Strangers in the Land (The Zombie Bible) (44 page)

His mouth was still moving, but it was several moments before she could focus on his words. Then: “All of them moaning and staggering toward us, every last one of those heathen corpses. These you’re seeing are just the first. The first few.”

“Thousands?” It came out in a whisper.

“Or tens of thousands. Even God has never seen so many dead.” Heber laughed again, shaking his head. The sound chilled her. “I’m going to keep moving,
navi
. I don’t plan to stay with your camp. You’re dead already. All of you. You just haven’t stopped breathing yet.” He glanced away to the south, his mirth dying out, the haunted look returning to his eyes. “Make for Kemet, most likely. Get a vast river between me and those walking dead.”

“Kemet!” Devora was struggling to collect her thoughts, still the racing of panic inside her. “But this is the land of promise. Kemet—our fathers were slaves there!”

“
Your
fathers. What should I care? They feed laborers well in the dark land. Here, we’ll be free and eaten. God keep you,
navi
.” And he walked away into the shadows. After a few steps he called back without stopping: “If you reach my camp upriver and my slaves haven’t been eaten, you’re welcome to them.”

Then he was gone.

Devora stared after him into the night.

Thousands.

“Merciful God,” she whispered. “Cover us. Let the
malakh hamavet
pass over us.”

Pale as a corpse, Devora made her way back to her tent, which Laban had pitched for her a little apart from the others, for she was
kadosh
, and apparently to him at least that still meant something. The tent was just barely within earshot of the others, and now Devora looked over the night wasteland of the withered field and drew in her breath sharply. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea for her tent to stand apart. No nazarite stood watch outside the tent’s door. If the dead came lurching across the field, only a thin wall of canvas and the possible protection of God’s hand would stand between her and their grasping hunger.

Thousands.

She shivered in the dark.

Shomar was tethered just outside her tent, sleeping on his feet. Devora saw that someone had placed a basin of water within the gelding’s reach and that he’d drunk half of it. A little relief touched her; her alarm at Heber’s words had cracked the numbness about her heart like the shell of an egg, and for just a moment she stood leaning against her horse, putting her arms about his powerful neck, breathing in his scent. This had been a hard journey for him too. And he was a little part of her husband, here with her. The two of them strangers together in a strange camp. She rested against her horse, not letting herself think of Hurriya or Zadok. There was moisture on her cheek, and she rubbed it away against his sleek hair. She permitted herself no more tears than that, and after a bit she straightened, knowing that if she did not go into her tent now, she would fall asleep right there, standing on her feet like a horse herself.

She didn’t know what nightmares she would endure tonight with neither Lappidoth nor Zadok beside her, nor what the next morning might bring. The refugees they’d been pursuing might have been eaten already, or not. Barak might stand and lead the men, or he might crumble in his own grief. God might protect
them, or not. She didn’t know. She couldn’t even find the strength to care. She wanted only sleep.

Drawing aside the door flap of her tent, she stepped in where it was dark and warm.

She had the briefest sensation of not being alone—then someone grabbed her, a powerful arm pulled her back, crushing her against a firm body. Her eyes flew wide as she felt naked skin against her, breathed in a man’s sweat scent. Even as she sucked in a breath to scream, a hand, rough and calloused, covered her mouth. Smothering her cry.

A fierce whisper in her ear. “I don’t see any nazarite dog heeling you here.”

D
EVORA BREATHED
in desperate little gasps, through her nose. Omri’s breath was hot on her throat. His lips brushed her neck and she jerked in his arms.

“Shhh, hush, woman,” he growled in her ear, his hand pressing down more cruelly over her mouth, bruising her lips. “Hush now.”

Fury and fear pounded through her, like fire and ice. Every inch of her body wildly alert. She could feel his rough palm against her lips, his belly pressed into her back, and something swollen pressed to her hip. He couldn’t be doing this—she was
kadosh
, not to be touched! She was married. She was
unclean
, though she had yet to tell the camp that. This couldn’t be happening.

She tried to bite his palm, and he jerked her head back hard against his shoulder, his mouth moist on her throat. Kissing her. He was kissing her. He did it roughly, bruising her neck. She
screamed again into his palm and twisted in his arms, but his arm crushed hers to her sides. She dug her nails into the skin of his hips, but he only breathed louder by her ear.

“That’s it, woman, that’s it,” he groaned softly. “I knew you were baiting me that day. Riding here alone with that nazarite and no husband. Did he enjoy you, that dog? You’re going to enjoy this a lot more.”

He dragged her back, pulling her with him toward the bedding at one side of the tent. She fought him, but he was
strong
. She kept crying out into his hand, hoping men in the other tents would hear, but the sounds were small and muffled. And she couldn’t get
loose
. Panic rushed through her like cold water. He was doing as he pleased, and she couldn’t stop him.

She was forced down onto her back, his weight on her. He pinned her upper arms with his elbows, leaning into the hand he held pressed over her mouth, hurting her. His eyes fierce and dark, just above hers. She struggled but was hardly able to move, unable to get him off her. She cried out as his knee forced her thighs apart.

“I can smell your cunt,” he breathed, and bit her ear.

She thrashed under him, shoving at his sides with her hands. She had to get him
off
of her. Her eyes shot to the door of her tent, but Zadok was not outside. Zadok wasn’t anywhere. Her eyes flicked to the small bundle of her garments and her waterskin, to her left, the length of a man’s body from where she lay. She could see the glint of her blade beneath the clothes.

She couldn’t get enough air.

“You hush,” Omri whispered in her ear.

Devora squirmed, nauseated, as he began thrusting his hips against her, through her dress.

“You don’t get to talk tonight. You had us all so convinced you were the
navi
. That you heard
God
. Well, fuck you. Anyone with eyes can see that the Covenant is falling
apart
.” The man licked
her throat—the animal
licked
her. She shook with rage and fear. “You saw what happened to Zadok,” Omri whispered to her. “And so many others. You saw the
dead
. God isn’t in the land anymore. God isn’t here. If he was, he’d have sent the Ark. Do you hear me? He would have sent the fucking
Ark
. It’s all falling apart. So what should I care?”

His hand left her lips, then his mouth was on hers and she screamed into his mouth. Felt the grasp of his hand at her hip, gripping her, then tugging her dress up. She kicked, her knees hitting against his hips. She threw herself to the side; his weight held her in place, but she twisted her left arm free and went for his face. Dug her fingers into his right eye.

Omri reeled back with an anguished yowl, his hands lifted to his face. A hard shove with her hip and he was off her. She rolled away across her bedding, reaching. And as quickly as she might draw a breath, she’d swept Mishpat up in her hand and rolled onto her knees. Brought the sword up in one smooth movement even as Omri came at her, and the blade severed his neck as cleanly as though he were made of thin cloth rather than flesh and bone. His head hit the rugs flooring the tent and rolled toward the door; his body fell to one side of her.

On her knees, holding her bloodied sword to the side, the hilt cold in her hand, Devora screamed in anguish and rage. Panting, gazing down at the headless body. It lay completely still. Devora took in great gulps of air, sobbing for breath. Her heart loud in her breast. She worked her tongue in her mouth a moment, then spat on him. Spat out the taste of his mouth.

He’d meant to defile her. Use her. As though she were some girl he’d taken in a raid and not the
navi
and the mother of Israel.

“The Covenant
is
falling apart,” she whispered.

Men were shouting outside, in the other tents. Men who’d heard her cry out. Shaking, Devora forced herself to her feet. Stumbled to the door of her tent, Mishpat bloody in her hand.
She glanced to the right, where the head lay faceup, still contorted in that last expression of shocked fury. The eyes already glassy, emptied of life.

Breathing hard, Devora hurried from her tent. Shomar was still tethered just outside. She leapt astride him, not bothering with saddle or any bags, just laying the blade across her thighs. Men were running toward her. Barak was there. “
Navi
, what has happened?” he cried.

For the briefest moment she hesitated. The night around her was strange and dark and there was no moon yet. Behind her in the tent, a slain man, his blood dripping from her sword. Somewhere out there in the blackness over the fields, lurching dead. Thousands.

And no moon yet.

Her right hand tightened around Mishpat’s hilt. Her left gripped Shomar’s mane.

Everything was falling apart. They could not delay for a night, nor even for a moment.

“We end this tonight!” she called to Barak. “We are not staying here! We
end
this! Bring the men and follow, Barak!”

Then, trusting him to follow and knowing she must ride whether he did or not, she dug in her heels and drove Shomar galloping into the empty vines.

N
OW SHE
was alone. Entirely and utterly alone. There was only the moaning of the dead in the hills on every side, the warm reassurance of Shomar’s mighty body between her knees, and the dead bone of Mishpat’s hilt in her hand, slick with her sweat. She was panting. She didn’t even know if
God
was here. Perhaps the words Omri had hissed in her ear had been true. Perhaps even God was gone. There was only her.

She could still feel Omri’s touch loathsome on her thighs, and she wanted to find a quiet place to sit and grieve, but she held herself together. She had to. She had no idea where the dead were; she had to be alert. When she glanced behind her, the camp was just a glow of fires in the distance. For a moment she thought she could see movement on the bank, perhaps Barak following. She didn’t know. Out in this dark, she might as well be riding through a land already dead, the Covenant nothing more than
torn and discarded scraps of roots, the People a once-green olive tree wrenched from the earth and cast aside. Heber’s words dug into her mind:
Thousands, thousands in White Cedars
.

And Hurriya’s words.
We are both women.

“Yes,” Devora whispered again, “yes we are.”

She made it to the riverbank, discerning it by the faintest shimmer on the water, the only thing that passed for light in this darkness. Shomar galloped hard along the edge of the water. Abruptly she heard faint screams ahead, somewhere in the night. Many of them cries of pain and terror. Then the moaning of the dead, as though the dark itself had taken voice. Devora’s fingers tightened in Shomar’s mane.

A sliver of moon appeared over the hills, and glancing up, Devora cried out. The moon held her eyes. She stared at it, her heart pounding in her breast. She had seen such a moon before, over Shiloh, that terrible night. The light felt
wrong
. She felt it like a scream beneath her skin. The shine of the moonlight on the dark river to her right was like blood on the water. In horror, she saw its light on her hands and felt it beating on the nape of her neck, the way the sun beats on you on a desert day, that kind of insistence, that kind of draining of energy and strength. But this was cold, so cold.

Then Shomar took her past a stand of dark oaks, and spread before her was a field of trampled barley. In her first wild glimpse of that field, Devora saw things that afterward she would pray and beg to forget, and never would.

There were dead in the barley, hundreds, the stench of them overwhelming. Some shambled through the tall crop by the water, pursuing a small group of living men and women who ran and stumbled before them, likely the last survivors of Walls. Other dead crouched over their victims in small groups throughout the field, and their eyes shone red, luminous in the moonlight.

One corpse was dragging a flailing woman through the barley by the hair, while four other dead lurched after her, bending, their
hands grasping, trying to clutch at the living woman, who was young, too young. Nearby, a man had been torn apart, drenching a patch of the field in his blood; one of the crouching dead was chewing on a hand, another on a foot, a third had an ear. One corpse was seated with a pile of entrails in its lap like a nest of dead serpents. It lifted the glistening intestines to its mouth with a slow grace, like a dignified grandmother at a banquet.