F Wilson: Midnight Mass

"I love you," he murmured as he kissed her hair. "Always remember that. We—"

He stopped as he felt a lump between her shoulder blades, and another farther down near the small of her back. He knew what they were.

"Oh, God, Carole!" he whispered. "Don't ever push those buttons. I know they give you comfort, but I beg you, don't. Please don't."

He released her she stared at him with stricken eyes. "Only as a last resort," she told him. "Only when all hope is gone."

"Then I pray that moment never comes." He turned and hugged Lacey. "My favorite niece," he said. "One of my favorite people in the whole world. Just remember: if anything happens to me, you and Carole get these tapes to the unoccupied territories."

Lacey backed away and gave him a strange look. "Why do you keep saying that? It's like you don't think you'll see us again."

"I might not. But I'm not what this is about. I'm expendable. If I can't make it back, you two must go on without me."

He couldn't tell them the truth. He turned to go.

"Wait," Carole said, holding a zipped-up backpack. "Don't forget this,"

He nodded and began slipping his arms through the straps as he ran for the elevators. The pack was hot against his back.

BARRETT . . .

Home from the night shift, James Barrett stepped into his Murray Hill brownstone and checked the long-pork filet he'd put in the refrigerator to thaw when he'd left at sunset. It had softened considerably but still had a ways to go.

He yawned. Christ, this was a boring way to live. Sleeping days, working nights. His internal clock couldn't seem to get used to it. Cooking was the only interesting thing in his life now, and even that was palling on him. Without fresh spices there were only so many ways you could cook human flesh. At least it was better than eating that slop they served the troops at Houlihan's day after day.

Not that he'd eat with the hoi polloi anyway. He needed to set himself apart, both in their eyes and in the undead's.

At least they'd had a little excitement last night with Neal getting killed and those two women stealing food from the kitchen. Neal wound up with the back of his head stove in. He was one tough mother. Barrett couldn't see a couple of women doing that. Must've had help.

He wondered if they were connected to the mess in the Lincoln tunnel. What if that hadn't been an accident?

He had put the cowboys on full alert tonight, stationed a couple of guards in Houlihan's, and sent out teams to look for someone, anyone who might be connected. They'd returned with a few stray cattle but no one who fit the cook's description.

He'd miss Neal. He was good for a laugh and for the application of a little muscle when Barrett gave him the go-ahead. But did he feel even a trace of sadness at his passing? They said when you were turned and rose as undead, you lost all your emotions. That would be a breeze for Barrett. He had no memory of feeling anything for anybody. Ever.

That was why his situation was so frustrating. He was already most of the way to undead. All he needed was the bite and he'd be there. If he could just—

His two-way squawked. Now what? Couldn't they do anything over there without him? He snatched it up.

"Yeah. Talk to me."

Nothing but faint static from the other end.

"Hey, you called. What do you want?"

Nothing again, then something that sounded like a groan, a very agonized groan.

"Hello? Who's there? What's going on?"

Again the groan, fainter this time, then nothing. Barrett tried to get a response but nothing came through. He tried calling the Security Center but no one picked up.

His chest tightened. Something was up. Remembering Neal's cracked dome, he stuck his Dirty Harry gun—his .44 Magnum—into his shoulder holster and hurried back to the Empire State.

JOE . . .

When Joe stepped out on the eightieth floor, instead of heading for the other bank of elevators to take him the last six floors to the Observation Deck, he looked around and found an exit door. He pushed through and climbed the stairs.

Outside the door marked 85 he looked around for the security camera. When he found it he waved, then reached for the handle.

A foul miasma of rot engulfed Joe when he opened the door. The stairwell was well lit but the space beyond the door was dark as a tomb.

How appropriate, he thought.

His night vision was extraordinary but it wasn't up to this, so he stepped through and found a light switch on the wall. The hallway was strewn with office furniture. He began searching room to room. The first two were filled with somnolent get-guards stretched out on mattresses and futons, but Franco was not among them. He looked down the hall and saw a form stretched out before a doorway. Could be a dead victim, but if it was a get-guard . . .

It was. That could only mean Franco was inside. Joe picked up the pistol and machete at the guard's side and tossed them down the hall. Then he tried the door. Locked. He reared back and kicked it in.

There, in the center of the otherwise empty room with boarded-up windows, a four-poster bed sat like a ship becalmed on a still dark sea.

And in that bed .. . Joe recognized the big blond hair and mustache, the sharp angle of the nose. A burst of fury like nothing he'd ever experience took hold of him. He wanted to run down the hallway, find that machete, and start hacking away at this worthless cluster of cells. But no killing blows. Just slicing off small pieces, one at a time . . .

Joe shook it off. These dark impulses were getting stronger. Had to stick to the plan.

"Franco!" he shouted as he stepped over the get-guard. "Franco, I've got something to show you!"

Franco lay on his back in gray silk suit pants and a glossy white, loose-sleeved shirt that reminded Joe of a woman's blouse. Slowly he pivoted his head toward Joe. His eyes widened in surprise as his lips formed the word, Who?

"We'll get to that in a minute."

He lifted the big vampire onto his shoulder, something that would have been a back-wrenching task a week ago; but now, with his semi-undead strength, he found it easy. Franco struggled but his movements were weak, futile. The get-guard at the door clutched at him as he passed but didn't have a prayer of restraining him.

Joe moved down the hall, kicking in each door he passed, shouting, "Hey! I've got your daddy and I'm going to send him to his final reward. Try and stop me!"

Back in the stairwell he started up the flight to the Observation Deck but stopped halfway. He put Franco down and let him slump on the concrete steps.

"Who are you?" Franco rasped.

"Am I that easy to forget?" Joe said. "It was only a week ago—a week ago today, as a matter of fact."

He heard something scrape against the concrete under Franco. He flipped him over and saw the leathery tips of his wings struggling to emerge through the slits in his shirt. Joe pulled off his backpack and unzipped it. Rays of bright white light shot from the opening.

Blinking in the glare, Joe reached in and found the foam-rubber padding Carole had duct-taped to the lower end of his silver cross. Even through the padding he felt its heat. Averting his eyes he pulled out the cross and slammed it against one of the emerging wings. A hiss of burning flesh, a puff of acrid smoke as Franco writhed and let out a hoarse scream. Then the other wing— with the same results.

He returned the cross to the back pack and zipped it. He blinked to regain his vision; when it cleared he looked down at Franco's back. The wing tips were now smoldering lumps of scar tissue. He turned as he heard the door from the eighty-fifth floor hallway swing open. Members of Franco's get-guard began to crawl into the stairwell.