"Then get help. But get it down!"
"We'll get guns too! We can—"
"No! I want him! I want that priest alive! I want him for myself! Anyone who kills him will suffer a very painful, very long and lingering true death! Is that clear? "
It was clear. They scurried away without answering. Palmeri went to gather the other members of the nest.
JOE . . .
Dressed in a cassock and a surplice, Joe came out of the sacristy and approached the altar. He noticed Zev keeping watch at one of the windows. He didn't tell him how ridiculous he looked carrying the shotgun Carl had brought back. He held it so gingerly, as if it was full of nitroglycerin and would explode if he jiggled it.
Zev turned and smiled when he saw him.
"Now you look like the old Father Joe we all used to know,"
Joe gave him a little bow and proceeded toward the altar. Lacey waved with her revolver from the other side of the nave where she stood guard by the side door. She'd put on her black leather jacket and looked ready for anything.
All right: He had everything he needed. He had the Missal they'd found in among the pew debris earlier today. He had the wine—Carl had brought back about four ounces of sour red babarone. He'd found the smudged surplice and dusty cassock on the floor of one of the closets in the sacristy, and he wore them now. No hosts, though. A crust of bread left over from breakfast would have to do. No chalice, either. If he'd known he was going to be saying Mass he'd have come prepared. As a last resort he'd used the can opener in the rectory to remove the top of one of the Pepsi cans from lunch. Quite a stretch from the gold chalice he'd used since his ordination, but probably more in line with what Jesus had used at that first Mass—the Last Supper.
He was uncomfortable with the idea of weapons in St. Anthony's but saw no alternative. He and Zev knew nothing about guns, and Carl knew little more; they'd probably do more damage to themselves than to the Vichy if they tried to use them. Only Lacey seemed at ease with her pistol. Joe hoped that just the sight of the weaponry might make the Vichy hesitate, slow them down. All he needed was a little time here, enough to get to the consecration.
This is going to be the most unusual Mass in history, he thought.
But he was going to get through it if it killed him. And that was a real possibility. This might well be his last Mass. But he wasn't afraid. He was too excited to be afraid. He'd had a slug of the Scotch—just enough to ward off the shakes—but it had done nothing to quell the buzz of the adrenaline humming along every nerve in his body.
He spread everything out on the white tablecloth he'd taken from the rectory and used to cover the filthy altar. He looked at Carl.
"Ready?"
Carl nodded and stuck the automatic pistol he'd been examining into his belt.
"Been awhile, Fadda. We did it in Latin when I was a kid, but I think I can swing it."
"Just do your best and don't worry about any mistakes."
Some Mass. A defiled altar, a crust for a host, a Pepsi can for a chalice, a sixty-year-old, pistol-packing altar boy, and a congregation consisting of a lesbian atheist and a rabbi.
Joe looked heavenward.
You do understand, don't you, Lord, that all this was arranged on short notice?
Time to begin.
He read the Gospel but dispensed with the homily. He tried to remember the Mass as it used to be said, to fit in better with Carl's outdated responses.
As he was starting the Offertory the front doors flew open and a group of men entered—ten of them, all with crescent moons dangling from their ears. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Zev move away from the window toward the altar, pointing his shotgun at them.
As soon as they entered the nave and got past the broken pews, the Vichy fanned out toward the sides. They began pulling down the Stations of the Cross, ripping Carl's makeshift crosses from the walls and tearing them apart.
Carl looked up at Joe from where he knelt, his eyes questioning, his hand reaching for the pistol in his belt. Lacey didn't look at him at all. She acted on her own.
"Stop right there!"
She held her pistol straight out before her, arms rigid. Joe saw the barrel wobble. She might be tough, he thought, but she's only twenty-five. And she's only got two rounds.
But the Vichy didn't know that. They stopped their forward progress and tried to stare her down.
"You can't get all of us," one said.
Zev worked the pump on the shotgun. The sound echoed through the church. "That's right. She can't."
He sounded a lot tougher than Joe knew he was. He hoped the Vichy were fooled.
Maybe they were. They looked at each other but didn't back off. A stand-off was good enough for now. Joe nodded and kept up with the Offertory.
Then he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. One of the Vichy had ducked through the side door behind Lacey. He carried a raised two-by-four.
"Lacey!" Zev cried. "Behind—!"
She whirled, ducking, pistol raised, but the Vichy had the jump on her. The two-by-four glanced off the side of her head and slammed into her forearm. She dropped the gun and went down. But not before landing a vicious kick on the inside of his knee. He staggered back, howling with pain while Lacey, cradling her injured arm, jumped up and scrambled toward the altar.
The Vichy cheered and went on with their work. They split—one group continuing to pull down Carl's crosses, the other swarming around and behind the altar.
Joe chanced a quick glance over his shoulder and saw them begin their attack on the newly repaired crucifix.
"Zev!" Carl said in a low voice, cocking his head toward the Vichy. "Stop em!"
"I'm warning you," Zev said and pointed the shotgun.
Joe heard the activity behind him come to a sudden halt. He braced himself for the blast. . .
But it never came.
He looked at Zev. The old man met his gaze and sadly shook his head. He couldn't do it. To the accompaniment of the sound of renewed activity and derisive laughter behind him, Joe gave Zev a tiny nod of reassurance and understanding, then hurried the Mass toward the Consecration.
As he held the crust of bread aloft, he started at the sound of the life-size crucifix crashing to the floor, cringed as he heard the freshly buttressed arms and crosspiece being torn away again.
As he held the wine aloft in the Pepsi can, the swaggering, grinning Vichy surrounded the altar and brazenly tore the cross from around his neck. Zev, Lacey, and Carl put up struggles to keep theirs but were overpowered. The Vichy wound up with Carl's gun too.
And then Joe's skin began to crawl as a new group entered the nave. They numbered about twenty, all undead. He faced them from behind the altar as they approached. His gut roiled at the familiar faces he spotted among the throng.
But the one who caught and held his attention was the one leading them.
Alberto Palmeri.
PALMERI . . .