"Jesus".

"Him I doubt had much to do with it either. They fed the fire for days, the smoke dirtied the sky. And when the wind blew the wrong way—oy. Even now ..." He sniffed the air. "Luckily we're upwind."

"But they were also killing off their future food supply."

"Enough of us they left to hunt down and feed on, but far too few to offer resistance of any consequence."

They walked the rest of the way into Lakewood in silence. When they entered the town . . .

"A real ghost town," the priest said as they walked Forest Avenue's deserted length.

"Ghosts," Zev said, nodding sadly. It had been a long walk and he was tired. "Yes. Full of ghosts."

In his mind's eye he saw the shades of his fallen brother rabbis and all the yeshiva students, beards, black suits, black hats, crisscrossing back and forth at a determined pace on weekdays, strolling with their wives on Shabbes, their children trailing behind like ducklings.

Gone. All gone. Victims of the undead. Undead themselves now, some of them. It made him sick at heart to think of those good, gentle men, women, and children curled up in their basements now to avoid the light of day, venturing out in the dark to feed on others, spreading the disease ...

He fingered the cross slung from his neck. If only they had listened!

And then he heard the grating sound of a heavily distorted guitar. He grabbed Joe's arm.

"Quick. Into the bushes!"

They ducked behind a thick stand of rhododendrons along the foundation of the nearest house and watched a convertible glide by. Zev counted four in the car, three men and a blond woman, all scruffy and unwashed, lean and wolfish, in cut-off sweatshirts or denim jackets, the driver wearing a big Texas hat, someone in the back with a red Mohican, all guzzling beer. The thumping blast of their music dopplered in and out. Thank God they liked to play it at ear-damaging levels. It acted as an early warning system.

"Chazzers," Zev muttered.

When they'd passed, Joe stepped out of the bushes and stared after them.

"Who the hell were they?"

"Scum of the earth. They like to call themselves cowboys. I call them Vichy."

"Vichy? Like the Vichy French?"

"Yes. Very good. I'm glad to see that you're not as culturally illiterate as the rest of your generation. Vichy humans—that's what I call the collaborators. They should all die of pox." He looked around. "We should get off the street. I know a place near St. Anthony's where we can hide."

"You've traveled enough today, Reb. And I told you, I don't care about St. Anthony's. I'll get you situated, then head back."

"You can't leave yet, Joe," Zev said, gripping the young priest's arm. He'd coaxed him this far; he couldn't let him get away now. "Stay the night. See what Father Palmeri's done."

"If he's one of them he's not a priest anymore. Don't call him Father."

"They still call him Father."

"Who?"

"The undead."

Zev watched Father Joe's jaw muscles bunch.

Joe said, "Maybe I'll just take a quick trip over to St. Anthony's myself—"

"No. It's different here. The area is thick with Vichy and undead. They'll get you if your timing isn't just right. I'll take you."

"You need rest, pal."

Father Joe's expression showed genuine concern. Zev was detecting increasingly softer emotions in the man since their reunion last night. A good sign perhaps?

"Rest I'll get when we reach where I'm taking you."

CAROLE . . .