They walked the rest of the way into Lakewood in silence. When they entered the town . . .
"A real ghost town," the priest said as they walked Forest Avenue's deserted length.
"Ghosts," Zev said, nodding sadly. It had been a long walk and he was tired. "Yes. Full of ghosts."
In his mind's eye he saw the shades of his fallen brother rabbis and all the yeshiva students, beards, black suits, black hats, crisscrossing back and forth at a determined pace on weekdays, strolling with their wives on Shabbes, their children trailing behind like ducklings.
Gone. All gone. Victims of the undead. Undead themselves now, some of them. It made him sick at heart to think of those good, gentle men, women, and children curled up in their basements now to avoid the light of day, venturing out in the dark to feed on others, spreading the disease ...
He fingered the cross slung from his neck. If only they had listened!
And then he heard the grating sound of a heavily distorted guitar. He grabbed Joe's arm.
"Quick. Into the bushes!"
They ducked behind a thick stand of rhododendrons along the foundation of the nearest house and watched a convertible glide by. Zev counted four in the car, three men and a blond woman, all scruffy and unwashed, lean and wolfish, in cut-off sweatshirts or denim jackets, the driver wearing a big Texas hat, someone in the back with a red Mohican, all guzzling beer. The thumping blast of their music dopplered in and out. Thank God they liked to play it at ear-damaging levels. It acted as an early warning system.
"Chazzers," Zev muttered.
When they'd passed, Joe stepped out of the bushes and stared after them.
"Who the hell were they?"
"Scum of the earth. They like to call themselves cowboys. I call them Vichy."
"Vichy? Like the Vichy French?"
"Yes. Very good. I'm glad to see that you're not as culturally illiterate as the rest of your generation. Vichy humans—that's what I call the collaborators. They should all die of pox." He looked around. "We should get off the street. I know a place near St. Anthony's where we can hide."
"You've traveled enough today, Reb. And I told you, I don't care about St. Anthony's. I'll get you situated, then head back."
"You can't leave yet, Joe," Zev said, gripping the young priest's arm. He'd coaxed him this far; he couldn't let him get away now. "Stay the night. See what Father Palmeri's done."
"If he's one of them he's not a priest anymore. Don't call him Father."
"They still call him Father."
"Who?"
"The undead."
Zev watched Father Joe's jaw muscles bunch.
Joe said, "Maybe I'll just take a quick trip over to St. Anthony's myself—"
"No. It's different here. The area is thick with Vichy and undead. They'll get you if your timing isn't just right. I'll take you."
"You need rest, pal."
Father Joe's expression showed genuine concern. Zev was detecting increasingly softer emotions in the man since their reunion last night. A good sign perhaps?
"Rest I'll get when we reach where I'm taking you."
CAROLE . . .
<And what are you doing, Carole? What are you DOING? You'll be after killing yourself! You'll be blowing yourself to pieces and then you'll be going straight to hell. HELL, Carole!>
"But I won't be going alone," Carole muttered.
She had to turn her head away from the kitchen sink now. The fumes stung her nose and made her eyes water, but she kept on stirring the pool chlorina-tor into the hot water until it was completely dissolved. She wasn't through yet. She took the beaker of No Salt she'd measured out before starting the process and added it to the mix in the big Pyrex bowl. Then she stirred some more. Finally, when she was satisfied that she was not going to see any further dissolution at this temperature, she put the bowl on the stove and turned up the flame.
A propane stove. She'd seen the big white tank out back last week when she was looking for a new home; that was why she'd chosen this old house. With New Jersey Natural Gas in ruins, and GPU no longer sending electricity through the wires, propane and wood stoves were the only ways left to cook.
I really shouldn't call it cooking, she thought as she fled the acrid fumes and headed for the living room. Nothing more than a simple dissociation reaction—heating a mixture of calcium hypochlorate with potassium chloride. Simple, basic chemistry. The very subject she'd taught bored juniors and seniors for years at St. Anthony's School.
"And you all thought chemistry was such a useless subject!" she shouted to the walls.
She clapped a hand over her mouth. There she was, talking out loud again. She had to be careful. Not so much because someone might hear, but because she worried she might be losing her mind.
Maybe she'd already lost it. Maybe all this was merely a delusion. Maybe the undead hadn't taken over the entire civilized world. Maybe they hadn't defiled her church and convent, slaughtered her best friend. Maybe it was all in her mind.
<Sure and you'd he wishing it was all in your mind, Carole. Of course you would. Then you wouldn't he sinning!>
Yes, she truly did wish she were imagining all this. At least then she'd be the only one suffering, and all the rest would still be alive and well, just as they'd been before she went off the deep end.
But if this was a delusion it was certainly an elaborate, consistent one. Every time she woke up—she never allowed herself to sleep too many hours at once, only catnaps—it was the same: quiet skies, vacant houses, empty streets, furtive, scurrying survivors who trusted no one, and—
What's that?
Sister Carole froze as her ears picked up a sound outside. Music. She hurried in a crouch to the front door and peered through the sidelight. A car. A convertible. Someone was out driving in—
She ducked when she saw who was in it. She recognized that cowboy hat. She didn't have to see their earrings to know who—what—they were.
They were headed east. Good. They'd find a little surprise waiting for them down the road.
As it did every so often, the horror of what her life had become caught up to Carole then, and she slumped to the floor of the Bennett house and began to sob.
Why? Why had God allowed this to happen to her, to His Church, to His world?
Better question: Why had she allowed these awful events to change her so? She had been a Sister of Mercy.
<Mercy! Do you hear that, Carole? A Sister of MERCY!>
She had taken vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, had vowed to devote her life to teaching and doing the Lord's work. But now there was no money, no one worth losing her virginity to, no Mother Superior or Church to be obedient to, and no students left to teach.
All she had left was the Lord's work.
<Believe me you, Carole, I'd hardly be calling the making of plastic explosive and the other horrible things you've been doing the Lord's work. It's killing! It's a SIN!>
Maybe Bernadette's voice was right. Maybe she would go to hell for what she was doing. But somebody had to make those rotten cowboys pay.
COWBOYS . . .
"Shit! Goddam shit!"
Stan's raging voice and the sudden braking of the car yanked Al from the edge of a doze. A few beers, nice warm sunlight... he'd been on his way to catching a Z or two. He opened his eyes.
To, what the fu—"
Then he saw him. Or, rather, it. Dead ahead. Dead ahead. A body, hanging by its feet from a utility pole.
"Oh, shit," Kenny said from beside him. "Another one."
Jackie turned off the music. The sudden silence was creepy.
Al squinted at the body. "Who is it?"