They Thirst (64 page)

Wes turned toward the door. He thought he'd heard another sound at the center of the storm, a deep rumbling that seemed to shake the church.
What is this?
he thought.
An earthquake?
Now others had heard it, too, and for a moment absolute silence hung within the sanctuary. The rumbling intensified, became the muffled thunder of . .. machinery.

"That's an engine!" Wes said. He stood up painfully, moving past a knot of people near the door. As he hurriedly unbolted it, Silvera joined him, and together they looked out into an eye-stinging swirl of sand.

Blinding, white headlights were approaching very slowly. In another moment they could see a large, grayish green shape, a scoop pushing aside mountains of sand. It was some kind of military vehicle, and when it came to the gleaming metal hulk of an abandoned car, its massive treads reared up and over, smashing the car flat. Silvera could see wipers and spray working at a frantic pace across a high windshield. Printed across the driver's door was: United States Marines, Camp Pendleton, Ca.

Silvera stepped out into the storm and started waving his arms, oblivious to the sand lashing into his face. The vehicle, some sort of huge tractorlike troop carrier, hardly needed to veer toward the curb since it took up most of the street. Hydraulic brakes hissed, the most beautiful sound Silvera had ever heard. From behind the troop carrier another smaller vehicle, a jeeplike thing with an enclosed cab and large, solid rubber tires like those used on dune buggies, came up over the curb onto the sidewalk and stopped just in front of the priest. Two marines inside slipped gray hoods over their heads, covering their noses and mouths, and stepped out of the cab. One of them motioned toward the church and followed Silvera in.

"I'm Lieutenant Rutledge," the first marine said when they'd gotten inside. He took his hood off and shook the sand out of it. He was a tall man with regulation-cut brown hair and glacial blue eyes. Wes caught the glint of a .45 in a waist holster beneath his poplin jacket.

"Ramon Silvera," the priest said and shook his hand. "To say we're glad to see you would be quite an understatement."

"I'll bet," Rutledge said. He looked around the sanctuary quickly and returned his gaze to Silvera. "We've moved into the area from Camp Pendleton with about thirty-five tractors. Another fifty are on the way. We're evacuating as many as we can up to the Red Cross facilities at Crystal Lake. How many do you have here?"

"Fifty-eight," Silvera said.

Rutledge glanced back at the other marine, who Wes figured must be his driver. "That's pretty strange, sir," the lieutenant said. "In a six mile grid we've only found nine people. Just where
is
everybody?"

"Don't you know?" Silvera looked at him incredulously, feeling a ripple of dark laughter vibrate through him.

"No, sir. I'm afraid I don't..

Wes, who'd put on his shirt and dark brown leather jacket, glanced again at that .45 and moved away. He turned his back on them, his heart pounding, and walked toward the rear of the sanctuary. He knew he was going to have to be very careful because never in his entire life had he done anything like what he was about to try. He only knew that he needed
a
way to get up to that castle. He slipped through the door into the priest's meager living quarters.

"All right, everyone!" Silvera called out in Spanish. "We're going to be leaving in a few minutes! Everyone
's
going to be moving through the door single file! There'
s
a truck outside that will take us all out of here . . ."

Wes was frantically hunting for the weapons Silvera had confiscated. It took him a few minutes, but he found them—three pistols and a couple of switchblades—at the bottom of a chest of drawers. He picked up one of the knives and flicked it open; a nine-inch blade flashed out. He closed it and put it into his jacket. Of the three guns, only one of them—a .22 with a carving of Jesus on the white ivory handle—looked fit to use. The others were rusty things that might fall, to pieces or explode in his hand. He only wanted to put a scare into the marines, but he knew he'd need a gun he could depend on later. It felt obscene and oily in his grip. He'd never liked guns, but now this one would help him find Solange. The ugly thought that he might have to use this gun surfaced within him, like something nasty floating on a slimy pool. His gaze fell upon the small ceramic crucifix next to the door. He didn't know how much good it would do, but he lifted it off its nail and went out into the sanctuary.

People were gathering up their children and belongings, linking hands, and crossing the threshold into the wind. No one was in the bell tower now, but the storm's force made the bell shudder every few minutes, and the clapper gave out a muffled, tentative moan. Wes saw Silvera standing at the doorway, herding the people out; he didn't see the marines and assumed they were already outside, helping with the loading of the troop transport.

Wes waited for most of them to step across and, as he neared the door, the priest suddenly looked first at his face, then at the crucifix in his left hand and the gun in his right. "What do you think you're going to do,
amigo?"
Silvera asked him quietly.

"Just stay out of my way, Father. I appreciate your help and all that, but now I've got to do this." He started to step past the priest, but Silvera's hand came up and grasped his collar.

"What are you planning? To take their jeep?"

Wes nodded. "I've asked you to stay out of my way."

Silvera looked over his shoulder out at the transport truck. The rear gate had dropped down, and Lieutenant Rutledge was hustling people inside. In another few minutes everyone was going to be aboard. Silvera glanced at the jeeplike vehicle, then back to Wes. "Where do you think you're going? There are several thousand places the vampires could've taken your friend."

"I know where I'm going. I think they may have taken her up into the Hollywood hills, to . . ."

"The Kronsteen castle?" Silvera asked.

Wes's eyes widened. "That's right. What do you know about it?"

"Enough." He let go of the man's collar. "Give me the gun."

"Father, I told you I. . ."

"Give me the gun," Silvera repeated evenly.

"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you? This may be the only chance I get and I've got to take it!"

"Chance?" Silvera frowned and shook his head. "What chance?" He gripped Wes's wrist and pried the gun loose from his fingers. "You didn't even know enough to release the safety, did you? Are you sure it's loaded?"

"I'm not going to any goddamned Crystal Lake!" Wes said, his face reddening. "I'm taking that jeep if I have to . . ."

"What?" the priest asked blandly. "Fight for it barehanded? Kill for it? No, I don't think you want to do that." He glanced over and saw the last of his people filing into the transport. "I don't want anyone else getting hurt. So do you think you're going to be able to drive right up to that place—through this storm—and take on a hoard of vampires with a gun and a crucifix? What else did you take?"

"A knife," Wes said. "Sorry, I didn't see any stakes lying around here."

Silvera regarded him for a moment in silence "You must love that woman very much."

"I've . . . always been there when she needed me. She needs me now."

"She may be like them by now. You know that, don't you?"

"And maybe she's not," Wes said. "I have to know for sure before I. . . leave her behind."

Silvera nodded. "You surprise me. But regardless of whatever rage you're feeling, you're going to need more than these implements. Much more." He turned his head and saw Lieutenant Rutledge waving him over. Then he said to Wes, "You wait here. Understand?"

"Why?"

"Just wait." Silvera left Wes, walking across the church to his room. He took a small, clear flask from a silk-lined black case resting at the top shelf of his closet. The flask was identical to the one he'd taken to Palatazin. Then he went out to the font of holy water in the vestibule, and dipped the flask down into the small, white ceramic basin. The flask filled quickly, with a little more than two ounces. He wasn't sure how much effect holy water would actually have on the vampires, but he figured—he hoped—Palatazin had known that it would have
some
effect, even if just to frighten them. Silvera lifted the flask, capped it, and thought of something his mentor Father Raphael had said back in the tiny village of Puerto Grande. "Now, my son. You ask me why I dip up water from the Pacific Ocean for the rituals. The answer is both simple and complex. Well water is too precious here to deprive humans of it, no matter how holy the ritual. God saw human needs long before he saw the need for ritual. Secondly, what holier water is there than water from the cradle of life? God's blessing only makes it more so,
but the strength is already there.

You've seen how saltwater heals wounds and sores, how it cleanses and purifies. Any water can be holy; it needs only to be blessed. But this—seawater—is twice blessed . . ."

Silvera had' kept Father Raphael's tradition alive, though now it was more difficult to bring jugs of water back from the Pacific. But now he needed a purifier, something to wash away this unholy evil that gnawed like a cancer at human flesh. He held the flask up; it felt slightly warm in his hand, and the warmth seemed to spread up his forearm. He was ready now. He returned to where Wes waited and put the flask in his inside coat pocket. "All right," he said. "We can go now."

" 'We'?" Wes said. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm going with you. The holy water may help even up the odds. And that man won't shoot
me."
He motioned toward Lieutenant Rutledge, who shouted, "Let's go, Father!" and waved impatiently. Silvera dropped the gun down to his side and, shielding his face with his forearm, walked toward the tractor with Wes right behind him. Lieutenant Rutledge and his driver stepped back to allow them up into the dark cavity, but suddenly Silvera turned toward him and thrust out the gun.

Rutledge stared incredulously at it, then looked into Silvera's face. "What's this shit?" the man shouted.

"My friend and I are taking your jeep, and we don't have time to argue! Tell your driver there to give us the keys!"

"You want the Crab? What are you, crazy or something? We're trying to get you out of this mess!" "

"You can help us by giving us the keys! Come on!"

"Man, you take the cake, you know that? You and I both know you're not going to shoot anybody, so let's just forget this . . ."

Silvera yanked the hood off the marine's face and put the barrel alongside his nose. "I don't have time for a debate!" the priest said. "Hand them over!"

"Shit!" Rutledge lifted his hands now and glanced fearfully at the other marine. "Okay, okay! Whitehurst, give these maniacs the keys to the Crab! Look, you! Priest or not, you steal a military vehicle and your holy ass is going
under
the stockade!"

"Wes, take his keys! And the .45, too. You've got clips for that?"

Rutledge patted his inside jacket pocket. Silvera reached in, took out two clips, and handed them to Wes. Then he stepped away from Rutledge and backed toward the jeep. Wes slipped into the driver's seat and started the engine.

"You're crazy!" Rutledge shouted, pulling his hood back down. "Both of you!" Whitehurst grasped at his arm and guided him up into the transport vehicle, then in another few seconds the rear gate began to swing shut.

Silvera had a last glimpse of Rutledge's furious face before he climbed into the jeep. Wes put it into reverse, backed along the sidewalk, and then swung out into the street. The vehicle's tires gripped hard, carrying them between monstrous dunes and away from Silvera's church. The priest turned to look back through the Plexiglass rear windshield. The tractor was moving away in the opposite direction, lumbering like a huge metallic beetle. He put the two guns down on the floorboard. "Can you drive this thing?" he asked.

"Handles like a dune buggy," Wes answered. "Steering's tighter, though." The headlights were cutting clear yellow paths in the storm ahead, and the instrumentation panel—which curved slightly around Wes like a plane's cockpit—glowed a faint green. He changed gears, noting the gearshift pattern depicted on a small metal plate on the dashboard—there were four forward gears and two reverse. The interior seemed to be stripped down to the bare minimum but was comfortable enough. It smelled slightly oily, just as Wes thought the interior of a tank might smell. He could feel a powerful engine behind him, pushing them along now at about ten miles per hour; he was afraid to drive any faster because of the dunes and wrecked cars that littered the street ahead, coming up swiftly out of the gloom. "I hope you know what you've gotten yourself into, Father," Wes said quietly.

"I do." Silvera leaned over and looked at the gas gauge—there was a little more than half a tank. He looked behind the seats into a roomy storage compartment, finding a full three-gallon can of gasoline, a coiled rope, maps of the city, and a couple of small red cylinders of oxygen in green backpack carriers. Near the oxygen bottles there were two green, rubber masks complete with wide-vision goggles. Those, he thought, might be especially useful, and he silently gave thanks for Rut-ledge's careful preparations.