Violet was in her room when Tate showed up at the door, brooding and wearing a sweater that was at least three sizes too big. It was an old button-down brown thing that his father had owned. A scratchy polyester hideosity that went with nothing. The sort of garment they both liked. His hands were hiding in the long sleeves when he shuffled over to where she was sitting at her desk, sketching.

"Hey," she said, setting her pencil down. She opened her arms and he came to her. "What's up?"

"I saw Michael," he said. He knelt down beside her so he could hug her middle. He shut his eyes when he felt her arms settle around his shoulders. "He's going to do something bad."

Violet stroked his hair back from his face and could see the strained expression. Concern bloomed. "What's he going to do?"

Tate sniffled and tried to tell her but the words didn't want to come out. Tears did instead, making his eyes burn again. He put his face down in her lap.

"Tate," Violet said, concern growing. She gave his back a pat. "Talk to me. What is Michael going to do?"

"He's going to hurt Vivien," he sobbed into her leggings.

"Why? Because of before?"

Tate kept his head down. Now that the tears had started, he couldn't stop crying. He'd been holding a lot in the past few days. "Because he wants—he wants to get her pregnant."

Violet's brows shot up to her hairline. "She can't have a baby. She's dead."

"It didn't stop me," he pointed out mournfully.

She gently urged his head up from her lap. Her leggings were damp where his face had been. He looked at her miserably, avoiding eye contact.

"Tate. What did he say exactly?"

—

That evening, the coven met at the hotel to discuss Michael's birthday event.

"Of course, you can have it any way you like, Michael," Fiona told him. She exhaled smoke and tapped her long black cigarette in the nearby crystal ashtray.

"—but you should consider what statement you want to make," Cordelia inserted. "This is your platform. What sort of impression do you want to make?"

"Black and red are traditional colors," Fiona pointed out on his behalf. "We wear black. You're wearing it right now."

Delia pressed her lips together in a prim look of restraint. Her mother was right; she was wearing a pair of black slacks. Her blouse was silver but the suede jacket over it was black, as were her suede pumps.

"I'm just afraid he'll end up looking like an S-and-M version of Hitler."

Fiona laughed, as did Desiree, who was sharing the couch with Cordelia. The mulatto girl was born and raised in New Orleans and had actually seen that sort of thing down on Bourbon Street during carnival. She stifled the mirth quickly though. She wouldn't want Michael to be insulted, though his grand-aunt had no such concerns.

"I'd have to grow a stupid moustache and shrink about a foot to look like that," said Michael. "And get twenty percent uglier, at least." He straightened the black bow that held his blond hair back. He knew he was much better looking than Hitler on his best day.

Misty let herself into the lobby then. Her hunched frame and many shawls gave her the countenance of a shambling willow tree as she joined the small circle at the central fireplace. She minced no words when it came to the purpose of her visit.

"The priest's dead," she said as she settled herself into a chair close to the fire. She helped herself to some brandy from the coffee table, filling a lead crystal tumbler with the potent amber fluid.

Michael stared at the old witch. Father Jeremiah had preternatural endurance and was stronger than any normal man. Michael had fully expected him to survive the attrition. He had been so sure of it, in fact, that he hadn't even considered what might happen if the priest died. The possibility didn't even seem real. Her attitude was so matter-of-fact, though, and she had no reason to lie about such a thing.

"Oh," he said finally. His voice was distant in his ears and it was hard to focus on talking. "Well. I guess somebody should bury him. Have him put in a nice mausoleum at the cemetery where he took Mother Constance's body from."

Misty looked at Fiona, who arched a brow at the other woman.

"Who?" the swamp witch asked. "Me?"

Michael smiled faintly. "Yes. Of course you. Who else would I be talking to?"

Misty cocked her head. "I guess I can do you the favor," she allowed, her southern drawl elongating the word. "But I want to be put in charge of your church."

Her logic was strange to Michael in his distracted state. "Buck runs the congregation. I thought you liked him."

"I do," Misty assured enthusiastically. "But he's sick. Dyin'. I've been tryin' for days to heal him but... whatever it is, it's determined to be the end of him. When he dies, I want the cult."

"Fine," Michael dismissed. He didn't care about the politics of the various groups that were digging into New Jerusalem like so many fichus trees. "Just put Father Jeremiah someplace nice. And easy to find. I want to do a ceremony there soon."

Fiona lit one of her black cigarettes. "Wasn't he your grandmother's lover?"

Michael shifted his attention to her. "Yes. Why?"

Fiona smiled and exhaled smoke. "I should go offer her my condolences."

The young man didn't know the twins' relationship in great detail but he knew better than that. "Condolences. Right."

Fiona's expression only grew more smug.

Michael found the smile irritating and he didn't know why. "I'll see you later," he said to no one specific. Grabbing his coat, he left.

His mood darkened as he headed down the stairs and out of the building. He felt betrayed. Father Jeremiah had no right to die. That wasn't part of the plan.

—

The black world sailed by outside the car windows as Michael tore down the long, lonely stretch of road. He had no idea where he was going or where he was. After he left the hotel, he just hopped in the car and drove. It wasn't until the car gave a shaky rattle that he even thought about fuel. Checking the gauge, it was under the "E" mark.

"Fuck!" Michael punched the steering wheel, setting off the horn.

Looking around outside, he saw a few small buildings but they were all dark. There was a gas station ahead with a lone freeway light shining above it. Otherwise it, too, was dark. Still, it was his best hope so he angled for that exit.

The engine cut out just off the freeway and he had to push the car the rest of the way. In neutral gear, it rolled easily enough. It was kind of fun, rolling the thing. Like when he and Ethan used to play with toy cars together.

The thought of the ghost boy rankled. Ethan didn't exist. He was just a lie Tate had made up to trick Michael into believing that he had a friend. The young man consoled himself with the knowledge that he had scared the crap out of Tate the last time they crossed paths. The brat had some nerve, trying to tell Michael what to do. It had been quite satisfying to make him run. The look on his face right before he vanished was pretty funny, in retrospect.

Not that Michael had meant what he said. He held no attraction toward Vivien or Tate. He didn't think of either of them as parents but neither was someone he wanted to fuck, either. One was too old and the other one was too much like a little brother to him. He wasn't sure where he got the shit that he said to Tate. It was what popped into his mind when he reached for things to hurt the other boy with. It sprang so easily to mind, he acted on it before Tate got the chance to say anything mean. And things were obviously going that way over the stupid rubber suit that he'd only wanted to borrow.

Michael decided he was never going to let Tate have the thing back.

He stopped the car when he got the gas tank lined up with the dark pump. He put the vehicle in park and tugged the keys out. He looked around. The place looked and sounded dead. It even felt dead.

He keened his senses and swept the area again, using the various other ways he'd discovered to look at things. He checked for spirits but that spectrum was dark too. There were no noticeable heat signatures from sizable living entities either—just a couple of wild dogs skirting by. Then he shifted to the dead zone.

Instantly he could detect the presence of several undead things. There were three zombies milling around inside the gas station and a couple more behind it. One was down on the ground. The other was slumped against the wall. They were no threat to him but Michael was in a bad mood. He ducked into the car and pulled out the HK-91 from the inner door mount. He checked the weapon then went hunting.

It was a nice way to blow off aggression. He took out the ones in back first, picking off the wall zombie with a clean shot to the head. Then he put two bullets in the legless one on the ground, just for fun. Bam! Bam! Mushy black brains streaked across the dark pavement.

He moved to the store next and kicked in the door. The nearest zombie spun toward the sound and, seeing him, lunged at him with a hungry snarl. He shot it at close range and watched its head explode in a spray of vile ichor. As it dropped, the other two shambling corpses came at him next. He took the first one out then his gun jammed. Cursing, he retreated to buy himself some time to clear the jam. The zombie staggered after him, feral with hunger for flesh. Two steps later and its head was gone too.

Michael took another quick look around. He had made a lot of noise and noise tended to attract attention. When nothing nasty came at him, he went back inside the shop, stepping over the rotting carcasses on his way in.

Inside, the little store still had a lot of snacks still on the shelves, likely due to the presence of zombies. Everything was way past its prime, though, and not worth disturbing the layers of dust on. He grabbed a display of Zippo lighters because those were still usable. He also took the three portable gas containers. He carried his haul back outside. He put the gun and lighters in the car then assessed the gas pump.

He had no idea how to make it work.

Michael picked up the handle that was sticking out of the thing and looked at it. He knew where it would go but squeezing the pump's trigger did nothing. He shook it but that produced similar results. He wasn't even sure there was any gas left in it. Maybe it all dried up.

He couldn't think of a way to find out. He couldn't see the gas, where ever the tank got it from. He couldn't sense it like a zombie or a person. Frustrated, he kicked the pump and left a dent in its side.

"Come out!" he demanded of the gas.

When nothing happened, he kicked the pump again. The side caved in more but it still didn't give up the gas he wanted. Father Jeremiah had always made the gas pumps work before. Michael should have paid more attention to what he did.

Thinking about the priest only upset him more. He wasn't supposed to be dead!

The young man turned and gave the stupid gas pump a swift backward kick. It buckled and the outer casing flew off. It landed nearby with a loud clatter. The whole night seemed to freeze for a few seconds, then the sound of insects slowly resumed.

Michael stared at the electronic guts of the machine he'd just beaten up. Then he started to laugh.

"I'm such an idiot," he said.

He went back inside the store and hauled out all of the old bottles of water from the inert cooler. He wouldn't want to drink the contents but they made a fine base to convert into gasoline. He poured a couple of gallons into the tank and loaded the rest into the trunk. He was feeling a little lightheaded afterward, sort of like he felt after he changed all the water in the house to bourbon, but it wasn't a bad feeling. It didn't make him woozy this time.

In fact, he was quite pleased with himself as he got into the car and started it up. He revved the engine, ready to head home. Not only had he solved the gas problem, for his car and for all of New Jerusalem, he also knew what to do about Father Jeremiah.

On the way back, he put down the window and let the wind rush through the car. The icy air felt exhilarating.

...

Author's Note:

So by now you may have noticed the titles of the chapters tend to run toward a Biblical theme. Lamentations is a book in the Bible thought to be written by the prophet Jeremiah. It's a collection of lamenting poems about the destruction of Jerusalem. I didn't know that until after I named this chapter. So any connection between that and this story really is coincidental. The word primarily refers to Tate's lap-cry and Michael's apparent regret(?) about Father Jeremiah.

Next time: Plans. Violet's and Michael's.