"Yeah?" Stan said, smilin but lookin straight ahead. "Then what?
"Then we'll be fuckin heroes, man."
"Heroes to who? These Saab-drivin, gel-haired, sprout-chewin faggots hiding behind their crosses and garlic? You wanna be heroes to them, go ahead. But what happens when word of what you done gets out to the other bloodsuckers and they come a-knockin? What then? You know how many of them there is out there, man? Zillions. They'll come back with a truckload of those ferals and rip us all to shreds. That what you want, asshole?"
Sounded to Al like Stan had already given Kenny's idea some thought and had shit-canned it.
Kenny said, "Hey, no, but—"
"Then shut the fuck up. And leave the cow alone."
Kenny pulled his hand away from the blonde and sat on it.
"Jesus, guys. It's been a long time. I need some."
"Hey, I need some too," Al told him. "But I ain't ready yet to get killed for a little pregnant poontang, know what I mean?"
Stan said, "Look at it this way. We gotta take some shit now and then, but you know anybody else got it better? We hold the fort, man. We hold the fort for them till we get to join up." He grinned. "Then we'll have assholes holding the fort for us."
Stan seemed to think that was real funny. He laughed about the rest of the way into Lakewood.
CAROLE . . .
Sister Carole finished her prayers at sundown and went to check on the cooled filtrate. The bottom of the pan was layered with potassium chlorate crystals. Potent stuff. The Germans had used it in their grenades and land mines during World War One.
She got a clean Mr. Coffee filter and poured the contents of the pan through it, but this time she saved the residue in the filter and let the liquid go down the drain.
<Lookit after what you're doing now, Carole! You're a sick woman! SICK! You've got to be stopping this and praying to God for guidance! Pray, Carole! PRAY!>
Sister Carole ignored the voice and spread out the crystals in the now-empty pan. She set the oven on LOW and placed the pan on the middle rack. She had to get all the moisture out of the potassium chlorate before it would be of any use to her.
So much trouble, and so dangerous. If only her searches had yielded some dynamite, even a few sticks, everything would have been so much easier. She'd searched everywhere—hunting shops, gun stores, construction sites. She'd found lots of other useful items, but no dynamite. Only some blasting caps. She no choice but to improvise.
This was her third batch. She'd been lucky so far. She hoped she survived long enough to get a chance to use it.
GREGOR . . .
"You've outdone yourselves this time, boys."
Gregor stared at the three cowboys. Ordinarily he found it doubly difficult to be near them. Not simply because the crimson thirst made a perpetual test of proximity to a living font of hot, pulsing sustenance when he'd yet to feed, urging him to let loose and tear into their throats; but also because these four were so common, such low-lifes.
Gregor couldn't wait until he was moved up and would no longer be forced to deal directly with flotsam such as these. Living collaborators were a necessary evil, but that didn't mean he had to like them.
Tonight, however, he could almost say that he enjoyed their presence. He'd been unhappy about the news of a fifth slain cowboy, but was ecstatic with the prizes they had brought with them.
He had shown up shortly after sundown at the customary meeting place outside St. Anthony's church. Of course, it didn't look much like a church now, what with all the crosses broken off. He'd found the scurvy trio waiting for him as usual, but they had with them a small boy and—dare he believe his eyes—a pregnant woman. His knees had gone weak at the double throb of life within her.
"Where's your companion?" he asked. "The woman?"
"Jackie's not feeling so hot so we left her home," said the one in the cowboy hat.
What was his name? So many of these roaches to keep track of. This one was called Stan. Yes, that was it.
"Well, I'm extremely proud of all of you."
"We thought you'd appreciate it," Stan said.
Gregor felt his grin grow even wider.
"Oh, I do. Not just for the succulence of the prizes you've delivered, but because you've vindicated my faith in you. I knew the minute I saw you that you'd make a good posse leader."
An outright lie. But it cost him nothing to heap the praise on Stan, and perhaps it would spur him to do as well next time. Maybe better. Although what could be better than this?
"Anything for the cause," the redheaded one said.
The one with the spiked dark hair—Al, Gregor remembered—gave his partner a poisonous look, as if he wanted to kick him for being such a boot-lick.
"And your timing could not be better," Gregor told them. "We have a special guest visiting from New York." He didn't mention that she was here because someone was exterminating their fellow slugs. "I will present this gravid cow to her as a gift. She will be enormously pleased."
At least Gregor hoped so. He was relying on the gift to take the edge off her reaction when she learned that another cowboy was dead.
"Is that the lady I saw you with last night?"
Al's words startled Gregor. Had this cowboy been spying on him? He felt his lips pulling back, baring his fangs.
"When was this?"
Al took half a step back. "When we was driving away after droppin off that old lady. I saw her like come up behind you."
Gregor relaxed. "Yes, that was her. These gifts will be good for me. And trust me, what is good for me will eventually prove to be good for you. I won't forget your efforts."
Pardy true. The little boy would go to the local nest leader who'd been pastor of St. Anthony's during his life and had a taste for young boys. The priest had become the de facto leader of Gregor's local get. Over the decades Gregor had noted that the newly turned took to the undead existence with varying degrees of aptitude. Father Palmeri seemed a natural. He'd adapted to his new circumstances with amazing gusto. Perhaps zeal was a better term. Some people, one might say, were born to be undead.
He'd save the boy for tomorrow since the priest already had a bloodsource lined up for tonight. The pregnant female would indeed go to Olivia. But the rest was a laugh. As soon as Gregor was moved out of here, he'd never give these walking heaps of human garbage another thought.
But he smiled as he turned away.
"As always, may your night be bountiful."
CAROLE . . .
A little after sundown, Sister Carole removed the potassium chlorate crystals from the oven. She poured then into a bowl and then gently, carefully, began to grind them down to a fine power. This was the touchiest part of the process. A little too much friction, a sudden shock, and the bowl would blow up in her face.
<You'd like that, wouldn't you, Carole. Sure, and you'll be thinking that would solve all your problems. Well, it won't, Carole. It will merely start your REAL problems! It will send you straight to HELL!>
Sister Carole made no reply as she continued the grinding. When the powder was sifted through a four-hundred-mesh screen, she spread it onto the bottom of the pan again and placed it back in the oven to remove the last trace of moisture. While that was heating she began melting equal parts wax and Vaseline, mixing them in a small Pyrex bowl.
When the mix had reached a uniform consistency she dissolved it in some camp stove gasoline. She removed the potassium chlorate powder from the oven and stirred in three percent aluminum powder to enhance the flash effect. Then she poured the Vaseline-wax-gasoline solution over the powder. She slipped on rubber gloves and began stirring and kneading everything together until she had a uniform, gooey mess. This went on the windowsill to cool and to speed the evaporation of the gasoline.