Here, on his own, would he ever understand what he'd become? Was there anyone else like him on earth? He doubted it. He was sui generis.
The quote, Alone and afraid in a world he never made, trailed through his head. Whoever wrote that hadn't been thinking of Joe Cahill, but could have been.
Joe watched the watcher through the night. When the sky started to lighten, the Vichy slunk away from the tree and started walking south. Pistol in hand, the man kept to the center of the street, looking wary. Dear Carole, all on her own, had filled their rotten hearts with terror.
Joe paralleled his path, traveling through the backyards of the deserted houses lining the street, catching only occasional glimpses of him between the buildings, but that was enough.
Although Joe's was a much more difficult route, hopping fences and ducking through hedges, he felt no sense of exertion. He wasn't even breathing hard.
He stopped as he realized with a start that he wasn't breathing at all. He had to take in air in order to talk, but otherwise he didn't need to breathe. No blood, no respiration—what was powering his body? He didn't know, might never know.
He'd lost ground on the Vichy and hurried to catch up. The task of tailing him became dicier as he entered the business district. Too open, with no cover. Joe had to settle for huddling in a doorway and watching him. After what Lacey had told him about her abduction, he had a good idea of where the man was headed.
Sure enough, the Vichy stopped before the Post Office where he met with another pair of his kind.
And then, out of the shadows, a group of undead, seven males and a female, appeared as a group. Joe couldn't make out their faces from this distance. He couldn't hear their words, either, but he saw a lot of shaking heads and tense, unhappy postures.
He was more sure now than ever that they'd been searching for him.
With the arrival of another trio of Vichy, the first three left. The second three took up guard positions as all eight undead trudged up the Post Office steps. Joe noticed that six of the males clustered around the female while a lone male brought up the rear. Something familiar about that solitary figure, but Joe couldn't place it.
No time to think about it either. He broke into a run. Dawn was coming and he had to race the sun to the beach.
- 10 -
CAROLE . . .
Soon.
Carole sat on the bungalow's tiny rear deck and watched the sun's lazy fall toward the horizon. A beautiful end to the day. She might have enjoyed it but for the adrenaline buzzing through her.
A good day ... as good as could be expected. In these times, a good day was when nothing unusually ugly occurred.
Joseph had made it home just after sunrise. Before dropping into a deathlike sleep in the rear bedroom, he'd spoken into the cassette recorder Carole and Lacey had looted from the Radio Shack.
Was it really looting? she wondered. Did taking something from a store that was never going to reopen make you a looter? It seemed like a silly thing to worry about, but she did.
When Carole had asked Lacey what she thought, she'd replied, "Who gives a shit?"
Maybe Carole needed to adopt more of that attitude.
Carole had returned to the church this morning and, when no one was watching, left the recorder on the front steps. It seemed to take forever, but eventually someone found it and played it for the congregation.
Cheers and tears—that was the only way Carole could describe the reaction. At least initially. It took a while for the anger to set in, but when it came it was fierce. The undead and their collaborators had tried to turn their Father Joe. A craven, cowardly, backstabbing act. The anger bound the parishioners even more closely. They'd stay on and fight harder. To the death if need be.
Carole tried to draw strength from the memory of their boisterous resolve. For soon she would have to do what she and Lacey had discussed. Part of her hummed with anticipation while an equal part recoiled.
Joseph had awakened a short while ago. He and Lacey were inside, talking. The indistinguishable murmur of their voices drifted through the open glass door, mixing with the thrum of the waves and the calls of the gulls.
Her heart kicked up its tempo as their voices faded. That meant that they were heading for the front bedroom.
Soon ...too soon . . .
"Okay."
Carole jumped and turned at the sound of Lacey's voice.
"Now?"
How inane. Of course now. That was why Lacey was here.
Carole rose unsteadily. Did she have the nerve for this?
Lacey pressed the steak knife into her hand. "He's waiting."
Carole nodded, took the knife, and headed for the bedroom. When she reached the alcove she hesitated. She wiped a sweaty palm on the pants of her sweatsuit, then forced herself forward.
I can do this, she thought. I must do this.
Joe was sitting on the bed, head down, hands clasped between his knees, looking like a man on death row. He didn't look up as she entered.
"Okay," he said, his voice hoarse. "Let's get this over—" He must have sensed something. His head snapped up. "Carole? Sorry. I was expecting Lacey."
Her tongue felt like flannel. "It won't be Lacey today."
Before he could understand, before he could protest, Carole clenched her teeth and jabbed the point of the knife into the center of her palm. She suppressed a gasp of pain as the blade pierced her skin.
"No!" Joseph was on his feet. "No, don't!"
"It's already done," she said.
"Carole, I can't." He backed away a step. "Not you."
She held out her hand, cupping her palm to hold the pooling blood.
"Yes. Me. It's only fair. I don't want to be left out."
That wasn't quite the way Lacey had put it last night after Joseph had left so abruptly. She'd said that if the three of them were going to work together, be a team, then they'd have to act and feel like a team. "One for all and all for one, and all that shit," she'd said.
Which meant they had to feel at ease with each other, and that would never happen unless someone broke through the wall of shame that had sprung up between Carole and her uncle. Joseph couldn't do it. Only Carole had the power.
Lacey had known one sure way for Carole to break through. It was radical, she'd warned, something her uncle would balk at—and Carole wouldn't be too crazy about it either—but it had to be done.
Joseph was shaking his head, his mouth working but saying nothing. She could read no expression in his scarred face, but his eyes looked terrified.
Still cupping her hand, Carole sat on the bed. She placed the knife beside her and tugged on his sleeve.