her.
Frankie shrieked, yanking frantically at the stubborn cover. Something in her back tore. Still she pulled. The abscesses in her arms burst, spurting with pus-yellow blood.
The cover rose with a screech, and she slid it to the side. 60 The zombies drew closer. They did not speak, and Frankie found their silence even more disturbing than the others. She thought of the baby. That evil zombie baby that had seemed so harmless...
Arms weak, collapsed veins turning to water, she still found the strength to raise her arm and extend her middle finger. Then she dropped down into the hole and was swallowed by the darkness.
She was on the run again, and while she could outrun the zombies, she couldn't escape herself-or the craving that was building in her veins. 61
Martin stared at Jesus on the cross and thought about resurrection. Lazarus had lain dead in his tomb for four days before Jesus came along. Martin opened his Scofield Reference Bible and turned to the Book of John. In Chapter 11, Verse 39, Martha told Jesus "by this time he stinketh; for he hath been dead four days."
Page 45
That was pretty specific.
So was the account of Jesus bringing Lazarus back from the dead.
"Lazarus come forth!" and the dead man did just that, still bound in graveclothes. Jesus then commanded the crowd to turn Lazarus loose, after which John dropped the narrative and moved on to the conversion of the Jews and the Pharisee conspiracy.
Nowhere in the Bible did it say Lazarus went around eating people. The Bible that Martin had known, taught, and loved for the last forty years was full of examples of the dead coming back to life. But not like this.
"He that believes in me shall have eternal life," Martin spoke aloud. His voice sounded very small in the empty church.
He wondered if the things he had glimpsed in the street were still believers. At one time, many of them had been members of his congregation. 62 Martin had seen a lot in his sixty years. He'd survived a copperhead bite when he was seven and pneumonia when he was ten. He served as a Navy chaplain during Viet Nam, and made it back home alive, only to have Desert Storm claim a son of his own in return. That had been their only child. He'd outlived his wife, Chesya, gone five years now to breast cancer. His faith had gotten him through it all.
He needed that faith now, clinging to it as a drowning man would grasp a lifeboat.
But he also found himself questioning it. Not for the first time-the Lord had given him all kinds of tests over the years, though never anything so fundamental as this. But, as Martin was fond of telling his flock, the good Lord didn't waste his time testing those who didn't have much to offer.
He moved across the church to the boarded-over stained glass window and peered through a knothole in the plywood.
Though not quite dawn, the darkness was already receding. Becky Gingerich, the church organist, had lost her soiled dress overnight. Now she squatted among the shrubs, clad only in a filthy pair of once-white cotton panties. Her sagging breasts swayed freely. She gnawed on a forearm as if it were a chicken leg, then cast it aside, staring off into the distance and moaning softly. Something had attracted her attention. A man appeared, cautiously limping down the street. His jeans and flannel shirt were dirty and torn. He clutched a pistol, but the weapon dangled limply by his side. He did not seem to notice the corpse moving Page 46
in the shadows. Wearily, he collapsed to his knees on the sidewalk. The hedges rustled and Becky darted forward. Half conscious, the man seemed unaware of the danger.
"Hey!" Martin shouted, beating his fist against the plywood. "Lookout!" Mouthing a quick prayer, he dashed into the narthex
63 and struggled to move the heavy wooden pew propped against the door. Sliding it aside, he grabbed the shotgun from the coat rack, undid the four recently installed deadbolts, and ran outside.
Hearing the commotion, the stranger turned
Frankie shrieked, yanking frantically at the stubborn cover. Something in her back tore. Still she pulled. The abscesses in her arms burst, spurting with pus-yellow blood.
The cover rose with a screech, and she slid it to the side. 60 The zombies drew closer. They did not speak, and Frankie found their silence even more disturbing than the others. She thought of the baby. That evil zombie baby that had seemed so harmless...
Arms weak, collapsed veins turning to water, she still found the strength to raise her arm and extend her middle finger. Then she dropped down into the hole and was swallowed by the darkness.
She was on the run again, and while she could outrun the zombies, she couldn't escape herself-or the craving that was building in her veins. 61
Martin stared at Jesus on the cross and thought about resurrection. Lazarus had lain dead in his tomb for four days before Jesus came along. Martin opened his Scofield Reference Bible and turned to the Book of John. In Chapter 11, Verse 39, Martha told Jesus "by this time he stinketh; for he hath been dead four days."
Page 45
That was pretty specific.
So was the account of Jesus bringing Lazarus back from the dead.
"Lazarus come forth!" and the dead man did just that, still bound in graveclothes. Jesus then commanded the crowd to turn Lazarus loose, after which John dropped the narrative and moved on to the conversion of the Jews and the Pharisee conspiracy.
Nowhere in the Bible did it say Lazarus went around eating people. The Bible that Martin had known, taught, and loved for the last forty years was full of examples of the dead coming back to life. But not like this.
"He that believes in me shall have eternal life," Martin spoke aloud. His voice sounded very small in the empty church.
He wondered if the things he had glimpsed in the street were still believers. At one time, many of them had been members of his congregation. 62 Martin had seen a lot in his sixty years. He'd survived a copperhead bite when he was seven and pneumonia when he was ten. He served as a Navy chaplain during Viet Nam, and made it back home alive, only to have Desert Storm claim a son of his own in return. That had been their only child. He'd outlived his wife, Chesya, gone five years now to breast cancer. His faith had gotten him through it all.
He needed that faith now, clinging to it as a drowning man would grasp a lifeboat.
But he also found himself questioning it. Not for the first time-the Lord had given him all kinds of tests over the years, though never anything so fundamental as this. But, as Martin was fond of telling his flock, the good Lord didn't waste his time testing those who didn't have much to offer.
He moved across the church to the boarded-over stained glass window and peered through a knothole in the plywood.
Though not quite dawn, the darkness was already receding. Becky Gingerich, the church organist, had lost her soiled dress overnight. Now she squatted among the shrubs, clad only in a filthy pair of once-white cotton panties. Her sagging breasts swayed freely. She gnawed on a forearm as if it were a chicken leg, then cast it aside, staring off into the distance and moaning softly. Something had attracted her attention. A man appeared, cautiously limping down the street. His jeans and flannel shirt were dirty and torn. He clutched a pistol, but the weapon dangled limply by his side. He did not seem to notice the corpse moving Page 46
in the shadows. Wearily, he collapsed to his knees on the sidewalk. The hedges rustled and Becky darted forward. Half conscious, the man seemed unaware of the danger.
"Hey!" Martin shouted, beating his fist against the plywood. "Lookout!" Mouthing a quick prayer, he dashed into the narthex
63 and struggled to move the heavy wooden pew propped against the door. Sliding it aside, he grabbed the shotgun from the coat rack, undid the four recently installed deadbolts, and ran outside.
Hearing the commotion, the stranger turned
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