F Wilson - Midnight Mass

F. PAUL WILSON

MIDNIGHT MASS

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

MIDNIGHT MASS

Copyright © 2004 by F. Paul Wilson

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Edited by David H. Hartwell

Book design by Milenda Nan Ok Lee

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

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New York, NY 10010

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Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Wilson, F. Paul (Francis Paul)

Midnight Mass / F. Paul Wilson.—1st ed.

p. cm. "A Tom Doherty Associates book." ISBN 0-765-30705-7 EAN 978-0765-30705-7

1. Vampires—Fiction. 2. New Jersey—Fiction. 3. New York (N.Y)—Fiction. 4. Clergy-Fiction. 5. Rabbis—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3573.I45695M53 2004 813'.54—dc22

2003065048

First Edition: April 2004

Printed in the United States of America

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Midnight Mass was born out of my dissatisfaction with the tortured romantic aesthetes who have been passing lately for vampires. Stephen King gave us the real deal in 'Salem's Lot, but what gives since then? I wanted to get back to the roots—go retro, if you will—and write about the soulless, merciless, parasitic creatures we all knew and loved.

My premise going in was that all the legends about the undead were true: they feared crosses, were killed by sunlight (all right, I'm told that one originated with F. W. Murnau's Nosferatu, so it's not really legend, but it has become part of the lore), were burned by holy water and crucifixes, cast no reflection, etcetera. You know them as well as I do.

I also adopted the position that all the Catholic Church's mythology is true as well. Vampire lore has been inextricably entwined with Catholic imagery. I was raised a Catholic and, though now in recovery, I feel very much at home with its icons.

Then I took Ted Sturgeon's advice and started asking the next question. The mythic power of the cross over the undead led me to a concept I'd touched on in The Keep, and I decided to explore it further.

I've known since I began writing in the early 1970s that some day I'd have to do one, so here it is: my vampire novel. (No, The Keep was a pseudovampire novel. This one's the real deal.)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Kim Newman for allowing me to borrrow his usage of the word "get" as it pertains to vampires and those they've transformed into their own kind (though I've burdened the concept with more plot weight here). There are equivalent terms in the language, but certainly none with such a perfect Old World feel. If you haven't read Kim's wonderful Anno Dracula novels, you are missing a rare treat.

And, of course, a special nod to Richard Matheson, who first tilled this soil with I Am Legend.

- 1 -

ZEV . . .

Gasping in horror and revulsion, Zev Wolpin stumbled away from St. Anthony's Church. He stretched his arms before him, reaching into the dark for something, anything, to support him before he fell.

Leaves slapped his face, twigs tugged at his graying beard as he plowed into foliage. His bike.. . where was his bike? He thought he'd left it in a clump of bushes, but obviously not this clump. Had to find it, had to get away from this place. But the dark made him disoriented ... the dark, and what he'd just witnessed.

He'd heard whispers, stories he couldn't, wouldn't, believe, so he'd come to see for himself, to prove them wrong. Instead .. .

Zev bent at the waist and retched. Nothing but a bubble of bile and acid came up, searing the back of his throat.

The whispers were only partly true. The truth was worse. The truth was unspeakable.

He straightened and looked around in the darkness. Wan light from the crescent moon in the cloud-streaked sky made the shadows deeper, and Zev feared the shadows. Then he spotted a curving glint of light from the chrome on his bike's front wheel. He ran to it, yanked it by the handlebars from its hiding place, and hopped on.

His aging knees protested as he pedaled away along dark and silent streets lined with dark and silent houses, heading south when he should have been going west, but away was all that mattered now.

Lakewood was a small town, maybe ten miles from the Atlantic Ocean; a place where the Rockefeller family was said to have vacationed. So it didn't matter much if he headed south or north, he wouldn't be far from the place he now called home. The town was once home to fifty thousand or more before the undead came. Now he'd be surprised if there were a thousand left. He'd heard it was the same all up and down the East Coast.

The exertion helped clear his mind. He had to be careful. Prudent he hadn't been. In fact, he'd been downright reckless tonight, venturing out after sundown and sneaking up on St. Anthony's. Schmuck! What had he been thinking? He prayed he didn't pay for it with his life. Or worse.

He shuddered at the thought of ending up the victim in a ceremony like the one he'd witnessed tonight. He had to find temporary shelter until dawn. Even then he wouldn't be safe, but at least there wouldn't be so many shadows.

The blue serge suit coat that had once fit rather snugly now hung loose on his half-starved frame and flapped behind him as he rode. He'd had to punch new holes in his belt to hold up the pants. He'd complained so often about not being able to lose weight. Nothing to it, really. Simply don't eat.

His ever-hungry stomach rumbled. How could it think of food after what he'd just seen?

A shadow passed over him.

A blast of cold dread banished any concern about his next meal. His aging neck protested as he glanced up at the sky, praying to see a cloud near the moon. But the glowing crescent sat alone in a clear patch of night.

No! Please! He increased his speed, his legs working like pistons against the pedals. Not a flying one!

Zev heard something like a laugh above and behind him. He ducked, all but pressing his face to the handlebars. Something swooped by, clawing at the back of his coat as it passed. Its grip slipped but the glancing impact was enough to disrupt Zev's balance. His front wheel wobbled, the bike tipped to the left and hit the curb, sending him flying.

Zev landed hard on his left shoulder, his lungs emptying with a grunt. His momentum carried him onto his back. What he saw circling above him made him forget his pain. He rolled over and struggled to his feet. He instinctively checked the yarmulke clipped to his thinning gray hair, then gripped the cross dangling from a string around his neck. That might save him in close quarters, but not from a creature that could swoop down from any angle. He felt like a field mouse under the cold gaze of a hawk.

He started running. He didn't know where he was going but knew he had to move. The bike was no good. He needed a tight space where his back was protected and he could use the cross to keep his attacker at bay. One of these houses, maybe. A basement, even a sewer drain—anyplace but out here in the open where—

"Here! Over here!"

A woman's voice, calling in a stage whisper to his left. Zev looked across an overgrown lawn, saw only a large tree, a pine of some sort with branches almost brushing the ground.

"Quick! In the tree!"

A trap maybe. A team this could be—a winged one driving prey into the arms of another on the ground. He'd never heard of anything like it, but that meant nothing.