Free F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 by Midnight Mass (v2.1) Page A

kind and set them loose among the population. What could
be more dismaying, more devastating than seeing the very people who should have
been leading the resistance become enthusiastic participants in the slaughter?
                 The
rabbis could have saved themselves, could have saved their people, but they
would not bend to the reality of what was happening around them. Which, when
Zev thought about it, was not at all out of character. Hadn't they spent
generations learning to turn away from the rest of the world?
                 But
now their greatest fear had come to pass: they'd been assimilated— with a vengeance.
                 Those
early days of anarchic slaughter were over. Now that the undead held the ruling
hand, the bloodletting had become more organized. But the damage to Zev's
people had been done—and it was irreparable. Hitler would have been proud. His
Nazi "final solution" was an afternoon picnic compared to the work of
the undead. In a matter of months, in Israel and Eastern Europe , the undead did what Hitler's Reich could
not do in all the years of the Second World War. Muslims and Hindus had fared
just as poorly, but that was not Zev's concern. His heart did not bleed for
Islam and India .
                 There's
only a few of us now. So few and so scattered. A final Diaspora.
                 For
a moment Zev was almost overwhelmed by grief, but he pushed it down, locked it
back into that place where he kept his sorrows, and thought of how fortunate it
was for his wife Chana that she died of natural causes before the horror began.
Her soul had been too gentle to weather what had happened to their community.
                 Forcing
himself back to the present, he looked around. Not such a bad place for a
retreat, he thought. He wondered how many houses like this the Catholic Church
owned.
                 A
series of clicks and clacks drew his attention back to the door as numerous
bolts were pulled in rapid succession. The door swung inward, revealing a
nervous-looking young man in a long black cassock. As he looked at Zev his
mouth twisted and he rubbed the back of his wrist across it to hide a smile.
                 "And
what should be so funny?" Zev asked.
                 "I'm
sorry. It's just—"
                 "I
know," Zev said, waving off any explanation as he glanced down at the
wooden cross slung on a cord around his neck. "I know."
                 A
bearded Jew in a baggy serge suit wearing a yarmulke and a cross. Hilarious,
no?
                 Nu?
This was what the times demanded, this was what it came down to if he wanted to
survive. And Zev did want to survive. Someone had to live to carry on the
traditions of the Talmud and the Torah, even if there were hardly any Jews left
alive in the world.
                 Zev
stood on the sunny porch, waiting. The priest watched him in silence.
                 Finally
Zev said, "Well, may a wandering Jew come in?"
                 "I
won't stop you," the priest said, "but surely you don't expect me to
invite you."
                 Ah,
yes. Another precaution. The undead couldn't cross the threshold of a home
unless invited, so don't invite. A good habit to cultivate, he supposed.
                 He
stepped inside and the priest immediately closed the door behind him,
relatching all the locks one by one. When he turned around Zev held out his
hand.
                 "Rabbi
Zev Wolpin, Father. I thank you for allowing me in."
                 "Brother
Christopher, sir," he said, smiling and shaking Zev's hand. His suspicions
seemed to have been allayed. "I'm not a priest yet. We can't offer you
much here, but—"
                 "Oh,
I won't be staying long. I just came to talk to Father Joseph Cahill."
                 Brother
Christopher frowned. "Father Cahill isn't