head spiked on a piece of splintered wood in the front yard and his body in pieces within.

These vigilantes had taken to making bombs. That was the real reason she was down here in the basement. The Post Office had thick granite walls. Even if they somehow managed to toss a bomb through the front doors—closed, locked, and guarded now—it would have no effect down here.

Jules returned and closed the door behind him. "He's next door, waiting."

Olivia nodded, took a breath, then made her entrance. She found Artemis, his back to her, standing among the beds and cots that her get had moved into what had been a storage space. This was where she spent the daylight hours.

"Bonsoir, Artemis."

Artemis turned. He grinned and stared at her with his one good eye.

"English, Olivia. My French is about as good as your Greek."

Olivia tried not to stare at his ruined eye. With his curly black hair and olive skin, he'd probably been handsome once. Too handsome, perhaps. But that eye—she had bathed in blood and had cut off heads, she'd ripped still-beating hearts from chests, but she found that dead eye repulsive. Olivia had lost her left little finger once—an accident with a sliding glass door—but it had grown back. She, like other undead, could regenerate most lost body parts, except of course a head or a heart. But certain types of injury did not heal.

Artemis had been a real up and comer in Franco's get until he allowed a child he'd been about to sup on to jab a crucifix into his eye. He might have lived it down if the eye had regenerated, but wounds from holy objects never healed. His puckered scar and sunken socket were eternal reminders of his blunder, and he'd sunk to the rank of one of Franco's get-guards and errand boys.

"Very well, Artemis," she said, switching to English. "But I just want you to know that I had no control over Gregor. Whatever he did, he did on his own. I am in no way responsible for what happened to him. You can tell Franco that."

Artemis laughed. "Franco did not send me here about Gregor. He wanted to let you know that he has personally broken the back of the insurrection."

"How, pray, did he do that?"

"By capturing the priest himself, the one who took over your little church here."

"Not my church. It was Gregor's responsibility."

"But it happened while you were here on your inspection tour. Don't worry. That is of no import to Franco."

Olivia seated herself on the bed where she spent her hours of daysleep.

"Broken their backs, has he? What did Franco think of Gregor's idea that the insurgents in the church and the vigilantes were two separate groups?"

"He gave it the amount of consideration it deserved, which is none at all. The priest didn't even bother to deny that he was part of the vigilantes."

Olivia took some small satisfaction in being right, but she wondered . . .

"How is merely capturing the priest going to break the back of this situation?"

Artemis smiled. "Franco has turned the priest—not by himself, but by one of his pet ferals. He was delivered back to his own rectory less than an hour ago. He's been hidden in the basement. Come sundown he'll be one of us and will start to prey on his own followers. And as days go by he'll become increasingly depraved looking, increasingly vicious and feral. Isn't it simply delicious?"

"Perhaps. But it's complicated. I prefer simpler, direct solutions. Why doesn't he just burn them out and capture them?"

"You know Franco. He'd deem a frontal assault unworthy of his intellect. He saw too many Dr. Mabuse films while he was living in Germany, I think. Sees himself as the Grand Manipulator, the Demonic Maestro, the Great Orchestrator of life and death and undeath. He must work his coups with style, with elan."

"Elan is all fine and good, but I'd much prefer to see this over and done with."

"But you're not in charge, are you?"

Olivia didn't dignify that remark with an answer. "So what are we to do then? Sit around and hope this undead priest follows Franco's script?"

"We'll be providing direction. We'll watch after sundown and give him a little help if he needs it. Sometime during the next night or two—before he starts losing his mind—we'll question him about the vigilantes. Just in case there are cells outside the church. After that, he's on his own."

"I'm not so sure I like the idea of a feral running loose."

"Good point. He may become uncontrollable. If his followers don't get him first, we may have to put him down ourselves."

Olivia had to smile. "Not much of a future for this priest. What's his name, by the way?"

Artemis shrugged. "You know, I never thought to ask."

"Well, whoever he is, he deserves everything that's coming to him."

LACEY . . .

Startled out of sleep by a hand shaking her shoulder and a strange voice whispering in her ear, Lacey came up swinging.

"Easy, Lacey," said a woman's voice. "Easy. You're safe. No one's going to hurt you."

Lacey blinked. A small room, a single candle, and some stranger bending over her. No . . . not a stranger . . . she recognized her now. The one who'd led her back to the church, who'd said she was a nun. Lacey groaned. Her head throbbed, she hurt all over, especially between her legs.

"Where—?"

"You're in the convent. Listen to me. Something terrible has happened and—" Her voice broke. She blinked, swallowed, then said. "I need your help."

Lacey glanced at the window. Still dark out there. "Can't it wait till morning?"

The nun—what was her name? Carrie? No, Carole with an e—shook her head. "Morning will be too late. We have to act now before anyone finds out."

"About what?"

"Your uncle."

Lacey listened in a daze, struggling to understand Carole's story, but the words seemed to congeal in the air, clumping together into indecipherable masses. Something about her Uncle Joe ... something about him being—

"Dead? No, no! No! You can't be serious! He can't be! He can't!"

"He is," Carol said. A tear ran down her cheek. "Believe me, Lacey, he is."

"No!" She wanted to smash this crazy woman's face for lying to her. Her Uncle Joe couldn't be dead!

"But he won't stay dead. By tomorrow night he'll be one of them."

"Not Unk! He'd never!"

"He'll have no choice."

Lacey tried to stand but crumbled back onto the bed. Her legs didn't want to support her. "But if they can turn him ... make him one of them, then what's the use?"

"That's exactly how they want you to feel. And that's exactly why we must move him away from here and save him from that hell."

"We?" Lacey's stomach twisted and bile rose in her throat. "You mean ... ?"

Carole was nodding. "There's no other way."

"No! I can't!"

"I can't move him alone, Lacey. The parishioners must never know, must never find him. They must think he died fighting for them. If they learn he's become the enemy, that he's preying on them ..."

"But put a stake through his heart? I can't!"

"You can't not, Lacey. Not if you have the slightest bit of regard for who he was and what he stood for and how he'd want to be remembered."

In that instant Lacey knew Carole was right. Her Uncle Joe had lived his life by a certain set of rules, not simply avoiding evil but actively trying to do good. She couldn't let these undead vermin make a lie and a mockery of his entire life. Stopping that would not be something she did to him, it would be for him.

Somehow, somewhere, she found the strength to rise from the bed. Let's go.

"Can you get a car?"

Lacey nodded. "We brought in a bunch of them to block the streets. There's extras. I'm sure I can get one."

"Good. Keep the lights out and drive it around to the side door of the rectory, then come inside. I'll be waiting in the basement."

The next ten or fifteen minutes would forever be a blur in Lacey's memory. Finding the keys to an old Lincoln Town Car and sneaking it around the block remained clear, but after that. . . creeping down into that dank cellar .. . seeing her uncle's lifeless, bloodless face when Carole unwrapped the top of the sheet—it was him, really, really him—and then struggling his dead weight up the stairs . . . placing him in the trunk of the car . . . hearing the clank of the tools Carole had found in the caretaker's shed as she carefully placed them on the back seat. . . slumping in the passenger seat as Carole drove them away toward the brightening horizon . . .

And thinking about her Uncle Joe . ..

The earliest memory was riding on his back, he barely a teenager and she barely in kindergarten. A flash of watching from a front row pew as he took his Holy Orders and officially became a priest. And then later, much clearer memories of long conversations about faith and God and the meaning of life with her doing most of the talking because no one would listen to her, only him, and Uncle Joe not agreeing but giving her his ear, letting her finish without cutting her off and dissing her dissidence.

And now he was gone. Her sounding board, her last anchor... gone, erased. She felt adrift.

The car stopped. Returning to the present, Lacey wiped her eyes and looked around. They were at the beach. A boardwalk lay straight ahead. She'd been here a few days ago.

They'd arrived at the edge of the continent... to do the unthinkable . . . in order to prevent the unspeakable.

"I don't know if I can go through with this," Lacey said.

Carole was already out of the car. "Stop thinking of yourself and help me carry him."

Thinking of yourself. . . That angered Lacey. "I'm thinking about him, and what he's meant to me, what he'll always mean to me."

"Do you hear yourself? Me-me-me. This isn't about you or me. It's about Father Joe's legacy. And if we're going to preserve that, we have to do what has to be done."

She was right. Damn her, this weird nun was right. Lacey got out of the car as Carole popped the trunk.

"Where are we taking him?"

"Up to the beach."

"Why the beach?"

"Because we can dig a deep hole quickly, and because very few people come here anymore."

"How do you know?"

"Because I watch. I watch everything. No one will find him. Now help me lift him."

Lacey glanced around. The area looked deserted but who knew what was hiding in the shadows. Her guns ... after taking the dead Vichy woman's clothes, she'd crept back into the Post Office and lifted the pistols off a couple of the undead corpses. She wished she'd thought to bring them, but her mind had been numbed with loss.

Carole opened the trunk to reveal the sheet-wrapped form. Steeling herself, Lacey took the shoulders, Carole the feet, and they carried Joe's body up a ramp, across the boardwalk, then down the steps to the sand. Carole directed them toward a spot under the boards with about five feet of headroom, maybe a little less.

Lacey stayed with the body while Carole ran back to the car. She returned moments later with a pair of shovels and a beat-up purple vinyl book bag. The sky had grown light enough for Lacey to see ST. ANTHONY'S SCHOOL emblazoned along the side in yellow.

"What's in there?" Lacey asked, although she had a good idea what the answer would be.

Carole said nothing. She responded by pulling out a heavy, iron-headed maul and a wickedly sharpened length of one-inch doweling. She drew the sheet back from Uncle Joe's head and upper torso.

Lacey's stomach heaved as she caught sight of his torn-open throat. She'd seen only his face back in the rectory. Good thing she hadn't eaten since yesterday, otherwise she'd be spewing across the sand.

"Look what they did to him!" she screeched. "Look what they did!"

Carole didn't respond. Her face seemed set in stone as she raised the stake and placed the point over the left side of his chest.

"Can't it wait?" Lacey cried.

"Till when?" Carole's expression had became fierce, her voice tight, thin, stretched to the breaking point. "Tell me a good time for this and I'll gladly wait. When, Lacey? When will be a good time?"

Lacey had no answer. When she saw Carole place the point of the stake over her uncle's heart, she turned away.

"I can't watch this."

"Then I guess I'm on my own."

Sobbing openly, Lacey resisted the urge to run screaming down the beach. She kept her back to Carole and jammed her fingers into her ears while she began a tuneless hum to block out the sounds—of iron striking wood, of wood crunching through bone and cartilage. She knew she should be helping, but after what she'd already been through in the last dozen hours, pounding a stake into her uncle's chest was more than she could handle right now. She couldn't. She. Just. Couldn't.

So she stared through her tears at the ocean, at the pink glow growing on the horizon.

Finally she pulled her fingers from her ears and tried to turn, but her brain refused to send the necessary signals to make her body move. The mere thought of seeing her uncle lying there with a shaft of wood protruding from his chest. . .

She heard a noise ... sobbing .. . Carole.

"Is... is it over?"

Carole moaned. "Nooooo! I couldn't do it!"

Lacey whirled, took one look at the nun's tear-stained face, and she knew.

"You loved him, didn't you."

Another bubbling sob from Carole as she nodded. "In my fashion, yes. We all did. A good, goo d man ..."

"I don't mean loving him like that, like a brother. I mean as a man."

Carole said nothing, just stared down at the sheet-wrapped body before her.

"It's okay, Carole. It's not just idle interest. He was my uncle. I'd like to know how you felt about him, especially now that he's . . . gone. Did you love him as a man?"

"Yes." It sounded like a gasp of relief, as if a long pent-up pressure had been released. "Not that we ever did anything," she added quickly. "Not that he ever even knew."

"But you" ... she needed the right word here . . . "longed for him?"

"God forgive me, yes. Not lust, nothing carnal. I just wanted to be near him. Can you understand that?"

Lacey shrugged, unsure of what she could understand. This was so unreal.

"I'm not sure how to say this," Carole said, "because I've never expressed it, even to myself."

"Why not?"

"Because it wasn't right. I took vows. He took vows. I shouldn't have been thinking of a man like that, especially a priest. God was supposed to be enough. But sometimes..."

"Sometimes God just isn't enough."

"It must be a sin to say so, but no, sometimes He isn't. Father Joe had something about him that made me ... made me want, long to be near him. His very presence just seemed to make the world seem right. I'd see him touch some of the other sisters, the older ones—nothing but a hand on the arm or, rarely, an arm across the shoulders as they'd laugh about something. But never me. And I never knew why. Not that I wanted more, not that I'd ever lead him astray, but a simple touch, just to let me know he knew I existed, that would have made me so happy."

Lacey felt as if she were talking to some lonely preteen, and sexually, maybe that was where Carole was. She'd probably joined the convent right out of high school—maybe during high school—and she'd never progressed past that stage in her relationships with the opposite sex.

"Do you think my uncle was avoiding you?"

"Sometimes it seemed like it."

"Well, I can think of only one reason for that."

Carole looked up. "What?"

"Maybe he felt the same about you."

"Oh, no." Carole shook her head vehemently, almost violently. "He didn't. He couldn't have."

"I'm sure of it."

She wasn't sure at all, but the sweet light flaring in Carole's eyes now touched Lacey more deeply than she could have imagined a few moments ago when this seemingly icebound woman had crouched there with a stake poised over Uncle Joe's heart.

"Carole, you should have seen his face the other night after you stopped by the church. He was worried about you, wished you'd come into the church with us, but he was beaming too ..."

Wait a sec. That was no exaggeration. Joe had been beaming. Maybe there'd been more going on between those two than anyone knew, least of all themselves.

"Beaming?" Carole said.

Lacey knew a prompt when she heard one. "Yeah. Beaming. He seemed really, really happy to see you and know you were still alive. He kept talking about you."

How sad, Lacey thought. The two of them could have made each other's lives so much brighter, but they'd been kept apart.

Carole sobbed again. "Now he's gone!"

"Not quite," Lacey said. "Not yet. And that's where we come in, I guess."

"How can I do this?" She wiped her eyes and sniffed. "I could do it, I know I could if he were one of them, if I could see that cold evil hunger in his eyes, I could save him from that. But look at him. Except for his throat he looks so normal, so . .. peaceful. I can't."

"But we have to," Lacey said. She realized with a start that their roles had been reversed. "Why don't we dig the hole—the grave—first, and then ... and then we'll do it together."

Carole stared at her. "You'll help me?"

"Yes." Lacey nodded, hoping she was making a promise she could keep. "For him. For Uncle Joe."

They began to dig, together at first, then taking turns as the grave deepened.

Lacey was waist deep in the hole as the sun began to emerge from the sea. She pointed to the loose sand sliding down the walls around her.

"If that keeps up we'll never make six feet."

Carole sat to the side, taking her turn to rest. "We'll do the best we can. We need it deep enough to discourage any wild dogs from trying to dig him up."

The exertions of digging plus her earlier concussion had started blinding bolts of pain shooting through her head. That, the beating she'd endured, and the lack of food made the work agony, but she'd keep on digging till nightfall and beyond if it meant putting off what they had to do once Joe's grave was ready.

"All right," Lacey said. "We'll go down another foot, then—" She stopped as she caught a sharp, pungent odor. "What's that? Something burning?" A puff of white smoke wafted past her. "What the hell? It almost smells like—"

"Oh, dear God!" Carole cried, scrambling to her hands and knees. "Father Joe!"

Lacey looked and saw her uncle lying in the full light of the rising sun. His exposed skin was smoking and bubbling.

"Shit!"

She scrambled out of the grave and grabbed his arm, then released it in a spasm of revulsion. The flesh felt like hot wax. She looked for a place to hide him from the sun. With the light shining at this low angle, the only shady spots here were the narrow bands behind the pilings, nowhere near enough to shelter him.

"Quick!" Carole said. "The grave!"

She grabbed Joe's sheet-wrapped feet and started dragging him toward it. Lacey helped. Seconds later they tumbled him into the opening. He landed on his back, out of the sun, and immediately his skin stopped boiling. But the odor of burning flesh still rolled off of him.

"Look at him," Lacey whispered. "Look what it did to him."

They crouched and stared at him. The still-smoking skin of Joe's face and chest and upper arms was dead white and rippled and pitted like a bad stucco job.

Finally Carole said, "Why did we do that?"

"Do what?"

"Protect him from the sun."

Lacey saw what she meant. "You mean if we'd left him there, the sun might have done the job for us?"

Carole shook her head. "I don't know, but that's what seemed to be happening."

"Are you saying we should drag him out on the beach and just let him . . . what. . . boil away?"

That struck Lacey as a greater defilement than driving a stake through him. Almost like setting him on fire.

"I don't know," Carole said. "I used to be so very sure about some things, especially this sort of thing. Now ... I don't know."

Lacey glanced again at her uncle's body, appalled by his ruined skin, and noticed something. She squinted into the shadows of the grave, still not sure.

"What is it?" Carole said.

"Look at his throat. Wasn't it all torn open a few minutes ago?"

Carole slapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, no! It's happening already!"

"What?"

"The change! He's turning!"

"How do you know?"

"Because Bernadette. .. because I've seen it before. As they turn, the death wound heals up as if it never was."

Lacey grabbed Carole's flashlight and fixed the beam on Joe's throat. The area where it had been torn open was thickened and puckered, a different kind of scarring than the rest of his ruined skin. "That doesn't look healed up to me. Looks more like its been fused or ..." What was the word? "... cauterized."

"He's turned, I tell you." Carole looked around, then picked up Joe's big silver cross from the sand. "Watch."

As Carole leaned into the grave and pressed the cross against Joe's chest, Lacey winced, expecting a puff of smoke and who knew what else. But nothing happened.

"That's strange," Carole said. "It should have burned him."

"Which means he hasn't turned."

"Yet," Carole's eyes took on a haunted look. "This doesn't let us off the hook, I'm afraid."

Lacey glanced over to where the stake and the maul rested on the sand.

"What if.. ." Her thoughts were scattering like a startled flock of birds. "What if the sun burned it out of him?"

"Burned what out of him?"

"Whatever makes you turn undead. Look, it cauterized his wound."

"And all his exposed skin as well. He would have . . . dissolved out there if we hadn't pushed him into this hole!"

She had a point. Joe had looked like he was melting, but Lacey wasn't giving in. She had this feeling ...

"Okay, but what if he was out there in the sun long enough to kill him—I mean, to burn off whatever was going to make him undead and leave him really dead? It's possible, isn't it?"

Carole sighed. "Possible, I suppose. But I've never heard of anything like that."

"There must be tons we don't know about these creatures. If you agree it's possible, then why can't we leave him as he is and just fill in his grave?"

Carole shook her head. "We need to be sure. We owe him that."

"All right then ..." Her mind ranged over the options, anything but jumping into that hole and driving a stake through that limp body. "How about we come back here at sunset? If he's not dead, we'll be waiting when he starts to dig his way out, and we'll. .. stop him."

"You want to risk that?" Carole said, eyeing her. "It will be harder, but we can stop him as he's crawling out. Just remember, it will be much worse to have to stake him while he's moving."

Lacey wrung her hands. "I know, I know. But I've got this feeling we won't have to."

"This is nothing but wishful thinking, Lacey."

"It's more than that. Please. Do it my way, just this once."

Carole sat silent for a long moment, then, "All right. I just hope we don't regret this."

Her tone was wary, but Lacey thought she detected a hint of relief.

"We won't. I've got—"

"A feeling. So you said." Carole grabbed a shovel. "But swear to me you'll be back here with me before sunset, and that we'll watch over him all night until dawn." "I swear."

Carole nodded and started shoveling sand back into the grave.

"Wait," Lacey said. "Let me cover his face."

She slid into the hole, careful not to step on him, and tugged up the sheet so that it covered her uncle's face.

As soon as Lacey crawled out, Carole started shoveling again. She couldn't seem to wait to cover him.

"Shouldn't we say a few words over him first?"

Lacey didn't want a prayer, but she thought they could at least say something about the man he was and the life he'd led.

Carole looked at her. "Not yet. Not till we're sure he's at rest. Truly at rest. Then we'll give our eulogies."

- 8 -

He awakens in crushing darkness, a damp, dusty sheet pressed hard against his face, pushing at his eyes, an anvil resting on his chest.

Air! He needs air!

Then he realizes that he doesn't. He feels no urge to breathe, no need. Why not?

Where is he? More important—who is he? The answer is there, just beyond his grasp. Reaching for it, he tries to claw at the entrapping sheet but his arms are pinned to his sides by its enormous weight. He worms one hand up across his chest to where he can grip the sheet. He pulls it down—

Sand! Cascading into his eyes, filling his mouth and nose. He's buried in sand!

He's got to get out!

His struggles become frantic. He tears through the sheet and fights the incalculable weight, working his hands and then his arms through the granules. He's strong, and soon his hands are snaking up through the sand, slowly making their way to the surface. . .

CAROLE . . .

The setting sun's blood-red eye stared at Carole from the car's rearview mirror. She flipped the dimmer toggle to cut its brightness and steered the Lincoln along Route 88. She was thinking about napalm.

Lacey fidgeted in the passenger seat and toyed with the revolver in her lap. The cowboys—or Vichy, as Lacey called them—had been conspicuous by their absence today. Maybe the undead were alarmed by the loss of the one Carole had killed last night—dear God, had it been less than twenty-four hours?—and were keeping them close by during the light hours. Even so, she and Lacey might have the bad luck of running into a party of them before reaching the beach.

Carole glanced at the barrel of the shotgun on the armrest between them. Nothing was going to keep them from Father Joe's graveside tonight.

Carole and Lacey had caught up on their sleep during the day, awakening this afternoon to find the parishioners nervous and edgy. Father Joe was still missing and they were giving up hope that he'd be found alive. Carole had told them that even if he'd been killed, he'd want them to fight on.

They'd wanted to know how, and that was when Carole had begun thinking of napalm.

It was easy to make. She'd need soap flakes. Soap wasn't edible so there'd be no shortage of flakes in the looted grocery stores. If she could get her hands on some kerosene, she'd be in business. Napalm stuck to whatever it splashed against and burned so hot it turned human flesh into fuel to feed its flames. Would the same happen with undead flesh?

Only one way to find out...

She heard a sob and looked at Lacey. Tears glistened on her cheeks.

"What's wrong?"

"I hope we did the right thing."

Carole knew exactly how she felt. Apprehension had been clawing at her gut all day.

"You're having second thoughts?"

"Oh, yes. Ohhhhhh, yes. I don't want to watch him digging his way out of the ground, I don't want to see his undead eyes or hear his undead voice. I don't want that to be my last memory of him." She stared at Carole. "If I believed in God I'd be praying to him right now."

Strange, Carole thought. I do believe in Him and I've stopped praying. He doesn't seem to be listening.

"Are you all right, Lacey? I mean, after what happened yesterday?"

"Do you mean after finding my dearest and closest living relative dead and helping dig his grave? Or do you mean after getting gang raped?"

Carole winced at her tone and at the images "gang raped" conjured. "Nevermind. Sorry."

Lacey reached over and squeezed her arm. "Hey, no. I'm sorry." She sighed. "I guess I'm doing about as well as can be expected. I'm still sore as hell, but I'm healing."

"I didn't mean physically. I meant the hurt within. Emotionally. It's such an awful, awful thing ..." Carole ran out of words.

Lacey shrugged. "Same answer, I suppose. I know I'd feel different if it had happened—the rape, I mean—say, a year ago, back in the old civilized world. I would have been thinking, 'How could this happen?' and 'Why me?' I would have felt like some sort of pariah or loser, that the world and society had let me down, that some throwbacks had smashed through all the rules and targeted me. And I would have felt somehow to blame. Yeah, can you believe that? I bet I would've. I know I'd have wanted to dig myself a hole and pull the ground over me."

Carole tried to imagine how she'd feel if places were reversed, but her imagination wasn't up to it. She nodded to keep Lacey talking. She'd heard it was bad to keep something like this bottled up.

"Are you saying you don't feel that way now?"

Lacey shook her head. "Yeah ... I don't know. It's a different world now, a world without any rules, except maybe those of the jungle. There's no law, no order, and because of that, I don't seem to have that pariah-loser-victim feeling. And I don't feel ashamed. I feel disgusted and sickened and violated, but I don't feel ashamed. I feel hate and I want revenge, but I don't feel a need to hide. A year ago I'd have felt scarred for life. Now I feel... as if I've been splattered with mud—rotten, nasty mud—but nothing I can't wash off and then move on. Does that make sense?"

Carole nodded. She knew as well as anyone how the rules had changed, and she with them.

"You're strong, though. I don't know if I could bounce back from something like that."

"I wouldn't exactly call it 'bouncing.' But don't shortchange yourself, Carole. You're tougher than you let on. I think you could handle anything. Let's just hope you never have to find out."

"Amen," Carole said.

Thinking of men who could do such heinous things drew Carole's thoughts back to napalm, but she pushed them aside as the boardwalk buildings hove into view. She parked and gave herself half a moment to inhale the briny air. Then she double-checked the old book bag—crosses, stakes, garlic, hammer, flashlight. All there.

Let's just pray we don't have to use them, she thought.

What they most likely would use were the two peanut butter sandwiches on home-baked bread they'd brought along. Somewhere old Mrs. Delmonico had found whole wheat flour and a propane stove.

They left the shotgun in the car, but Lacey carried her pistol at the ready as they hurried across the deserted boardwalk and down to the beach. Lacey stayed in the lead when they ducked under the boards where they'd buried Father Joe, but stopped dead in her tracks with a cry of alarm.

Carole bumped into her from behind. "What—?"

"Oh, no!" Lacey cried. "It can't be!"

Carole pushed her aside and saw what she was looking at. The grave had been disturbed.

"He's already out!" Lacey wailed.

"No. He can't be. The sun hasn't set yet."

She pointed to areas of darker sand atop the light. "But some of the sand's still damp. That means it came from deeper down. And not too long ago."

"Then someone's dug him up. It's the only explanation."

Lacey's eyes were wild. "But who? We were the only ones who knew. And why?"

She glanced around and noticed linear tracks leading out to the beach. "Look. We didn't leave those. Someone's dragged him out."

"They can't have gone too far." Carole heard Lacey cock her pistol as she started back toward the beach. "The sons of bitches..."

Carole followed her out and they stood together, looking up and down the beach and along the gently rolling dunes that eased toward the water. She blinked ... was that someone ... ? Yes, it looked like a man, standing at the water line with a towel draped over his shoulders, staring out to sea.

"Look, Lacey," Carole said, pointing. "Do you see him?"

Lacey nodded and started forward. "You think he did it?"

"Perhaps." Carole fell into step beside her. "If not, he might have seen who did."

But as they approached, the white towel began to look more like a sheet, and the back of the man's head, the color of his hair began to look more and more familiar ...

They were twenty feet away when Carole stopped and grabbed Lacey's arm. "Oh, dear God," she whispered. "It looks like ..."

Lacey was nodding. "I know." Her voice had shrunken to a high-pitched squeak. "But it can't be."

He looked wet, as if he'd gone for a swim. Carole stepped forward, closed to within half a dozen feet of him. Trembling inside and out, she wet her lips. Her tongue felt as dry as old leather.

"Father Joe?"

The man turned. The dying light of the sun ruddied the pitted, ruined dead-white skin of his face.

"Carole," he said in Father Joe's voice. "What's happened to me?"

Shock was a hand against her chest, shoving her back. She dropped the bookbag and stumbled a few steps, then tripped. Lacey caught her before she fell.

"Oh, shit," Lacey whimpered. "Oh, shit!"

"Lacey?" The man, the thing that had once been Father Joe, took a faltering step toward them. "What did they do to me?"

"Wh-who?" Lacey said.

"The undead. They took me to New York. He was going to make me one of them . . . turn me into a feral, he said. I remember dying, being killed ... at least I think I do, but—"

Heart pounding, mind racing. Carole watched him closely, looking for a misstep, listening for a false note.

She found her voice again. "You did die. We found you and you were dead. We buried you back there, under the boardwalk."

"But I'm not dead. And I'm not one of them. I can't be because ..." He pointed west. "Because that's the sun and it should be killing me, but it's not." He raised a scarred fist. "Somehow, some way, I've beaten them."

"But you were dead, Uncle Joe," Lacey told him. Her voice trembled like a wounded thing. "And now you're not."

"But I'm not undead. Standing here in the sunlight is proof enough of that. And I'm looking at you two and I'm not seeing prey. I'm seeing two people I care about very much."

Carole suspected that under different circumstances—any circumstances but these—those words would have made her dizzy. But now ...

She shook her head, trying to clear it, trying to step back from her roiling emotions and think clearly. He sounded like her Father Joe, he acted like Father Joe, he had Father Joe's mannerisms, but something was different, something wasn't quite right. Something terrible had been done to him, and one way or another, she had to find a way to undo it.

She bent forward and snatched the book bag from where she'd dropped it on the sand.

"Carole?" said Lacey from behind her. "Just a minute."

She opened it and reached inside.

"Carole, you're not really going to—"

''A minute, I said!"

Carole's fingers wrapped around the upright of Father Joe's big silver cross. "We've been saving this for you." She yanked it from the bag and held it out to him. "Here."

Father Joe cried out and turned his head, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the sight of the very cross he used to carry with him wherever he went.

Carole felt something die within her as she watched him and realized what she had to do.

She handed the cross to Lacey who stood dumbstruck, staring at her uncle with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Lacey gripped the cross but never took her eyes from her uncle.

As Carole pulled open the book bag again, she slammed the doors, closed the windows, and drew the curtains on everything she had ever felt for the man this creature had once been. Her hand was reaching into the bag for the hammer and stake when Lacey's voice, a hint of panic in her tone, stopped her.

"Carole ... Carole, something's happening here. Please tell me what's going on."

Carole looked up and froze. The Father Joe thing was edging toward Lacey, his face averted, his hand stretched out toward the cross.

"What's happening, Carole?" Lacey wailed.

"I'm not sure, but don't move. Stay right where you are."

Carole watched with a wrenching mixture of horror and fascination as the Father Joe thing's fingers neared the cross. She noticed that his eyes were slit-ted and only partially averted, as if he were looking at the cross from the corner of his eye.

The undead couldn't stand to be anywhere near a cross, yet the Father Joe thing was reaching for this one.

Finally his scarred fingers reached it, touched the metal, and jerked back as if they'd been burned. But no flash, no sizzle of seared flesh. The fingers came forward again, and this time, like a striking snake, they snatched the cross from Lacey's hand.

"It's hot!" he said, looking up into the darkening sky as he switched it back and forth between his hands like a hot potato. "Oh, God, it's hot!"

But it wasn't searing his flesh, only reddening it.

Then with the cry of a damned soul he dropped it and fell to his knees on the sand.

"What have they done to me?" he sobbed as he looked at Carole with frightened, haunted eyes. "What am I?"

Carole closed the book bag.

She'd never seen the undead cry. This wasn't a vampire. But he wasn't the Father Joe she had known either. He was something in between. Was this an accident, or some sort of trick, some undead plot to further confuse and confound the living? She'd have to reserve judgment for now.

But she'd be watching his every move.

JOE . . .

Carole took his arm and tugged him toward the boardwalk, saying, "We need to find a place where we're not so exposed."

Joe went along with her, his mind numb, unable to string two coherent thoughts together.

The afterimage of the cross—his cross—still stained his vision, bouncing in the air before him. The blast of light had been intolerably bright, an explosion of brilliance, as if Carole had lifted a white hot star from her book bag. The light had caused him pain, but only in his eyes. It hadn't struck him like a physical blow the way it seemed to affect the undead, staggering them back as if they were being pummeled with a baseball bat. He could look at it as one might the sun, squinting from the corner of his eye.

He could touch the cross but couldn't hold it. He looked down at his palms. The skin was reddened there, but at least it was normal looking. Not like the ruined, thickened flesh on the back of his hands and on his arms and chest. He touched his face and found thickened and pitted skin there as well.

Joe felt as if his world were crumbling around him, then realized that it already had. The life he'd known was gone, ended. What lay ahead?

He pulled the damp sheet closer around him as Carole led him up the steps to the boardwalk. Had this been his shroud? As she turned him right, Joe heard Lacey's voice from behind.

"Aren't we going to the car?"

"Let's see if we can get into one of these houses," Carole said.

She led them past the dead arcades and along the boardwalk leading to the inlet. No one spoke. Lacey looked as dazed as Joe felt. They walked past the beachfront houses, some large with sun decks and huge seaward windows, others tiny, little more than plywood boxes, all nuzzling against the boardwalk. Most of the bigger ones had been vandalized.

Carole stopped before an old, minuscule bungalow that appeared intact. Despite the low light, Joe had no problem making out the faded blue-gray of its clapboard siding. Someone had painted the word SEAVIEW in black on the door and surrounded it with sun-bleached clamshells.

Carole tried the door. When it wouldn't open, she slammed her shoulder against it. When that didn't work, she opened her book bag and began to rummage through it.

Joe turned to the door and slammed his palm against it. The molding cracked like a gunshot and the door swung inward. He stared at his hand. He hadn't put a lot of effort into the blow, but it had broken the molding.

"How did I do that?" he muttered.

No one answered.

In a courteous reflex, he stood aside to let Carole and Lacey enter first. Only after they were inside did he realize that he should have gone ahead of them. No telling what might have been lying in wait there.

As he stepped across the threshold, he felt a curious resistance, as if the air inside had congealed to try to hold him back. He pressed forward and pushed through. The resistance evaporated once he was inside.

As he closed the door behind him, he sniffed the musty air and looked around. Typical beach house decor: rattan furniture with beachy-patterned cushions, driftwood and shells on the mantle, fishnets and starfish tacked to the tongue-and-groove knotty pine walls of the wide open living room/dining room/kitchen combo that ran the length of the house; photos of smiling people sitting on the beach or holding fishing rods. Joe wondered if any of them were still alive.

Carole pulled out her flashlight. "Let's see if we can find any candles."

"There's three in that little brass candelabra back there," he told her.

"Where?" She flashed her light around.

He pointed. "On the dining room table."

Carole shot him a strange look and moved toward the rear of the house where she retrieved a brass candelabra from the tiny dining room. She lit one of its three candles and set it on the small cocktail table situated before the picture window overlooking the beach and the ocean. Lacey pulled the curtains.

"Let's sit," Carole said.

"I can't sit," Joe told her. "I need to know what happened to me."

"We're about to tell you all we know," Carole said.

So he sat. Carole did most of the talking, with Lacey adding a comment or two. They told him how they'd found him, how his skin had started boiling in the morning sun, and how they'd buried him.

Joe rose and started pacing. He'd held himself still as he'd listened to them, not wanting to believe their tale, yet unable to deny it, and now he had to move. He felt too big for the room. Or was it getting smaller, the walls closing in on him? He didn't know what to do with himself—stand, sit, move about—or where to put his hands ... his body felt different, not quite his own. He'd sensed this since pulling himself out of the sand. He'd washed himself off in the ocean, hoping it would make a difference, but it hadn't. He still felt like a visitor in his own skin.

"So what am I then?" he said to no one on particular, perhaps to God Himself. "Some new sort of creature, some freakish hybrid?" He sure as hell felt like a freak.

"That is what we need to find out," Carole said.

He stared at her and she stared back, her eyes flat, unreadable. This was not the Carole he'd known, not the woman he'd been drawn to. He'd sensed a terrible change in her when he'd run into her outside the church, but now she seemed even further removed from her old self. Cold .. . and she'd been anything but cold in her other life. Had all the sweetness and warmth in her been burned away, or had she merely walled them off?

Unable to hold her gaze any longer, he looked down at himself. He was still wrapped in the damp, sandy sheet. He wasn't cold but he didn't like looking like something that had washed up from the sea.

"I'm going to see if I can find some clothes."

Anything to escape Carole's imprisoning stare. She made him feel like a specimen in a dissection tray.

He turned into the short hallway that was little more than an alcove that divided the bungalow's two bedrooms. A pang shot through his abdomen and he realized he was hungry. Clothes first, then food.

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

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

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

This place was in dire need of some spring cleaning.

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

"Oh, God!"

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

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

She gasped. "Is that... ?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Joe?" Lacey asked.

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

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

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

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

"God, I'm starving."

"We've got food," Lacey said.

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

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

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

"Lacey, I'm sorry," Joe said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How about this?"

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

"Damn! What's that? Get it away!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—pressed against his mouth.

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

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

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

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

No ... he wanted to die. Truly die.

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

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

No response, no sound of movement.

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

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

Carole only shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then in God's name, what am I?"

"A weapon, perhaps."

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

"You're not undead."

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

"You'll always be—"

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

"Father Joe—"

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

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

"More than ever."

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

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

"I think it's time to fight back."

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

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

OLIVIA . . .

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

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

"Perhaps he sneaked out a back door."

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

"Then he must be still inside."

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

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

"Possible, but unlikely."

"Then it must be a miracle!"

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

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

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

"Poor Artemis."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Artemis rolled his single eye. "Brilliant."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LACEY . . .

"What was it like being dead?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, but there is," Joe told her.

"You were dead and experienced nothing transcendental, so how can you say that?"

"Because I believe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only God knows," Joe said.

Lacey snorted derisively. "Which means nobody knows."

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

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

"Just idle curiosity?"

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

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

"Probably not."

"Then why ask at all?"

"I don't know."

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

Joe's scrutiny was making her uncomfortable.

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

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

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

"You mean the undead? I'll grant you they're evil, but they hardly strike me as transcendent."

"No?" He was staring at his finger. "I just cut myself. Take a look."

He laid his hand, palm up, on the table. His palm hadn't been exposed to the sun so it was unscarred. Lacey saw a deep slice in the pad of his index finger, but no blood.

"I don't seem to have any blood."

Lacey gasped as he jabbed the point of the blade into the center of his palm.

"Father Joe!" Carol cried.

"Uh-uh," he said, removing the knife and waving it at her. "Just Joe, remember? I'm not a priest anymore."

"Doesn't it hurt?" Lacey said.

"Not really. I feel it; it's not comfortable, but I can't call it pain." He held up his hand. "Still no blood. And yet..." He placed the hand over his heart. "My heart is beating. Very slowly, but beating. Why? If there's no blood to pump, why have a beating heart?" He leaned back and shook his head. "Will I ever understand this?"

"You have a better chance than anyone else," Lacey said. "Obviously something else is powering your cells, something working outside the laws of nature."

"Which would make it supernatural. And since there's no question that it's evil..."

"Are we back to that again?"

Carole cleared her throat. "I hate to drag this conversation back to current reality, but there is something very important we need to discuss."

Lacey looked at her and noticed that she seemed upset. Her hands were locked together before her on the table.

"What is it, Carole?"

She stared at her hands. "Blood."

Lacey heard Joe groan. She glanced over and saw him lower his ruined face into his hands.

"What blood?" Lacey said.

Carole lifted her eyes. "The blood he needs to survive."

"Oh, that." Lacey shrugged. "He can have some of mine whenever—"

Joe slammed his hands on the table. "No!"

"Why the hell not? You had—what?—three or four drops and that was all you needed. Big deal."

"The amount is not the point! A drop, a gallon, what difference does it make? It's all the same! I'm acting like one of them—becoming a bloodsucking parasite!"

"They take it by force. I'm giving this to you. You don't see the difference? It's my blood and I have a right to do whatever I want with it. If I were giving a pint at a time to the Red Cross to save lives you'd say what a fine and noble thing to do. But giving a few drops to my own uncle—a blood relative, don't you know—is wrong?"

"Your giving isn't the issue. My taking—that's the problem."

"What problem? Since I'm volunteering, there's no ethical problem. So if it's not ethics, what is it? Esthetics?"

He stared at her. "What are you? A Jesuit?"

"I'm your niece and I care about you and I want to get the sons of bitches who did this to you. With you as you are—part undead, part human—we might have a chance to do real damage. But if you're going to let a little squea-mishness get in the way—"

"Lacey!" Carole said, giving her a warning look.

Joe had closed his eyes and was shaking his head. "You have no idea what it's like... to have loathed these vermin and then be turned into one. To spend every minute of the rest of your existence knowing you are a lesser being than you wish to be, that everything you were has been erased and everything you hoped for or aspired to will be denied you." He opened his eyes and glared at her. "You ... don't... know .. . what... it's ... like."

Lacey's heart went out to her uncle. Yes, she could imagine maybe only a tiny fraction of what he was suffering, but she couldn't let him surrender. He had to fight back. She had a feeling that what they decided here tonight could be of momentous importance, and it all hinged on him. That was why she had to push him.

"I don't pretend to. But we can't turn back the clock. You've been dealt a lousy hand, Unk—an unimaginably lousy hand—but right now it's the only one you've got. And it may hold some hidden possibilities that we'll never be able to use if you fold and leave the game. I know it seems easy for me to sit here on this side of the table say it, but it's a simple truth: you have to accept what's happened and move on. Take it and turn it back on them. Use it to make them pay. Make them wish they'd never heard of Father Joe Cahill. Make them curse the day they ever messed with you. If all it takes is a few drops a day of my blood—which I'm more than willing to donate to the cause—then where's the downside? They tried to make you like them but something went wrong. They failed. You're not like them—you know it and Carole knows it and I know it—and a few drops of blood is not going to change that."

Lacey leaned back, winded. She glanced at Carole who gave a small nod, just one.

Joe seemed lost in thought. Finally he shook himself and said, "We'll see. That's all I can say now .. . we'll see." He looked out at the growing light filtering through the salt-stained picture window. "Let put this aside and go out and watch the sunrise."

JOE . . .

Lacey's words tumbled back and forth through Joe's brain as he followed the two women down to the churning water.

Accept it and move on . . .

Easy for her to say. But that didn't mean she was wrong.

Yet... how do you accept being subhuman?

Turn it against them and make them pay . . .

That he could understand. Take this aching emptiness inside and fill the void with rage, pack it in like gunpowder in a cartridge, then take aim at those responsible for what he'd become.

Carole had called him a weapon. That was what he would become.

He joined Carole and Lacey at the waterline and stood between them. Gently he placed a hand on each of their shoulders, Carole flinching but not pulling away, Lacey leaning against him. He realized he loved them both, but in very different ways.

He noticed Carole checking her watch as the sun hauled its red bulk above the rumpled gray hide of the Atlantic. Immediately he sensed its heat, just as he'd felt the fever of the setting rays last night.

Lacey turned to him. "You're okay?"

"I can tell I'm more sensitive than I ever was in life, but it's nothing I can't tolerate."

.. . than I ever was in life. . .

How indescribably strange to be able to say that.

Lacey smiled. "Maybe we'll just have find you some SPF 2000 sun screen."

"I'm just grateful I won't have to live like them—hiding in the day and crawling out only at night. I don't know if I could take that."

They stood for a while with the waves lapping at their feet and watched the birds and the surf and spoke of how the undead plague hadn't affected the beauty of the world or touched its wildlife. Humanity had borne the full brunt of the assault.

Lacey said, "Some of my radical ecology friends, if they're still alive, probably think it's all for the good—the fall of civilization, I mean."

Carole shook her head. "How could they possibly—"

"The end of industry, of pollution, overcrowding, all that stuff they hate. No more forests being raped, no more fluorocarbons depleting the ozone, all their causes made moot because the undead don't seem to be into technology."

"Only the technology that helps them keep their 'cattle' alive. Franco went on to me about how once you've turned, your existence becomes entirely focused on blood. All the other drives—for money, knowledge, achievement, even sex—are gone. The undead are immune to cold and see in the dark so they have no interest in keeping the electricity running except as far as their cattle need it to survive. Even so, I'll bet the power will be off more than it's on. Over time I can see the level of technology declining and the world devolving into some sort of pre-industrial-level feudal order. They don't seem to need technology. Or perhaps have no mind for it is better way of putting it. They already call their human helpers 'serfs.' That will be the social order: undead lords, serfs, and herds of human catde."

"If only the Internet were still around," Lacey said. "We could communicate, organize—"

"The Internet is history, I'm afraid—with no reliable power source, few working phone lines, and a decimated server network, it's a goner."

Joe felt his skin beginning to tingle, as if the sand were blowing, but there was no breeze. He glanced at the sun and thought it looked considerably brighter than a few moments ago. Hotter too.

"Is anyone else hot?"

Carole and Lacey shook their heads.

"No, not really," Carole said.

Lacey spread her arms and lifted her face to the glow. "It feels good."

"Does anyone mind if we go back inside? It's a little too warm for me."

He turned and started back up the dunes; Carole and Lacey came along, one on either side. As they neared the house, Joe felt his exposed sunward skin—the back of his neck, his arms, his calves—begin to heat up, as much from within as without.

With the growing discomfort pushing him toward the house, he quickened his pace. Or tried to. He felt unsteady. His legs wobbled like an old man's—a drunken eighty-year-old's. Still he somehow managed to pull ahead of Carole and Lacey.

"Unk!" Lacey cried from behind him. "Unk, your skin!"

He looked down and saw that his skin was starting to smoke wherever the direct rays of the sun touched it. He broke into a lurching run.

The sun! Cooking him! Had to escape it, find shade, shelter, darkness! The very air seemed to catch fire around him, glowing with white-hot intensity. A heartbeat ago the house had been less than a hundred feet ahead, now he couldn't find it through the blaze of light. And even if he could he doubted he'd reach it on these leaden legs. His knees weakened further and he stumbled, but felt a pair of hands grab his left arm before he could fall.

"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.

- 9 -

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?"

Lacey kept her eyes on her uncle. "How about a letter, hand written by their Father Joe himself? You and I could 'find' it and read it to the parishioners."

Carole shook her head. "They don't know his handwriting. Some of them will think it's a fake. Doubt will spread, ruining the whole plan."

Carole was right. Lacey searched for an alternative. She thought of having Joe sneak up to the church at night and speak from the shadows to someone he trusted—Carl, maybe—but discarded the idea. Too chancy. Too many ways it could backfire, especially if anyone caught sight of his ruined face. They'd think he was an impostor.

Then it came to her, so obvious she kicked herself for not thinking of it immediately.

"We'll tape you! All we need is to get hold of a little cassette recorder and have you record your message. We leave it at the church for someone to find. It'll have a note saying it's from you. They'll play it and recognize your voice. No doubters then."

Carole nodded. "Brilliant. I know a Radio Shack not far from here that ought to have a cassette recorder."

Lacey looked at Joe. His teeth were clenched. He didn't seem to be listening. She grabbed the flashlight and headed for the bathroom. Not that there was any water pressure in the town's system to make the bathroom useful for its intended functions, but she needed to be away from Carole. She placed the flashlight on the glass shelf under the medicine cabinet. . . next to the steak knife she'd left here earlier just for this purpose.

Picking up the knife, she called, "Uncle Joe? Could you come in here a sec?"

When she heard him approaching, she bit her lip and sliced the pad of her left index finger. She jumped with the pain, almost dropping the knife.

Damn, that hurt!

She placed the knife in the sink and cupped her right hand under the finger.

"Something wrong?" Joe said as he came up behind her.

"Close the door, will you?"

When she heard it close she turned and held her bloody finger up to his lips. "Here," she whispered. "I know you need it."

He turned his head and stepped back. "No!"

Lacey stepped closer. "I thought we settled this last night!" she hissed. "This is something you need and something I want to give. Don't do this, Unk. I'm already cut and bleeding." She pushed her finger toward his mouth. "Take what you need."

With a groan he grabbed her hand and pressed her finger to his lips. He sucked hungrily for an instant, then pushed her hand away.

"Enough!" The word sounded as if it had been ripped from deep inside him.

"You're sure?"

He looked away and nodded. "Look . . . I'm going out. I need to do some reconnoitering, see if I can locate a nest or two."

"Want us to come along?" She opened the medicine cabinet and found a tin of Band-Aids.

He shook his head. "Better if I do this alone. I'll be less noticeable solo." He glanced at her, then away again. "Lend me the car keys."

"Carole has them."

"Can you get them for me?"

"Just ask—"

"Please?"

Lacey bit back a remark. She wrapped a Band-Aid around her finger and returned to the front room.

"Is everything all right?" Carole asked. Her eyes darted from Lacey's face, to her bandaged finger then to her eyes again.

"He needs the car to go hunt up some targets. Where are the keys?"

Carole fished them out of her sweatsuit pants pocket. "Alone?"

"He thinks it'll be better that way."

Lacey took the keys back to the bathroom. "I don't understand you," she whispered. "I thought we straightened this out last night."

"We didn't." His voice was barely audible. "I said we'd see."

"Okay. We've seen. And it was quick and simple. Now tell me, why wouldn't you get keys yourself?"

"Because ... because Carole's in there. One look at me and she'd know."

"So?"

"Let's just drop it."

"No. Tell me."

"Because . . . because I can't bear being in her presence after doing this. I feel so ... so diminished." He squeezed her hand. "Got to go."

You poor, poor man, she thought, staring at him. You've got it bad, don't you. And this is tearing you apart.

He squeezed past her and stepped into the front room. He turned right, heading for the rear of the bungalow.

"Good-bye, Carole," he said in a choked voice without looking at her. "I'll be back around sunrise."

Lacey leaned against the sink until she heard the back door open and close, then she returned to the front room. "Carole," she said. "We've got to talk."

JOE . . .

Standing in the deep moon shadows, he watched the church from afar, listened to the hymns echoing from within, saw the daylight-bright glow gushing through the open front doors, and yearned to go inside.

But that was not to be. The huge crucifix hanging over the sanctuary and the dozens of crosses on the walls—crosses he'd helped fashion with his own hands—would blind him now, make his presence there an ongoing agony. That part of his life was over. The simple comfort of kneeling in a pew and letting the cool serenity of the church ease the cares and tensions from his soul would be forever denied him. And as for saying Mass . . .

The longing pushed a sob to the back of his throat but he forced it down. In his other existence he might have felt tears running down his cheeks, but they remained dry. The undead don't have tears. Their hair doesn't grow. They don't progress or regress, they simply are.

He was about to turn away when movement to his right caught his eye. His night vision picked out a figure—balding, with a ripe gut bulging over his belt—leaning behind a tree.

Joe, it seemed, wasn't the only one watching the church.

He bent into a crouch and moved a few yards closer. He caught the flash of a Vichy earring.

Not surprising that the undead would want to keep an eye on the church. They had to be furious and more than a little unsettled by these defiant "cattle."

With a start Joe realized that they might be watching for him.

Of course. Franco had expected him to rise from the dead in the rectory and start feeding on the parishioners. He must know by now that that hadn't happened. He'd want to know why. Never in a thousand years would he guess the truth.

Franco had to be baffled. His beautiful plan had gone awry. More than awry, it had gone bust. He had to be furious.

Joe cradled the thought, letting it warm him, feeling the best he'd felt all night.

He found a place between a couple of waist-high shrubs where he could watch the watcher without being seen. He settled onto the ground. Despite his lightweight shirt and shorts, the damp earth and cool breeze didn't chill him. He felt perfectly comfortable. Extremes of temperature didn't seem to bother him.

What else wouldn't bother him? He had much to learn about, this new existence, this altered body he'd be wearing into the future.

The future . . . what did that mean anymore? How long could he exist? Would he go on indefinitely like the true undead? And beyond that hazy future, what of his salvation? What of his soul? Did he still have one?

The possibility jolted him. What if his soul had departed after Devlin had torn him up? Was he an empty vessel now, marked and doomed to wander the earth like Cain, offensive to the sight of God and man?

Joe shifted his gaze to the dark blotch of the graveyard to the left of the church. He could almost pick out Zev's grave among the shadows.

Zev, he thought. Where are you, old friend?

How he wished he were here tonight, sitting beside him. He longed for the comfort of his wit, the honed edge of his Talmudic intellect. He wouldn't have answers, but he'd know the questions to ask, and together they might come to understand this, or at least find a path toward understanding.

Here, on his own, would he ever understand what he'd become? Was there anyone else like him on earth? He doubted it. He was sui generis.

The quote, Alone and afraid in a world he never made, trailed through his head. Whoever wrote that hadn't been thinking of Joe Cahill, but could have been.

Joe watched the watcher through the night. When the sky started to lighten, the Vichy slunk away from the tree and started walking south. Pistol in hand, the man kept to the center of the street, looking wary. Dear Carole, all on her own, had filled their rotten hearts with terror.

Joe paralleled his path, traveling through the backyards of the deserted houses lining the street, catching only occasional glimpses of him between the buildings, but that was enough.

Although Joe's was a much more difficult route, hopping fences and ducking through hedges, he felt no sense of exertion. He wasn't even breathing hard.

He stopped as he realized with a start that he wasn't breathing at all. He had to take in air in order to talk, but otherwise he didn't need to breathe. No blood, no respiration—what was powering his body? He didn't know, might never know.

He'd lost ground on the Vichy and hurried to catch up. The task of tailing him became dicier as he entered the business district. Too open, with no cover. Joe had to settle for huddling in a doorway and watching him. After what Lacey had told him about her abduction, he had a good idea of where the man was headed.

Sure enough, the Vichy stopped before the Post Office where he met with another pair of his kind.

And then, out of the shadows, a group of undead, seven males and a female, appeared as a group. Joe couldn't make out their faces from this distance. He couldn't hear their words, either, but he saw a lot of shaking heads and tense, unhappy postures.

He was more sure now than ever that they'd been searching for him.

With the arrival of another trio of Vichy, the first three left. The second three took up guard positions as all eight undead trudged up the Post Office steps. Joe noticed that six of the males clustered around the female while a lone male brought up the rear. Something familiar about that solitary figure, but Joe couldn't place it.

No time to think about it either. He broke into a run. Dawn was coming and he had to race the sun to the beach.

- 10 -

CAROLE . . .

Soon.

Carole sat on the bungalow's tiny rear deck and watched the sun's lazy fall toward the horizon. A beautiful end to the day. She might have enjoyed it but for the adrenaline buzzing through her.

A good day ... as good as could be expected. In these times, a good day was when nothing unusually ugly occurred.

Joseph had made it home just after sunrise. Before dropping into a deathlike sleep in the rear bedroom, he'd spoken into the cassette recorder Carole and Lacey had looted from the Radio Shack.

Was it really looting? she wondered. Did taking something from a store that was never going to reopen make you a looter? It seemed like a silly thing to worry about, but she did.

When Carole had asked Lacey what she thought, she'd replied, "Who gives a shit?"

Maybe Carole needed to adopt more of that attitude.

Carole had returned to the church this morning and, when no one was watching, left the recorder on the front steps. It seemed to take forever, but eventually someone found it and played it for the congregation.

Cheers and tears—that was the only way Carole could describe the reaction. At least initially. It took a while for the anger to set in, but when it came it was fierce. The undead and their collaborators had tried to turn their Father Joe. A craven, cowardly, backstabbing act. The anger bound the parishioners even more closely. They'd stay on and fight harder. To the death if need be.

Carole tried to draw strength from the memory of their boisterous resolve. For soon she would have to do what she and Lacey had discussed. Part of her hummed with anticipation while an equal part recoiled.

Joseph had awakened a short while ago. He and Lacey were inside, talking. The indistinguishable murmur of their voices drifted through the open glass door, mixing with the thrum of the waves and the calls of the gulls.

Her heart kicked up its tempo as their voices faded. That meant that they were heading for the front bedroom.

Soon ...too soon . . .

"Okay."

Carole jumped and turned at the sound of Lacey's voice.

"Now?"

How inane. Of course now. That was why Lacey was here.

Carole rose unsteadily. Did she have the nerve for this?

Lacey pressed the steak knife into her hand. "He's waiting."

Carole nodded, took the knife, and headed for the bedroom. When she reached the alcove she hesitated. She wiped a sweaty palm on the pants of her sweatsuit, then forced herself forward.

I can do this, she thought. I must do this.

Joe was sitting on the bed, head down, hands clasped between his knees, looking like a man on death row. He didn't look up as she entered.

"Okay," he said, his voice hoarse. "Let's get this over—" He must have sensed something. His head snapped up. "Carole? Sorry. I was expecting Lacey."

Her tongue felt like flannel. "It won't be Lacey today."

Before he could understand, before he could protest, Carole clenched her teeth and jabbed the point of the knife into the center of her palm. She suppressed a gasp of pain as the blade pierced her skin.

"No!" Joseph was on his feet. "No, don't!"

"It's already done," she said.

"Carole, I can't." He backed away a step. "Not you."

She held out her hand, cupping her palm to hold the pooling blood.

"Yes. Me. It's only fair. I don't want to be left out."

That wasn't quite the way Lacey had put it last night after Joseph had left so abruptly. She'd said that if the three of them were going to work together, be a team, then they'd have to act and feel like a team. "One for all and all for one, and all that shit," she'd said.

Which meant they had to feel at ease with each other, and that would never happen unless someone broke through the wall of shame that had sprung up between Carole and her uncle. Joseph couldn't do it. Only Carole had the power.

Lacey had known one sure way for Carole to break through. It was radical, she'd warned, something her uncle would balk at—and Carole wouldn't be too crazy about it either—but it had to be done.

Joseph was shaking his head, his mouth working but saying nothing. She could read no expression in his scarred face, but his eyes looked terrified.

Still cupping her hand, Carole sat on the bed. She placed the knife beside her and tugged on his sleeve.

"Sit, Joseph," she said. "You've given so much, had so much stolen from you, let me give something to you."

"No!"

"Why will you take it from Lacey but not from me? Do you think there's something wrong with my blood?"

"No, of course not."

"They why not me?"

"Because ..." He shook his head.

"Please don't reject me." She felt a thickness in her throat, heard a catch in her voice. "I couldn't bear it if you turned me away."

Joseph must have heard it too. He slumped next to her. "Carole . .. you don't have to do this."

"I do. I want to."

That hadn't been quite true when she'd stepped into the room, but now, this close to him, feeling his anguish, she wanted to be part of this, she wanted this bond, terrible as it was.

She held her cupped palm beneath his chin.

"Please?"

With a groan Joseph bent his head and pressed his lips against her palm. A shiver ran through her as his tongue swirled against her skin.

So close . . . she'd never dreamed they'd be this close.

Carole felt him swallow, then with a sob he pushed her hand away and sagged against her, resting his head on her thighs, facing away.

"Oh, Carole, I'm so sorry. So sorry."

She made a fist over her cut palm to stanch the bleeding. Her other hand rose of its own accord, hovered over his head for a few heartbeats, then dropped and began stroking his hair.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Joseph," she said softly. "This was not your choosing. It's not your fault."

He said nothing. For a moment she feared he might rise and leave the room, but he didn't move.

She said, "You almost told me why you didn't want to take my blood. You got as far as 'Because.' Can you tell me the rest?"

"Because ..." He took a breath. "Because I love you."

She gasped, her hand recoiling from him as if it had been burned.

Joseph began to lift his head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"No—no," she said, gently pushing his head back down. "Don't move." She couldn't let him see her face right now, for she knew her heart must be shining in her eyes. "It's all right. It's . . . it's ..."

The intoxicating feelings bursting through her . . . she'd never felt anything like this before. It was indescribable. Her words dried up and blew away like dead leaves.

I love you . . . had he really said that?

"It's wonderful," she managed.

"I'm not talking about love as for a fellow human being. I'm saying that I love you as a woman."

"All the more wonderful," she said. "Because I've felt the same way about you."

Now his head shot up and she couldn't stop it. He stared at her, mouth agape. "What?"

She could only nod. She felt tears brimming her eyelids and didn't trust herself to speak.

"That can't be," he said.

She nodded again and forced the words past the swelling in her throat. "I was taken with you the day you arrived to replace Father McMann. And as I came to know you, I came to love you."

"You mean 'loved,' don't you."

"No. I still do. More than ever."

He looked away. "You can't. That man is gone."

She touched his scarred cheek. "No. He's been changed, but he's not gone. He's still there, inside. I feel him when you're near, I hear him when you speak."

"Maybe he's there now, but I don't know much longer you can count on him being around."

"I have faith in you."

"I appreciate that, Carole but. . . I've been having a dream, the same dream yesterday and today. Hanging from a precipice over this swirling darkness that's calling to me, beckoning to me."

"But—"

He held up a hand. "I know what you're going to say, but this doesn't feel symbolic. This feels real. It bothers me that part of me wants to let go and fall into that abyss. But that's all right. I think I can handle that. What bothers me more is there's no sense of light above me trying to draw me the other way. Only the darkness below."

"I don't understand."

"Where's the balance? The darkness seems to be in control with nothing opposing it. Nothing but us."

"God is out there, Joseph, working through us."

"Not working too well, I'd say. Look what's happened to me."

She wanted to tell him that what had happened to him might be all part of God's plan, but held back. Now was not the time.

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?"

"Just passing through," she told him.

The two who'd been stretched out on the steps were now on their feet, hands on hips, looking toward her and grinning.

"What's your hurry?" said a big-bellied one.

"No hurry," she said. "Just got places to go."

Joe watched them move out into the street to intercept her. What is she doing? he wondered. Has she gone crazy?

"Oh, I don't think so," said the first one. "I think you're gonna stop and visit."

Lacey was within half a dozen feet of them now. "Been there, done that. Hey, boys . . . don't you remember me?"

With that she reached behind her, ripped her pistol free, and began firing wildly, pulling the trigger as fast as it would allow. Joe saw the one with the shotgun take a round in the chest. His arms flew outward as the bullet punched him back. Lacey's second shot went wild but the third caught the fat one in the gut. The last Vichy was drawing his pistol when Lacey's fourth shot caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around.

Four shots, three hits, but she didn't stop there. She kept firing.

Joe leaped out from the alley and dashed toward her as she stood over the three downed men and pumped round after round into their twitching bodies. He reached her as the slide on her pistol locked back on empty.

He grabbed her shoulders and spun her to face him. "Lacey! What—?" Then he saw the tears streaming down her cheeks.

"It was them, Uncle Joe," she sobbed. "I recognized them. They're the ones who—" She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath.

Joe glanced at their blood-splattered remains. "Lacey ... Jesus. . . are you—?

"I'm okay. That was for Enrico ... and me. Let's just get this done and get out of here, okay?"

Joe opened his mouth to speak—he figured he should say something—but his mind was blank. He settled for a curt nod. They could talk later.

Carole arrived then with her book bag full of stakes and hammers. She took one look at the bodies, then put her arm around Lacey's shoulders.

"It's all right, Lacey. You did the Lord's work."

Lacey irritably shrugged off her arm. "That wasn't any lord's work—that was mine."

Joe caught the flash of hurt in Carole's eyes and felt bad for her. Lacey's rough edges weren't getting any smoother. No time now to explain his niece to Carole.

He took the book bag from her and turned toward the Post Office. "Let's go-

He led the way up the steps. Once inside he looked around. Empty. Sunlight began to stream through the east windows.

"If there's a cellar, that's where they'll be."

Lacey pointed to a door to the left of the clerk windows. "I saw the woman and her entourage go through there."

The door was locked. No problem. Joe kicked it open. Another door, unlocked, opened onto a flight of stairs leading down into a darker space.

"We'll do as many as we can in the time we have," he said, reaching into the bag and handing out the flashlights. "But we do the woman first. From what I've seen, she seems to be in charge."

He didn't need a light of his own. The stairwell appeared well lit to him.

He hurried down to where the steps made a sharp right turn at the bottom into a dank, dusty space—

—and there they were. He could see all eight of them in the cool darkness, stretched out on an assortment of beds and cots. Like a dormitory in hell. If their daysleep was anything like his the past two nights, it was like death.

Joe looked around. Concrete walls, no windows, junk piled in the near-right corner. He spotted the woman's bed on the far side of the room next to the wall and immediately moved toward her. Even if they managed to stake only one this morning, he wanted it to be her—to send a message back to Franco that nobody he sent here was safe. Eventually he wanted Franco to know that not even he was safe.

"Hey," Lacey called from behind him. "This guy's awake."

"This one too," Carole said.

Joe had been so fixed on the woman that he'd paid no attention to her six guards, arrayed around her like spokes on a wheel. He looked down at the nearest and nearly jumped when he saw wide dark eyes staring back at him, sharp teeth bared in a snarl.

Joe didn't understand. How could they be awake?

"Forget them for now. The woman first."

He stopped at her bedside and found her awake as well. She lay on her back, staring up at him in fear and wonder.

"This is really creepy," Lacey said.

Joe had to agree. What was going on here? Unless.. . maybe the gunfire outside had roused them. At least none of them was able to get up.

No time to waste. He dropped the book bag on her abdomen and pulled out the heavy maul and one of the stakes. Carole stepped up beside him and played her beam over the woman, illuminating the corner of the room like daylight.

Joe lifted the stake. This wasn't how he'd expected this to go. He hadn't counted on his victims staring him in the face as he pounded stakes through their chests.

But this was no time for squeamishness. Steeling himself, he placed the sharpened tip against her chest, just to the left of her breastbone. He'd never done this before, but he imagined that was where the heart sat. As he raised the hammer, the woman hissed and grabbed the stake with both of her hands.

Joe jumped back in surprise, releasing his own grip.

"Dear God!" Carole gasped. "She can move!"

Joe recovered and snatched the stake back from her grasp. He broke her grip easily.

"But she's weak," he said.

A deafening blast echoed through the basement and Joe felt a stabbing impact, like a punch, in his back.

A shot!

Another blast as he half turned—another blow, this time to his shoulder.

"Get down!" he shouted to Carole and Lacey. "Way down!"

He feared the ricochets in this concrete box could be almost as deadly as a direct hit. He turned and found the shooter, the pistol wavering in his hand as he aimed another shot. Joe ducked to his left, darted to the man's side, and snatched the gun from his hand.

"Hey!" Lacey cried, popping her head up. She pointed to a guard near her. "This one's going for his gun too!"

"Get it!" Joe shouted. He turned and lunged for another of the woman's guards who was lifting his automatic, moving like someone in a slow-motion movie. Joe tore it from his grasp. "Get their guns! All of them."

He saw Lacey struggling with her guard. She had a two-handed grip on the barrel. Joe was just about to step in and help when she twisted it from his grasp. He turned and saw Carole pulling a pistol from another guard's belt before he could reach it. Joe disarmed two more, then stepped over to the seventh male, the one with the cot against the opposite wall, and found him unarmed.

"You!" Joe cried when he spotted his ruined left eye.

This was one of Franco's guards, the one who'd stripped him naked before taking him to his boss. What had Franco called him?

"Artemis!" That was it. "What are you doing here?"

The good eye widened. "You know me?" the vampire rasped.

That surprised Joe for an instant, then he remembered that his face had been changed by the sun. He wished he knew what he looked like.

He jabbed one of the pistols at him. "Too bad you didn't bring Franco with you. When we finish with the lady, you're next!"

This was perfect: the woman and Franco's right-hand man in one morning. He turned and stalked back toward the guards, snatching up a couple of machetes as he reached them. "Take their machetes too. Don't leave them with anything that can be used against us."

He tossed the pistols and machetes toward the foot of the steps. Carole and

Lacey did the same. He was most relieved to have the guns out of play. The bullets hadn't affected him, but Carole and Lacey's lives had been on the line.

"A little help over here," Lacey said. Her voice sounded strained.

Joe looked and saw that the woman had turned over and was trying to crawl out of her bed. Lacey was struggling to hold her back. Carole leaned in to help.

As Joe moved toward the women, one of the guards rolled out of bed and landed on the floor in front of him. Another to his right did the same. Both started a slow-motion bellycrawl toward their mistress. Joe stepped on the back of the one in front of him and rejoined Carole and Lacey.

"They're coming for us!" Lacey said, an edge of panic in her voice. She was clutching the woman's right arm while Carole held the left from the other side of the bed. The woman writhed slowly in their grasp. "Let's do this and get the hell out of here!"

"Yes, Joseph," Carole said, calm but grave. "You haven't much time."

"All right, all right." Wasn't anything going to go according to plan?

He grabbed the stake and maul. No hesitation this time. He placed the point of the stake over the woman's writhing chest, raised the maul—

Lacey let out a yelp and released the woman's right arm. "Something just touched—damn! There's one here on the floor! He's trying to grab my leg!"

She half turned and began kicking at the guard who'd crawled to their feet.

Joe stared in shock, then looked around. Others were on their way, inching toward them along the floor. This kind of loyalty and devotion was almost unimaginable, especially in the undead.

"Joseph," Carole said. She had both the woman's arms now. "Do it. Now."

Joe nodded. In a single swift move he placed the stake and hammered it home. The heavy steel head of the maul drove the point all the way through the woman and into the mattress beneath. She writhed, kicked, spasmed, then stiffened and lay still.

Done. No time to waste. Move on. First get the guard by Lacey, and then—

"What the hell—?" Lacey said.

Joe looked down. The guard at Lacey's feet was writhing on the floor. The other five were doing the same. This lasted maybe ten seconds, and then they lay as still as their mistress.

Lacey nudged one with the toe of her shoe. "Dead. They're all__"

She looked up at Joe, her eyes wide. "Unk! This is what happened the other night, right upstairs. A bunch of undead guards—supposedly they belonged to someone named Gregor—they suddenly dropped dead, just like these guys.

It was right after we heard a boom and ..." She turned to Carole. "You told us you killed a vampire that night. Blew him to bits, right?"

"Right. But I never knew his name."

Lacey nodded. "I'll bet it was Gregor. You killed him across town, and his guards died upstairs in the Post Office. We killed this one, and her guards die a few seconds later. What's the connection? Is there some sort of spell that binds the guards to their masters? A life-and-death bond that connects them? Is that why they're so loyal?"

Memories of the Empire State Building flashed through Joe's head.

"When I mentioned to Franco how loyal his guards seemed, he told me it wasn't out of selflessness or personal regard for him—it was self-preservation."

"That was his word?" Lacey said. "Self-preservation? Well then that's it. That's how they bind their guards to them: if their master dies, they die."

Joe shook his head. "I've got a feeling it's something more than that. Franco mentioned a secret. 'A momentous secret we keep only to ourselves,' he said. If only—"

Artemis! Joe whirled and looked at the cot in the corner where he'd left the vampire. Had he died too? But his bed was empty. Where—?

"Look!" Carole said, pointing her flashlight beam at a doorway where a pair of legs were crawling through. "Someone's there!"

Joe hurried over, grabbed both ankles, and hauled Artemis back into the dormitory. He flipped him onto his back and stood over him.

"Not so fast, Artemis. We have some questions."

"Fuck you!" His voice was barely audible.

"Why did the guards die when we killed the woman?"

The vampire sneered up at him and said nothing.

Joe realized he had nothing to bargain with. Artemis knew he wasn't going to walk away from this, so he had no reason to tell them anything.

Lacey came up beside Joe and played her light over Artemis. "Can we bring him upstairs?"

"I suppose so," Joe said. "But why?"

She looked at him. "Sunlight."

Joe glanced from her to Artemis and saw the fear in his single eye. Joe grabbed his feet again and dragged him toward the stairs.

"Good idea!"

"No!"

Joe didn't have time for threats or deals. He hauled Artemis up feet first to the main floor. The vampire twisted away from the light and flung his arms over his eyes. Joe found the brightness uncomfortable but it hadn't reached the intolerable point yet. Pulling Artemis upright, he grabbed him by the collar and belt and walked him toward the front doors. The sunlight blazed through the glass like burning phosphorous.

"Now's your chance, pal. Speak or burn. What's the big secret?"

"Fuck you! I'll be just as dead either way!"

Damn him, he was right. And a dead vampire told no tales. He spun Artemis and shoved him into a shadowed corner where he curled into a whimpering ball.

Carole and Lacey stood in the cellar doorway staring at Joe.

"Any ideas, or do we just finish him and get out of here?" he said.

Lacey stepped closer to Artemis. She spoke slowly, softly. "Tossing him out in the sun will kill him. But what if just a part of him gets in the sunlight? What will that do?"

"Yes!" Joe said. Finally—leverage. "Anyone have a knife?"

Lacey whipped out a stainless steel pocketknife. "My butterfly's gone, but this should do. Someone tried to kill me with it."

Joe unfolded the blade and began slicing at the legs of the vampire's pants below the knees. He remembered how this creature had ripped the clothes from him a few long nights ago.

"What goes around, comes around, right, Artemis?" he said through his teeth.

He pulled off Artemis's shoes, then moved around by his shoulders.

"All right, ladies. Grab his feet and we'll move his legs into that patch of sunlight over there."

"No!" Artemis wailed.

"Joseph," Carole said, giving him an unsettled look. "Do we really—?"

"Please, Carole. Time's a-wasting, and this is one of the undead who manhandled me in New York."

Artemis directed his one fear-filled eye at Joe. "New York? Who—?"

"What? You don't recognize me? I'm the priest Franco tried to turn the other night. Only he failed."

"But that's—that's impossible!"

Carole still hadn't moved. Lacey stepped in front of her. "Let's go. I'll handle it."

She grabbed Artemis by both ankles. His feeble kicks lacked the power to free him. Together she and Joe dragged the lower half of his body into the light.

Immediately his flesh started to smoke and blister. Lacey made a disgusted noise and released his ankles. His screams echoed through the building.

"Okay! Yes! Please! I'll tell! Anything you want! I'll tell! Please!"

Joe pulled him back into the shadows. Artemis lay in a heap, writhing, panting, and sobbing, his hands hovering over but never touching the blackened, still-smoking flesh of his lower legs. Sickened by the sight, Joe turned away for a moment. He sensed Carole watching him but could not meet her eyes.

Finally he turned back and forced himself to kneel beside the vampire. He poked him roughly on the shoulder.

"What's the secret, Artemis? Why did those guards die when we staked the woman?"

"They were her get," he gasped. "When she died, all her get died, not just her guards."

"What's 'get'?" Lacey said.

Artemis sneered. "People she turned. When Olivia died, all of her get, no matter where they were in the world, died with her."

Joe knelt there, stunned. "I don't believe you."

"Believe it, priest. It's the one thing we don't want the living to know about us."

"But you're telling me."

His smile was sickly. "What do I care? It won't matter to me, will it."

"You're telling me that anyone, anywhere, that she turned at anytime since she became undead, is now dead?"

"Yes. That's the big secret. That's why Olivia's guards did everything to protect their get-mother. Not for her sake. For their own."

Lacey squatted on the opposite side. "But that means that somewhere there's a vampire who's the ultimate source of this whole undead plague. If someone could get to him—"

Artemis was shaking his head. "No, cow. There may have been a single Prime millennia ago, but now there are many. We undead aren't immortal; it only seems that way. We age and die, but we last many centuries. Eventually rot catches up to everything, including us. It hits suddenly and over the course of a week or so we crumble to dust. But this kind of true death does not affect the get. In fact it enhances them. Only premature death kills one's get. Because we lived solitary existences for so long, we never knew about get-death. But when an ancient Prime figured it out, and started the practice of protecting getfathers, our numbers began to grow."

"Is Franco a Prime?" Joe asked.

Artemis nodded. "And my get-father." His eye narrowed. "You want him, don't you."

"Oh, yeah. If he goes, how many go with him?"

"Many. I can't give you a definite number, but every Nosferatu in the Empire State Building is his get. Not in the city, however. We've learned to mix gets within a region to avoid catastrophe. I hope you get him."

"Why?"

"I didn't want to come down here, but he made me. He hasn't treated me right since a certain unfortunate accident, and now, because of him, I'm done. Aren't I?" He shifted his gaze to Lacey and Carole. "You wouldn't consider . . . ?"

"Not a chance," Lacey said.

Joe held out his hand. "Carole?"

"Not a stake!" Artemis whined. "I don't want to be staked!"

Lacey made a face. "You rather be thrown out in the sun?"

"No! That's even worse! Look, can't you let me go? I've helped you. I've told you a valuable secret. I—"

Joe shook his head, as much to clear a creeping fog as to emphasize that survival was not one of Artemis's options. "We'll give you a choice: sun or stake. That's all you've got."

"There's another way," Carole said.

Joe looked up and saw her fishing something that looked like a candle out of the front of her sweatshirt. He seemed to be viewing her through a mist. The waxy stick had wires attached. She bent and placed it under Artemis's neck, then draped a wire over each of his shoulders.

"This is a high explosive," she said. "You won't feel a thing."

High explosive? Had she wired herself to explode? He wanted to ask but the words wouldn't come.

"Just take the two wires ..." Carole was saying.

He watched Artemis reach up and take a wire in each hand.

"... and touch them—"

"Fuck you all!" Artemis cried as he jammed the two wires together.

Joe managed to raise a leaden arm across his eyes and fall back—

—but nothing happened.

Carole looked down at Artemis, her expression a mask of dismay.

"You didn't let me finish." She held up a battery. "You touch the wires to opposite ends of this." She shook her head. "Your kind simply don't understand mercy or compassion, do you."

"Damn right they don't," Lacey said.

Joe saw that she held the maul and a stake in her hands. Before Artemis could react, she jabbed the point over his heart and slammed it home with two quick, hard strikes.

The vampire arched his back, shuddered, then crumpled.

Lacey pulled the explosive stick from behind Artemis's neck and handed it back to Carole. "They don't deserve a break. Any of them."

Joe was still half sitting, half lying on the floor. He tried to rise but hadn't the strength. He felt as if someone had pulled the plug on his energy.

"Something's wrong," he croaked. "I can barely move."

Carole looked at her watch. "Dear Lord! It's past your time!"

Joe fought the lethargy stealing through him. Too tired to worry. It was all he could do to hold his head up.

The world around him became a blur. He was dimly aware of voices mentioning "back door" and "employee entrance" and "bring the car around." He felt himself dragged-carried outside into a shady area that was still blindingly bright, then lifted and folded into a small space ... a slam that sounded like a car trunk lid, then darkness.. . blessed darkness.

- 11 -

JOE . . .

"Carole ... are you all right?"

Joe had awakened to find the two slugs he'd taken in the Post Office scattered around him on his mattress. He didn't know how, but his body had extruded them during daysleep.

Then he'd fed—God, how he hated the word, the concept, the act. It made him feel like some sort of jungle animal; he would never get used to it. The women had decided to alternate, so Lacey had been the donor this time. The sun was just about down, and the three of them had taken their usual positions around the coffee table.

But Joe had noticed that Carole seemed withdrawn. She looked tired, but he sensed it was more than that.

"I'm okay" Carole said without looking at him.

Lacey said, "She's been like this all day." This earned her a brief glare from Carol. "Well it's true. You barely said two words to me before we went to sleep, and maybe half a dozen since we woke up."