Flashes of white sparkled in his field of vision. He knew he had only moments left. With a last explosive effort he wrenched his right arm free, pulling out the gun and firing, the flash — boom illuminating the sepulchral tunnel, deafening in the confined space.
Twisting and turning, slamming at the zombii with his good arm, D'Agosta tried to break free — but he could feel the remains of his vitality ebbing fast.
'Pendergast!' he choked.
The steel fingers tightened further. D'Agosta heaved and bucked, but without oxygen it was a losing battle. A strange tingling stole over him, accompanied by a buzzing sound. His hand reached out, clawing the floor, looking for the knife. Instead, it closed around a large fragment of brick; he clutched it, swung it around with all his might, and slammed it into the zombii's head.
Coughing, sucking in air, D'Agosta staggered to his feet and ran wildly in the dark. After a moment, he could hear the man — thing scurrying after him, bare feet slapping the slimy stone floor.
Chapter 66
From his vantage point at a wide tear in the chain — link fence, Rich Plock scanned the crowd streaming through with a steely satisfaction. Ten initial groups, roughly two hundred per group — that meant two thousand in the crowd, less than he had expected but formidable in their determination. As New York City demonstrations went, it might still be a small one — but this was a demonstration with a difference. These people were dedicated. They were hard — core. The nervous and weak of heart, the day — trippers and sunshine friends — the Esteban types — had stayed home this time. So much the better. His was a purged group, a crowd with a purpose, unlikely to cave in the face of opposition, even violence. Although there couldn't be much violence — the inhabitants of the Ville had to be outnumbered ten to one by the protesters. They might resist at first, but they would quickly be overwhelmed.
It had come together like clockwork, a joy to witness. The police had been taken totally by surprise. The group of initial protesters, carefully outfitted to look as nonthreatening as possible, had lulled the cops into thinking it would be a small, ineffectual protest, all bark and no bite. And then within the space of mere minutes all the other groups had arrived, quietly, on foot, from multiple directions — and immediately, as planned, the crowd swung into motion as one, joining up and heading determinedly across the fields and down the road toward the Ville. The police had had no time to form a barricade, no time to arrest the leaders, no time to shift the positions of their forward units, no time to call in backup. All they could do was shout futilely into their bullhorns and plead for order, while a single police chopper circled overhead, broadcasting an unintelligible warning. He could hear the sirens and the bullhorns behind them as the police made a belated, rear — guard effort to stop the crowd from converging on the Ville.
No doubt reinforcements were already on their way. The NYPD were not a force to be trifled with. But by the time they arrived, Plock and his crowd would be inside the Ville and well on their way to accomplishing their objective — routing the murderers and, perhaps, finding the kidnapped woman, Nora Kelly.
The last of the crowd streamed through the gate and massed in the field facing the front entrance to the Ville, spreading out like shock troops. They parted as Plock stepped to the front for a few last words. The Ville itself stood silently in the evening twilight, brooding and monolithic, the only sign of life a few yellow windows high in the fabric of the church. The front door was shut and barred, but it would present no obstacle to the men with battering rams standing silent at the head of the crowd, ready to move. Plock held up a hand and the crowd quieted.
'My dear friends.' He pitched his voice low, which induced an even deeper silence among the people. 'What are we here for?' He allowed a pause. 'Let us be clear about that, of all things. What are we here for?'
He looked around. 'We are here to break down that door and drive these animal torturers, these murderers, out. We will do it through our implacable moral condemnation, the weight of our numbers. We will press them from the field. We will liberate the animals in that hellhole.'
The police helicopter circled overhead, still broadcasting its unintelligible message. He ignored it.
'One thing of the utmost importance I say to you: we are not killers. We will hold and maintain the moral high ground. But we are not pacifists, either, and if they choose to fight, we will fight. We
He took a deep breath. He knew that he wasn't an eloquent speaker, but he had the power of his convictions and he could see the crowd was stoked.
The police were coming up from the road now, but their numbers were ridiculously small compared with his own and Plock ignored them. He'd be inside the Ville before the police could even regroup. 'Are we ready?' he cried.
There was an answering
He pointed. '
With a single roar, the crowd surged forward toward the main doors of the Ville. They appeared to have been recently repaired and reinforced. The two men with battering rams were at the fore — front, and they hit the doors at a run, wielding their rams, first one then the other, slamming them into the doors. The timbers shivered and split, and in less than a minute they were stove in, the crowd surging forward and pushing the remnants away. Plock joined the masses as they poured into a dark, narrow alleyway lined with listing wooden buildings. It was strangely deserted, no inhabitants to be seen. The roar from the crowd rose like an animal cry, amplified by the narrow confines of the Ville, and they broke into a trot, rounding the corner of the alley and coming face — to — face with the ancient church.
At this the crowd hesitated. The church was forbidding; it stood like a medieval structure of Boschean strangeness, crooked, half timbered with rude — looking buttresses projecting out into the air before stabbing into the ground, bristling and massive. The portal to the church stood in front — a second set of timbered doors, banded and riveted with iron.
The hesitation lasted only a moment. Then the roar went up again, stronger than ever, and the men with battering rams advanced again and stood on either side of the banded doors, swinging the rams in an alternating, asynchronous rhythm:
And there in the dimness, blocking the way, stood two men. One was tall and striking, dressed in a long brown cloak, hood drawn back, heavy brows and massive cheekbones almost hiding a pair of black eyes, pale skin glowing in the light of a freshly rising moon, his nose like the blade of a knife, curved and honed. The other man, shorter and coarser looking, was gowned in a fantastically decorated ceremonial gown. He was clearly a holy man of some sort. He stared out at the invaders, his eyes glittering with malice.
The innate force of the taller man instantly subdued the crowd. He held out one hand and said: '
Plock shoved forward and faced him. 'Who are you?'
'My name is Bossong. And it is my community you are desecrating with your presence.'
Plock drew himself up. He was fully aware that he was half his opponent's size and twice his width. Nevertheless, when he replied, his voice crackled with conviction: '
