Read F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 for Free Online Page B

           Something
howled again. Closer.
                 She
had to get back inside, but she couldn't leave Bern out here.
                 Swiftly
she returned to Bernadette's side, worked her hands through the grass under her
back and knees, and lifted her into her arms. She staggered under the weight.
Dear Lord, for such a thin woman she was heavy.
                 Carole
carried Bernadette back to the convent as fast as her rubbery legs would allow.
Once inside, she bolted the door, then tried to carry her up the steep
stairway. She stopped on the third step. She'd intended to take Bern 's body back to her room, but who knew when
the poor girl would be buried?
                 Might
be days. And the second floor got warm during the day. Better to lay her out in
the cellar where it was cooler.
                 With
Bernadette in her arms she struggled down the narrow stairwell to the cellar,
almost falling twice along the way. She stretched her out on an old couch. She
straightened Bern 's thin legs, crossed her hands over her blood-splattered chest, and
arranged her torn nightgown and raincoat around her as best she could. She
adjusted the wimple on her head. Then she ran up to Bernadette's room and
returned with her bedspread. She draped her from head to toe, then knelt beside
her.
                 Looking
down at that still form under the quilt she had helped Bernadette make, Carole
sagged against the couch and began to cry. She tried to say a requiem prayer
but her grief-racked mind had lost the words. So she sobbed aloud and asked God
why? How could He let this happen to a dear, sweet innocent who had wished only
to spend her life serving Him? WHY?
                 But
no answer came.
                 When
Carole finally controlled her tears, she forced herself to her weary feet and
made her way back to the main floor. When she saw the light on in the front
foyer, she knew she should turn it off. She stepped over the still form of
Rosita under the blood-soaked blanket. Two violent deaths here on the church
grounds, a place devoted to God. How many more beyond these grounds?
                 She
knew she should carry Rosita to the basement as well, but lacked the strength—of
either will or body.
                 Tomorrow
. .. first thing tomorrow morning, Rosita. I promise.
                 She
turned off the light and raced through the dark back up to her own room where
she huddled shivering in her bed.
                  
                 CAROLE
. . .
                  
                 Carole
awoke in a cold sweat. Good Friday again. How many times must she relive that
night?
                 She
pushed herself up from the mattress and stumbled to the bathroom. She poured an
inch of water from the tap into a glass and drank it down. Didn: t want to risk
drinking too much without boiling it first.
                 At
least the water was still running. Was that the vampires' doing? Carole
wouldn't be surprised. Water was one of the necessities of life. It seemed to
her the vampires wanted a certain number of the living to survive, but not to
communicate. Which would explain why the electricity and the telephones went
out that first weekend. Keep people isolated and insulated from any message of
hope.
                 She
found her way back to the bed and buried her head under the pillow. She needed
sleep—dreamless sleep that would allow her to wake up refreshed instead of
exhausted. She didn't want to dream of Good Friday again, or worse, the
following day . . . the worst day of her life.
                  
                 HOLY
SATURDAY . . .
                  
                 Carole
awoke to the wail of sirens. She sat up in bed, blinking in the morning light.
                 A
dream . . . please, God, show me that