He grabbed Joe's shoulder and pushed him down the hall. "Enough philosophizing. "

As they moved on, Franco said, "I want to explain something to you, and I want you to listen. I want you to understand this. By now you've probably noticed that there are different kinds of undead, different strains or breeds."

Joe had, but he said nothing.

"There's a hierarchy among us. No one can explain it—it's as inexplicable as our lack of reflection or where my wings come from when I want to fly— but it's there. It's as if the strain gets tainted or attenuated the further it moves from its source. My immediate get—the ones I turn—retain almost all of their intelligence; but their get retain a little less, and the get of those retain even less. And so on down the line through the generations of get until. . . until we are begetting idiots. But intelligence isn't all that is lost along the way. Human characteristics leach away as well. The distant generations of get become more and more bestial until they're like two-legged rabid dogs. We call them ferals."

Ferals ... Franco had mentioned them in connection with the assault on Washington.

"Why are you telling me this?" Joe said. "Why should I care?"

"You should care very much. After all, we're discussing your future." He stopped before a door. "We're here."

Joe saw an AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY sign set below a small window.

"Take a look. Tell me what you see."

Joe stepped up to the glass and peered through. He saw a dimly lit space filled with pipes and large oval tanks.

"Looks like a boiler room."

"Keep looking. See anything else. Something moving, perhaps?"

The note of glee in Franco's tone made Joe's skin crawl. He searched the shadow but didn't see—

Wait. To the right. Something there, moving from the deeper shadows into the wan light of an overhead bulb. It looked like a man yet it moved like an animal, on its toes, hunched forward, fingers bent like claws. As it came under the bulb Joe saw that it was a man, or had been. Naked, filthy, face twisted into a perpetual snarl, eyes mad and . . . feral.

"Dear God!"

"God has nothing to do with Devlin there—Jason Devlin, a young, handsome software developer on his way up until a few months ago when he was run down in the basement of the Flatiron Building and killed by a feral. The feral neglected to behead him, and so Mr. Devlin awoke the following sunset as one of us—as an undead. For a few days he looked like his old self, but then he began to devolve. Remember what I told you about the bloodline weakening, attenuating. He was turned by a feral, and so he became a feral, only more so. He's one of my line, my most distant get, so I suppose I must claim him as related to me."

"How do you know?"

"Oh, I know. We always recognize our get. I keep him around for entertainment. And as an extra stick to keep the serfs in line. I threaten to feed them to Devlin if they slack off on their duties. That's about all Devlin is good for now. He didn't retain enough intelligence to distinguish between friend and foe, which means he'd be attacking serfs as well as legitimate prey, so I can't even use him as a guard dog."

Franco tapped on the window and the creature burst into motion, leaping at the door with blinding speed, screaming and clawing at the glass. Joe almost tripped backpedaling away.

"Look at me, priest," Franco said. "Look at me and listen. Remember when you said you'd never be like me? Didn't you wonder why I agreed? It's because when you look at Devlin you are seeing your future. I'm going to let Devlin turn you."

Joe couldn't speak, could only shake his head and back away, thinking, no ... no ... this can't be true ... this can't happen ... to be like that thing, that creature, that monster .. . forever .. . no .. .

"Ah!" Franco said with a grin. "That's what I've been waiting for. That look of doomed horror, the realization that your darkest nightmare is about to come true. Where is your arrogance now, priest?"

"No," Joe whispered as he found his voice. "God, no, please!"

"That's right. Pray to your god. Beg him like so many before you. But He's not going to help you. In less than two weeks you'll be just like Devlin, only a little less intelligent, a little more bestial. Won't that be an inspiration to your parishioners? But before you're too far gone, you'll have a talk with the charming undead woman I've placed in charge of your area. You'll fill Olivia in on all the details of your little vigilante operation, and then you'll be sent back to prey upon your parishioners." I won t!

"Oh, but you will. And you'll take the most trusting, the most devoted first, because they'll be the easiest. Isn't this a coup? Isn't this so much better than killing you? If you simply died, you'd be a martyr, a rallying point. But this way, you're still around, and you've turned against them. You are feeding on them! Imagine how they'll feel. If you're lucky you won't survive long. I'm suspecting they'll gather together and stake you—for your own good. And theirs, of course. And then where will that leave them besides sick at heart and demoralized? Where will they be after killing their beloved Father Joe? Why, they'll go back to where they were before you came. Hiding, waiting for the inevitable."

"No! What's been started is bigger than one man! They know now they can fight you, and they'll keep on fighting you!"

Franco put his hand on the door handle. "Well, we'll just have to see about that, won't we."

He pushed the lever down and shoved the door inward. "Bon appetit, Devlin."

Joe turned and ran, sprinting down the hall, looking for an unlocked door. He heard a howl behind him as he tried the first one he came to—locked. Without looking back he leaped across the hall to the next. The knob turned, the door swung inward—a chance!—and then he was struck from behind with unimaginable force. It drove him through the doorway and into the room where he went down under a growling fury made flesh. He tried to fight back but the savagery of the claws and fangs tearing at his flesh, ripping at his throat overcame him. He felt his skin tear, felt hot fluid gush over his chin and chest, heard an awful guzzling, lapping noise as something fed off him. He tried to rise, to throw it off but he had no strength. He felt his mind growing cold, the world growing distant, life becoming a dream, a receding memory. Joe saw one last flash of light, intolerably bright and then all was darkness and nothingness . . .

- 7 -

CAROLE . . .

Unable to sleep, Carole sat at the window, watching the night, waiting for the dawn that was still hours away. Returning to the convent, to this room, her room, the room where she'd had to kill Bernadette . .. sleep was unthinkable. Even if it weren't, her bed was occupied.

Lacey, poor thing, had collapsed when she'd heard that Father Joe was missing. A couple of the male parishioners had helped carry her here—Carole had emptied her wagon and carried her duffel and her personal items herself, afraid to let anyone else near them.

They'd placed her on Carole's bed. What an ordeal Lacey had suffered tonight. Carole had gleaned a few details from her jumbled jabber on the way to the church and had shut her ears to the rest. And then to learn that her uncle had disappeared while searching for her. It was more than anyone should have to bear.

When was it going to end?

She waited, expecting to hear Bernadette's voice shout an answer, but the voice was silent. Carole hadn't heard from it since she'd reentered the convent.

She looked at Lacey, curled into a fetal position under the blanket. Father Joe's niece. She hadn't quite believed her, but the way she'd been greeted by the parishioners had left little doubt. Some of them had even recognized Carole. She'd been uncomfortable with their joy at knowing she was still alive, especially uncomfortable with their earnest questions about how she had managed to survive and how she'd been spending her time. She couldn't tell them, couldn't tell anyone.