by A. M. Geever
“I’m sorry,” Miranda said. “I didn’t, I shouldn’t have pried.”
Finn turned and set off at a faster pace. Mario hurried ahead so that he and Finn were two abreast, leaving Miranda crutching doggedly behind them.
“I apologize, Finn,” Mario said. “Miranda didn’t mean offense.”
“Learning the ways of a new place takes time,” Finn answered. “But belief in the Prophet’s teachings runs deep. Most are not as understanding as those of us who have seen the outside world.”
“There must be a lot of pressure on you to be a good example, being his son.”
“Being his child is hardly unique,” Finn spat.
Hardly unique? Mario’s question had not just taken Finn by surprise… It had angered him. Maybe they could use that anger. Father Walter’s voice echoed through her head. Always trust your instincts, Miranda. They’ll never steer you wrong.
Finn and Mario were now at least ten feet ahead of her near the entrance to the large plaza farther into the village. People were bottlenecked at the entry points. In the crush, Miranda lost sight of them.
Some fake husband I’ve got…doesn’t even wait for his crippled wife.
A moment later, Mario was back in front of her. “You doing okay?”
She nodded.
“Nice try back there with the new-in-town question.”
Miranda sighed. “Too obvious.”
Mario did not contradict her but smiled. “Finn said we’re going down via a harness since we’re not nimble enough for the ladders.” He pointed to the far side of the plaza. “We’re supposed to go over there.”
“Going down?”
“There’s some sort of meeting enclosure,” Mario said uneasily. He fixed her with that penetrating stare, the one that made her feel like his brown eyes could see right through her.
They worked their way over to Finn. The zombie moans were much louder here than outside the infirmary. The air crackled with tension. The inhabitants of New Jerusalem were joining long lines that stretched across the plaza. One by one, the first person in line disappeared over the edge through openings in the rails and protective netting.
Miranda leaned against the rail and peered through the netting to the forest floor below. The instinct of fight or flight seized her. Her leg began to throb as if underscoring just how vulnerable her injury made her. Mario’s sharp intake of breath hissed past her ear.
On the forest floor below, partly underneath the plaza, sat a large rectangular building with a steeply angled roof. Hundreds of zombies churned around it, desiccated mouths opening and closing, spindly fingers snatching at the air. New Jerusalem’s inhabitants descended rope ladders that ended on a small widow’s walk at the center of the building’s roof; from there, they disappeared inside. The ladders were attached to the widow’s walk, but they swayed out from over the safety of the building’s roof.
“If they slip and fall, they could miss the platform,” Miranda gasped, horrified. “Hit that roof with any momentum and you slide right off.”
Mario’s brown eyes reflected her own disbelief, but beneath it, she saw a fierce resolve.
“We stick together, Miri,” he said.
His hand wrapped around hers. She held on tight.
43
Just because they do things differently here doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Miranda thought.
Always trust your instincts.
The second level was a large balcony that ringed the long building. The benches were built on risers, so no matter where a person sat, they could enjoy a clear view. The first level was not in use at the moment, but from under the opposite balcony, Miranda could see the bottom of a door that looked well maintained. There did not seem to be anyone in attendance younger than teenagers, but seating was snug. Miranda and her friends occupied what Finn had explained were places of honor at the center of the length of the building, where the Prophet himself sat. At the moment, the Prophet was nowhere to be seen. Finn, Bethany, Finn’s cousin Dalton, and several of the archers who had covered their escape into the forest sat in the row in front of them.
God is in his holy temple,
in the pure and holy mind,
In the rev’rent heart and simple,
In the soul from sin refined.
The voices around Miranda rose and fell as the assembly began the third hymn since she had taken her seat. The soothing melody spoke of good endeavors and reverent hearts, but tension filled the building. When the hymn ended, the moans of the zombies outside grew louder, thumps against the walls of the building startling those sitting closest. Across from Miranda, the people snapped to attention. Jeremiah Butler strode out from underneath the balcony. His feet were bare, his posture ramrod straight. He stopped at the center of the lower level and looked up at the balcony as he turned in place. His white robe seemed to absorb the light from the lanterns overhead.
“Brothers and Sisters, True Followers of the Heavenly Father’s Judgment, today we welcome newcomers to our community.”
Jeremiah’s hand swept toward Miranda and her friends. “Three months ago, I foresaw the arrival of five travelers, refugees from the sin of the City that clings to the ways of the old world. Heavenly Father did not reveal their purpose, only that their arrival portends great changes. Yet when they arrived there were six, and the one unrevealed with hair the color of flame.”
Jeremiah paused. Aware that every eye in the hall was fastened on her, Miranda held her head high, but inside she quaked. Historically speaking, redheads did not always fare well—Lizzie Borden, Mary Queen of Scots, Judas Iscariot…
“So what are we to make of their arrival, My Children?” Jeremiah continued. “Are they sent by Our Heavenly Father? Most assuredly! For red is the color of flame, which purifies the fallen world, just as we purify ourselves when we embrace the truth of God’s Judgment in our hearts.”
“But more is required than simply embracing God’s Judgment. How can we testify the truth of His Judgment?”
A rush of energy hit Miranda. The atmosphere inside the building felt electric, tangible. Miranda had never experienced anything like it. And yet, somehow, everyone became so still that they almost seemed to recede, as if every single person was trying to blend into the background.
Across from them, a woman stood and called out, “One must walk with their faith!”
“‘Ye shall walk in all the ways which the Lord your God hath commanded you, that ye may live!’” Jeremiah thundered. He shrugged off the robe to reveal his wiry frame, clothed only in a loincloth. He held his arms outstretched and began to turn in place once more.
Miranda’s brow furrowed as she looked at the crescent-shaped scars on Jeremiah’s arms and torso. Mario leaned forward, the whistling intake of his breath audible.
“Bite marks?” Miranda whispered.
“It’s true,” Doug said.
“What’s true?” Selfie muttered.
“See the scars of God’s Judgment,” Jeremiah cried, his golden eyes blazing with an unholy light. “Even a sinner may be spared by God, as We were, if His faith is strong and true!”
A chorus of ‘Amen!’ and ‘As the Prophet commands!’ rippled through the assembly. The risers creaked and groaned around them as everyone leaped to their feet.
“Who will walk with Us among the Hollow Men?” Jeremiah shouted as he began to circle along the perimeter of the balcony.
Hollow men? Miranda thought.
He means zombies!
Miranda could not process what she was hearing. No one, not even this lunatic Prophet, could be that insane. She turned to Mario as Doug’s hand clamped around her forearm and pulled her up.
“We can’t look afraid,” Doug whispered as he wrapped his arm around her waist for balance.
Horror blossomed anew in Miranda’s brain as the Prophet called out a name. A young man raced down into the pit, deep in a frenzy of religious ecstasy. Another man and woman called down looked dazed, their movements stiff, as if an out
side force propelled them forward.
The Prophet stopped in front of them. He looked up, his eyes no longer flashing, but flat and cold. Unfeeling. Miranda had always prided herself on her mettle, but now she began to shake. They were trapped, outnumbered, and utterly at the mercy of this madman. And any second now he might call the names of her friends.
“Bethany,” the Prophet called out.
“No!” Miranda cried.
Bethany swayed on her feet and almost fell back over the bench into Doug.
Mario lunged forward and caught Bethany’s arm. “Bethany, you can’t go down there!”
Bethany looked at Mario with wild frightened eyes as Dalton caught and steadied her.
“If she resists, she will be executed, along with anyone who tries to help her,” said Dalton.
“You can’t let him do this!” Miranda protested. The shouting from the restive crowd grew louder at the delay.
“The Prophet’s Guard is loyal and strong,” Finn answered, glancing down the aisle.
Miranda looked around the balcony and for the first time, really noticed the men armed with machetes along the aisles. Finn and his archers did not have their weapons, she realized. After they reached the village, she had not seen them carry their bows even once. She watched helplessly as the doctor stumbled along the row toward the stairs. The Prophet still looked at them, but Miranda felt sure it was not she and her friends he was staring down, but his son.
“Tamara!” the Prophet called out, a vicious smirk spreading across his lips.
Finn started as if he was going to leap over the balcony, but his cousin grabbed him.
“Stay here, stay still!” Dalton hissed.
Finn struggled against his cousin’s grip, searching the balcony frantically. On the other side of the balcony, a slim young woman with mousy brown hair rose and began to make her way through the crowd. When Finn sighted her, he tried to break free once more. The armed men in the aisle stepped forward to engage him, but Dalton and the other archers dragged Finn back.
People began sitting down. Miranda slumped to the bench. She thought she had seen it all. Dalton and the man seated on Finn’s other side wrestled Finn to his seat.
Connor leaned across Seffie to speak to Doug. “It’s her, the girl we saw at the service the night we arrived.”
In the pit, Bethany and the others stood apart from the Prophet, waiting for Tamara. When she appeared in the pit, Miranda realized she was only a girl of fifteen or sixteen. She did not join the others but instead approached the Prophet. She knelt and kissed his bare feet, then pressed her forehead against them. The Prophet reached down, tapped on her shoulder, and motioned for her to rise. He held Tamara’s hand and led the entire group to the far end of the building. He captured Bethany with his other hand as they spread out in a line, joined to one another like cut-out paper dolls. Six people stretched across a distance of forty feet.
Dalton whispered to his cousin. “She has invoked the Maiden’s Privilege. Now she will be beside him.”
Because they had to turn to see the activity below, Miranda could see Finn’s profile. His face was stamped with torment, but his eyes smoldered with rage.
“You know what that means,” Finn said miserably, but so softly that Miranda had to strain to hear.
“It means she might survive,” Dalton answered. “That is all that matters.”
“Brothers and Sisters, My Children,” the Prophet called out. “Watch as We walk in God’s terrible Judgment!”
A creak of hinges filled the hall. Then came the moans. Twenty feet in front of the Prophet, zombies staggered into view from both sides of the building. The Prophet stepped forward, pulling the rest with him.
“Trust in your God All-Father on Earth! Trust the Heavenly Father’s Judgment as we face the Hollow Men,” he cried.
Miranda could see ten shamblers. They lurched and twitched for a moment, then spied the people walking toward them. As the acrid smell of their rotting flesh filled Miranda’s nose, they lurched toward the people. One less recently dead than the rest limped toward the center of the line where the Prophet walked. It lurched at him, then recoiled.
The Prophet did not flinch.
A dark stain blossomed on the trousers of a man as his bladder betrayed him. His screams filled the hall as the shamblers attacked. As he was dragged out of line, the survivors scurried over to join hands with the next person. They walked beyond the zombies, most of which had joined in feasting on the first victim, when another screech of hinges made Miranda cringe. She watched, stunned, as more zombies tumbled into view ahead of the marching line of people.
A young woman ripped her hand from the person beside her and turned to flee, only to run straight into a zombie behind her. It clamped on to her shoulder and pulled her close, biting into her throat. Her screams continued as a spray of arterial blood spurted into the air. Miranda tried but could not look away. The woman thrashed and twitched as four zombies fell upon her to feed, the grunts and moans as they ripped her apart drowning out her gurgling death rattle.
Another set of zombies was loosed into the pit. The watchers in the balcony cried out and screamed. The metallic smell of blood and the reek of emptied bowels filled the air, and still the Prophet walked forward, resolute. Every zombie that came close to him recoiled, then sought other prey. Their reaction was so pronounced that twice a zombie lurched away from the Prophet and into Bethany but was so disoriented that she was able to push it off.
“That son of a bitch is immune,” Mario growled in Miranda’s ear.
Miranda jumped, so absorbed in the dreadful spectacle unfolding below that hearing a voice so close caused her heart to rocket into her throat.
“What?”
“Have you ever seen a zombie act like that, or anyone survive an untreated bite? What else could it be?”
Another shriek snapped their attention back to the pit. The man to Tamara’s left, who had raced into the pit filled with frenzied belief, was dragged down. He fought Tamara as she struggled to free her hand.
A zombie reached for Bethany. She leaned away as far as she could without letting go of the Prophet. Miranda held her breath, her entire body willing Bethany forward. Just as Bethany cringed free of the zombie’s grasping hand, the Prophet ripped his hand from hers. With a violent shove, he pushed her.
A piteous cry split the air as the zombie bit into Bethany’s shoulder. Her gray-blond hair fell loose as the zombie held her in a grotesque embrace, its arms encircling her from behind.
“No!” Miranda shouted.
The anguished screams of those watching became a roar.
“Healer, no!”
“Prophet, save her!”
Only the Prophet and the teenaged girl named Tamara remained, fifteen feet between them and a white line below the edge of the facing balcony. A zombie lurched toward Tamara. She cringed away and crushed herself against the Prophet. He smiled down at her and slid his arm around her shoulders. Like magic, the zombie shrank away.
As the Prophet and Tamara crossed the white line, the cheers and screams and cries of grief grew deafening. The Prophet motioned for Tamara to stand against the wall before walking back toward the zombies. Miranda could only watch in astonishment as he herded the zombies out of the lower level like they were sheep, even those eating the fallen. It took just a few minutes for him to clear the room and shut the last of the doors that the zombies had entered through.
The Prophet stood by Bethany’s body, her blood pooling around his bare feet. He turned back to Tamara and motioned for her to join him. The crowd quieted when Tamara reached the Prophet. He pulled the quaking girl close, forcing her to step into Bethany’s blood.
“My Children,” the Prophet called out. “The Healer gave Us good service, but she lacked faith.” He took Tamara’s hand and raised it up. “Praise the Judgment of God!”
Shouts thundered through the hall. Miranda looked down at Finn, expecting that he would be relieved that Tamara had survived. I
nstead, he looked more distressed than ever.
The Prophet led Tamara to the center of the pit, next to the eviscerated corpse of the young woman who had broken ranks and tried to flee. He raised his hands and the crowd quieted once more.
“As any maid may do on her first Faith Walk, Tamara exercised the Maiden’s Privilege.” The Prophet turned and looked at his son. “Praise be the God of Judgment as she prays to His God All-Father on Earth in Thanksgiving.”
“As the Prophet commands! Praise to Him, Praise to Him!” a woman behind them cried over and over. From all directions, the people began to shout as the Prophet loosened the ties of Tamara’s dress and pushed it over her shoulders. He lifted her slip over her head to reveal her breasts, then pushed down her leggings.
“Oh, dear Jesus, this cannot be happening,” Doug whispered.
Miranda watched in horror as the Prophet unwound his loincloth. He ran his hands and mouth over the naked teenager’s shaking body with such hunger it seemed he might devour her. He pushed her to the ground, into the bloody rope of intestines trailing from the nearby corpse. The girl recoiled in horror, but the Prophet pushed her down.
Finn lunged forward, barely held back by Dalton and the other young man by his side.
“Finn!” Dalton cried. “Finn, you cannot!”
Miranda looked down at the Prophet and the terrified teenager beneath him, then around the balcony. The noise of cheers and shouted praise, the sobs of those mourning the fallen, were so loud Miranda could barely think. The enthusiasm for this twisted blood sport repulsed her. Wrath and hatred of the Prophet filled her with a fury stronger than any she had felt before, its vengeful energy exploding inside her. She started to stand, forgetting about her injured leg, only to fall forward against Dalton. She grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Why don’t you do something?” she demanded.
“And what would you have me do? Let my cousin run to his death?”