"I don't realize any such thing."
"Hey, Unk," she said, her grip tightening on his arm. "We're only a hundred people and there are millions of them. They've got Europe, the Middle East, India, and most of Asia."
"But they haven't got the U.S. They hold the East Coast but the rest of the country is still alive."
"How can you be sure?"
"I was talking to one of the newcomers this morning. His name's Gerald Vance and he's got a battery-powered shortwave radio. He told me he's been talking to people all over the country. Philadelphia's gone but Harrisburg and Pittsburgh have only seen an occasional vampire. Same with Rochester. Atlanta fell but Alabama's fine. The Midwest and the West Coast are still in the hands of the living. So you see, it's not over."
Lacey looked away. "After seeing what's happened to the rest of the world, you could argue that it's just a matter of time."
Joe lowered his voice. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't talk like that. Last night was the first good thing that's happened to these people in a long time, so if you don't mind ..."
Lacey held up a hand. "Okay. 'Never is heard a discouraging word.' But if that's true about the rest of the country, then instead of staying here maybe we should be thinking about throwing a convoy together and heading west."
Joe shook his head. He'd already thought of that.
"We're being watched. We start to assemble dozens of cars, they'll know what we're planning. They'll be waiting for us. We'll be sitting ducks on the road."
He'd seen it play out in his mind's eye. He'd envisioned a line of cars racing down Route 70 at dawn. But he'd also envisioned a Vichy roadblock, gunfire, bloodshed, disabled cars, the convoy stalled, blocked fore and aft, the sun going down, and then . . . massacre.
"We've got a better chance here. I told Vance to get on his radio and spread the word of what we're doing here. Maybe it will spur others to do the same. Right now we've set a fire. If we remain the only bonfire, I agree: we're doomed. But if we can start a trend, inspire a hundred, a thousand fires along the coast, we'll no longer be the center of attention. We might have a chance."
Lacey was nodding. "And if the rest of the country gets the message that there is hope, that resistance is not futile ..." She grinned and raised her fist. "I always wanted to be a revolutionary."
"Well, you're going to get your wish." Joe yawned. When was the last time he'd slept? "My wish is for forty winks."
"Why don't you bed down for a while in the rectory? You catch your forty while I take some people over to that office building and check it out. We'll see how we can divide it up for living arrangements."
Joe stared at her. Where did she get her energy?
"Aren't you tired?"
She shrugged. "I've never needed much sleep. Besides, I had a nap."
"When?"
She smiled. "While you were saying Mass."
Joe sighed. "When are you going to face facts and admit—?"
"Hush." She put a finger to her lips. "I'm still not on board, but we'll argue about this some other time. Right now, there's too much work to do."
Joe watched her stride off, thinking that whoever said there are no atheists in foxholes obviously hadn't met Lacey.
LACEY . . .
Lacey gazed out the window at the lengthening shadows and rubbed her burning eyes.
Tired. She hadn't found time for another nap yet. All she needed was twenty minutes and she'd be good for hours more of activity.
Her uncle and the rest were in the process of working out a sleep schedule, assigning shifts. Some of them were going to have to live undead style, sleeping in the day, up all night, while others would keep a more normal schedule.
Lacey figured she'd volunteer for the undead shift since she tended to be a night person anyway.
She turned away from the window and checked out the room behind her. The desks had been pushed into a corner and a mattress and box spring placed in the center of the floor. Not fancy but functional, and a helluva lot more comfortable than trying to sleep on the church's stone floor.
She stretched her aching muscles. A good workout today, driving pickup trucks to the furniture stores, hauling bedding back, and lugging it up the steps to the upper floors. Toward the end of the afternoon she would have given anything for a generator to power up the elevator.
Back to the window for another look at the grand old Victorian next door. Janey had been so into Victorians, dragging Lacey around the city, pointing out this Second Empire and that Italianate until she'd caught the bug too. They'd planned someday to come down to Asbury Park, buy a place like the three-story affair next door and renovate it, dress it up like those fabulous painted ladies they'd salivated over on their trip to San Francisco last year.
Lacey felt a lump grow in her throat. Janey . . . they'd had such good times together ... the best years of her life. She missed her. Losing her had left an cavity where she'd once had a heart.
Where are you, Janey? What did they do to you?
Lacey knew in that instant which building she wanted added next to Uncle Joe's "compound."
Why not suggest it to him now?
She ducked into the hall and started down the stairwell, only to have to back up to allow a couple of the parish men to pass with a queen-size mattress.
"I'm heading over to the church to see Father Joe," she told them.
"Give us a minute and I'll escort you back," said a red-faced, heavyset man in a plaid shirt.
Lacey waved him off. "Don't be silly. It's a hundred feet away. And the street's blocked."
Probably just wants a break from all the lifting and hauling, she thought as she stepped outside.
She checked up and down the street. Nothing moving. No one in sight.
As she started across the street she glanced again at the old house and figured, why not check it out first? If it wasn't habitable—say, a big hole in the roof or something like that—why waste her time?
But she wasn't going in there alone. No way. She'd seen enough horror movies to know you don't go into empty houses alone when there are bad guys about.
She looked around, saw a short, muscular guy in a sleeveless T-shirt crossing the street, heading from the church toward the office building. What was his name? Enrico. Yeah, that was it.
"Hey, Enrico. Want to help me check out this place next door? See if we can move people in there?"
"Sure," he said, grinning. "Let's go."
She waited for him to catch up, then together they headed for the front steps and climbed onto the porch. She tried the door, hoping it was unlocked—she hated the thought of breaking one of those old windows to get in—and smiled as the latch yielded to the pressure of her thumb. All right!
Enrico hung in the living room while Lacey hurried through the cool, dark, silent interior. The decor was not authentically Victorian—nowhere near cramped and cluttered enough—but the place hadn't been vandalized. The two upper floors held five small bedrooms and one larger master bedroom, all furnished with beds and dressers. The couch in the first-floor sun room could sleep another, once all the dead house plants were removed.
Perfect, she thought, feeling the best she had all day. This is a definite keeper. And I've got first dibs on the master bedroom.
She came down the main staircase—the house had a rear servants' stairway as well, running to and from the kitchen—and found the living room empty.
"Enrico?"
Maybe he'd done a little exploring on his own. She headed for the kitchen and stopped cold when she saw a pair of feet jutting toes-up from behind a counter. She wanted to run but knew she had to check. She hurried forward, took a look at the kitchen carving knife jutting from Enrico's bloody chest, at his dead, glazed eyes staring at the ceiling, then spun and ran.