to do damage.
Another
corpse fell, a large-bellied man, most of whose face had been eaten away before
he rose. The sharp edge of a broken shell lodged between his eyes like Dawid’s
slingstone, and he toppled backward and did not get up.
The
last corpse still growled and lunged toward the living with uneven steps. It
was the girl; she had risen up on one foot and was coming after them at a
crouch, dragging her bad leg behind her. It was nearly on them now, and Bar
Nahemyah’s companions fell back into the grasses. Bar Nahemyah himself stood his ground.
“Be
still, you unclean tameh ,” he cried, wrenching a long branch of
driftwood free of the sand. Lifting it like a club, he waited for the corpse to
stumble nearer. Its eyes were fixed on him, those gray, scratched eyes. Its jaw
worked, opening and closing.
With
a shout, Bar Nahemyah swung the branch, slamming it hard into the side of the
corpse’s head, knocking it to the sand. He leapt over the fallen girl, spearing
the end of the branch toward its head even as it hissed and tried to get up.
The side of its head gave, yet it spat, and the thing’s hand clutched the end
of Bar Nahemyah’s coat. Then he was slamming the branch down against its head,
again and again.
Until it was still.
Bar
Nahemyah stood over the body, panting. The other young men drew back in mute
horror at both the dead and the man who had fought. The corpse’s fingers were
still curled about the hem of Bar Nahemyah’s coat. Bar Nahemyah roared,
shouting all of his rage and impotent grief at the thing’s dead face, and
lifting one foot he drove the heel of his sandal against the clutching hand and
broke its grip.
The
hand fell back limp against the grit of the shore.
Bar
Nahemyah gazed down at it for a long moment, breathing heavily. Then glanced up at the other, pale-faced youths. At the midden and the stinking dead lying on the offal. Heard the sigh of the waves and behind him, at the tideline, the
rush of the wind in the grasses like the sound of God weeping. He cast
the branch aside into the sand. Though his lips moved, no words came. He swayed
on his feet. Then he tilted to the left and vomited.
STANDING AT THE
SHORE
Before
sunup, Shimon had walked to his father’s house in Beth Tsaida, that long line
of fishers’ homes just above the tideline. He found the house empty and in
disarray, its atrium open to the sky and silent but
for a few of his mother’s chickens, the small, enclosed rooms around the outer
wall dark. No one was there. The ewer his mother used for water had been
shattered, and there were streaks of blood across the atrium’s dirt floor. For
several long moments, Shimon stood staring at those dark stains, hardly
breathing. All he could think of was the blood on his father’s hand. Was this
more of his blood, or had others entered the house and struggled during the
long night’s fight with the hungry dead?
But
his father clearly was not here, whether this was his blood or not. And that
meant this day was up to him.
Hastily,
Shimon scooped up an armful of blankets and ran with them back up the hill to
the tomb. He ignored the weeping he heard in the town and ignored the fear in
his breast, knowing that if he stopped moving, that would be it. He would be too
exhausted and too panicked to get up again.
When
he reached the tomb, he wrapped Rahel and the maimed baby in blankets. He put
his mother’s arm about his shoulders and, supporting her weight, he helped her
slowly down the hill. Rahel looked about with bloodshot eyes, her face paling
with horror as she smelled the smoke and witnessed the ruin of their town, the
crumbled houses, the bodies in the streets.
A
few survivors were already moving, shrouding the corpses or simply walking in
listless circles, their faces bloodied or tear-streaked. No one called out to
Rahel and her sons, no one challenged them, not one.
His
heart beating fast, Shimon lay his mother down on her bedding in the small
winter room
Another
corpse fell, a large-bellied man, most of whose face had been eaten away before
he rose. The sharp edge of a broken shell lodged between his eyes like Dawid’s
slingstone, and he toppled backward and did not get up.
The
last corpse still growled and lunged toward the living with uneven steps. It
was the girl; she had risen up on one foot and was coming after them at a
crouch, dragging her bad leg behind her. It was nearly on them now, and Bar
Nahemyah’s companions fell back into the grasses. Bar Nahemyah himself stood his ground.
“Be
still, you unclean tameh ,” he cried, wrenching a long branch of
driftwood free of the sand. Lifting it like a club, he waited for the corpse to
stumble nearer. Its eyes were fixed on him, those gray, scratched eyes. Its jaw
worked, opening and closing.
With
a shout, Bar Nahemyah swung the branch, slamming it hard into the side of the
corpse’s head, knocking it to the sand. He leapt over the fallen girl, spearing
the end of the branch toward its head even as it hissed and tried to get up.
The side of its head gave, yet it spat, and the thing’s hand clutched the end
of Bar Nahemyah’s coat. Then he was slamming the branch down against its head,
again and again.
Until it was still.
Bar
Nahemyah stood over the body, panting. The other young men drew back in mute
horror at both the dead and the man who had fought. The corpse’s fingers were
still curled about the hem of Bar Nahemyah’s coat. Bar Nahemyah roared,
shouting all of his rage and impotent grief at the thing’s dead face, and
lifting one foot he drove the heel of his sandal against the clutching hand and
broke its grip.
The
hand fell back limp against the grit of the shore.
Bar
Nahemyah gazed down at it for a long moment, breathing heavily. Then glanced up at the other, pale-faced youths. At the midden and the stinking dead lying on the offal. Heard the sigh of the waves and behind him, at the tideline, the
rush of the wind in the grasses like the sound of God weeping. He cast
the branch aside into the sand. Though his lips moved, no words came. He swayed
on his feet. Then he tilted to the left and vomited.
STANDING AT THE
SHORE
Before
sunup, Shimon had walked to his father’s house in Beth Tsaida, that long line
of fishers’ homes just above the tideline. He found the house empty and in
disarray, its atrium open to the sky and silent but
for a few of his mother’s chickens, the small, enclosed rooms around the outer
wall dark. No one was there. The ewer his mother used for water had been
shattered, and there were streaks of blood across the atrium’s dirt floor. For
several long moments, Shimon stood staring at those dark stains, hardly
breathing. All he could think of was the blood on his father’s hand. Was this
more of his blood, or had others entered the house and struggled during the
long night’s fight with the hungry dead?
But
his father clearly was not here, whether this was his blood or not. And that
meant this day was up to him.
Hastily,
Shimon scooped up an armful of blankets and ran with them back up the hill to
the tomb. He ignored the weeping he heard in the town and ignored the fear in
his breast, knowing that if he stopped moving, that would be it. He would be too
exhausted and too panicked to get up again.
When
he reached the tomb, he wrapped Rahel and the maimed baby in blankets. He put
his mother’s arm about his shoulders and, supporting her weight, he helped her
slowly down the hill. Rahel looked about with bloodshot eyes, her face paling
with horror as she smelled the smoke and witnessed the ruin of their town, the
crumbled houses, the bodies in the streets.
A
few survivors were already moving, shrouding the corpses or simply walking in
listless circles, their faces bloodied or tear-streaked. No one called out to
Rahel and her sons, no one challenged them, not one.
His
heart beating fast, Shimon lay his mother down on her bedding in the small
winter room
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