Strangers in the Land (The Zombie Bible) (Volume 3)
Stant Litore
Language: English
Pages: 504
ISBN: 1942458142
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
"When you see another's face -- the face of a child, or of someone hungry or hurt, someone pleading for your love -- their eyes look back. You look at them. They look at you. Only the dead don't look back." It is 1160 BC. For years, the prophet Devora has blamed other tribes for the hunger of the dead and the gruesome death of her mother. But this day will bring her both tidings of a swarm of the dead greater than any she has ever known and a supplicant who will shatter every hard shell she has formed around her heart: Hurriya, who has carried her infant across the length of ancient Israel in search of a miraculous cure. Hurriya, a refugee from the tribes Devora has hated. Hurriya, who is receiving terrifying visions of the future—like Devora’s own. In the nights to come, all strangers in the land must stand together if they are to survive. "To say I loved this book would be an understatement. I could not put it down." - The Seattle Post-Intelligencer "Beyond the rich historical background and the desperate fight for survival, Strangers in the Land is a story about otherness, what it means to be a ‘stranger’ ... Far from being 'just another zombie book', it is a remarkably clear look at what it means to impose a system of inequality among a culture." - Examiner.com "Stant rebuilds the zombie mythology from the ground up." - Rob Kroese, author of Mercury Falls and Schrodinger's Gat
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man take on four hundred dead by himself.” “Did he live?” the boy whispered. “No. But we will never forget him. Neither will God.” Barak’s hands tightened about the haft of the spear; its weight was reassuring. He could do this. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of flame. Looking carefully around the bole of the tree, he saw torches moving through the barley. “Look,” he breathed. “The men of the north fight the dead, Yehoyakim. Come with me.” The youth shook his head, but Barak
that. She’d known it from the moment she had seen Hurriya struggling her way up the hill toward the olive tree, naked within her salmah, bruised, carrying the half-eaten remains of her child. Even then, Hurriya’s presence at the olive tree had been a message, a demand for justice, for the strangers in the land no less than for those born in the tents of the People. And the suggestion that even tribes who were strange to each other could teach one another something about preserving life and
but beneath it there was a thrill and a heat tightening up deep within her. She yielded willingly to the kiss, so many feelings rushing into her and through her, like cattle stampeding through a grove, the force of their passage tugging the leaves from the lower branches and sending them whirling about. After a few moments she found herself gazing up at his face, her lips still parted. Hardly enough air. He smiled. “You are pretty,” he murmured. “Sleep well tonight.” He cupped her cheek in his
hand. Suppressing an urge to keep on galloping until he’d left the corpse far, far behind, Barak wheeled Ager about, and horse and rider threw themselves at the corpse again, though Ager let out a panicked squeal that no man should ever hear his horse make. The thrust of the spear into its shoulder had turned the corpse about, and now it was facing Barak again as he came at it from the opposite direction. It hissed and lifted its arms again. Barak roared in defiance of his fear. The warm wetness
and again into words, as she rode among the dead. Numbly Barak lifted his eyes to her, saw her bound hair shining in the moonlight, her sword an arc of white in the air, never still. Behind her galloping horse, a trail of bodies, shattered and reeking. A few staggered to their feet or crawled along the ground after her; the rest were still, their heads carved open in terrible wounds. Zadok had ridden now to the edge of the cache, was spearing the corpses as they stepped out. Omri had joined him
