After the Bite (4 page)

Holy War

It was
Friday, and Mr. Horowitz descended the stairs of the apartment like he always did. He reached the landing and walked down the hall. Just ahead of him, Mr. Salih was shutting the door to his own apartment. Upon seeing Mr. Horowitz, a smile spread across his face.

Mr. Horowitz fought the feeling in the pit of his stomach, adjusted his hat, and continued walking, pretending not to notice Mr. Salih at all. He pulled his pocket Tanakh from the inside of his jacket and buried his face within.

“Good morning, my friend,” Mr. Salih said in his thick accent. Mr. Horowitz wished he wouldn’t refer to him as such.

“I don
’t see what’s good about it,” Mr. Horowitz said.

“The sun has risen, has it not? Allah has blessed us, this day.”

“The sun would rise if we were all dead, too,” Mr. Horowitz said. “God made it that way from the start.”

“Ah, but what did He make it that way
for
, if not for his followers?” Mr. Salih said.

“Maybe himself,” Mr. Horowitz said, “to shed light on the sins of nonbelievers.”

“Maybe,” Mr. Salih said. He pulled a copy of the Quran from his back pocket. “A verse, for good measure?”

“As always,” Mr. Horowitz said. “You first.”

Salih opened his book to a random page, and read.

“
‘Be not wroth with me that I forgot, and be not hard upon me for my fault.’” Mr. Horowitz chuckled.

“I
’m not the one you have to worry about being hard on you,” he said. Mr. Salih smiled and said, “Your turn.”

“
‘Trust in the Lord forever,’” Mr. Horowitz said, “‘For the Lord God is an everlasting rock.’” Mr. Horowitz had not stopped walking, and when the two men reached the stairs, he didn’t wait for Mr. Salih. Mr. Horowitz was old and his suit was tight, but his limbs were still good, and his legs still carried him down the stairs at a good speed. Mr. Salih continued down the hall, as he did every day.

“Good day to you, my friend,” Mr. Salih said. “May your days on this earth all be good, for your days in the life beyond will not.”

“Same to you,” Mr. Horowitz said, not caring whether anyone heard.

****

It was Monday, and Mr. Horowitz repeated his routine. Once again, he hoped Mr. Salih would not be leaving his home, and once again, he buried his face in his book when he had no such luck.

“Good day,” Mr. Salih said.

“Great day,” Mr. Horowitz said, “especially for us who don’t live in fear.”

“I have nothing to fear,
” Mr. Salih said, “not in this world.” He pulled his book from his pocket. “‘The only ones to respond are those who listen. God resurrects the dead, they ultimately return to Him.’”

Mr. Horowitz read from his book.

“‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord.’”

The two men walked down the hall, toward the stairs.

“What is it that you do, my friend?” Mr. Salih said. “When you are gone all day?”

“Don
’t you have something better to do, like praying to the East or fasting?” Mr. Horowitz said. Mr. Salih said nothing. “What is it
you
do all day, when you’re around here?”

“I visit the man down the hall,” Mr. Salih said.

Mr. Horowitz, while not fond of Mr. Salih, did not wish to be too disrespectful. He fought against the idea that the man down the hall (whom nobody could ever remember seeing, save for Mr. Salih) was another Arab, fought against the idea that the two were plotting something. Mr. Horowitz did not trust Mr. Salih or Arabs in general, nor did he like them, but there was an air of niceness about Mr. Salih. He was no killer.

“Why hasn
’t anyone seen the man down the hall?” Mr. Horowitz said. The two reached the stairs, and for the first time that either of them could recall, Mr. Horowitz stopped to continue talking.

“I have, my friend,” Mr. Salih said, and continued walking.

****

It was
Tuesday, and Mr. Horowitz walked toward the stairs. He had considered waiting ten minutes before leaving, or perhaps leaving fifteen minutes early. But his brief meetings with Mr. Salih were no excuse to forfeit routine, so he left at the same time as always. And, as always, he ran into Mr. Salih outside of his apartment.

“Good morning,” Mr. Salih said. Mr. Horowitz said nothing, but Mr. Salih pulled his book out regardless.

“‘We narrate to you the history of those communities: Their messengers went to them with clear proofs, but they were not to believe in what they had rejected before. God thus seals the hearts of the disbelievers.’”

For a moment the walk continued, and Mr. Salih was intrigued that Mr. Horowitz had not
produced his own book. But as the stairs loomed closer, the permanent scowl on Mr. Horowitz’s face turned into an emotional frown, and he grabbed his book from his pocket.

“
‘The Lord is far from the wicked, but he hears the prayer of the righteous.’ I win.” Mr. Horowitz descended the stairs before Mr. Salih could offer a reply.

****

It was Wednesday, and Mr. Horowitz met Mr. Salih at the usual spot, book in hand.

“
‘I am forbidden from worshiping what you worship besides God. Say, I will not follow your opinions. Otherwise, I will go astray, and not be guided.’”

“
‘Better is the end of a thing than its beginning, and the patient in spirit is better than the proud in spirit.’”

The stairs grew ever closer, and the stagnant silence was almost visible.

“What is it that you do, Mr. Horowitz?”

“I go to the church,” Mr. Horowitz said. “And I pray. Do you go to church, Mr. Salih? Or a mosque?”

“Of course not,” Mr. Salih said. “Our mosque was destroyed.”

Mr. Horowitz felt his throat clog up for a moment.

“Destroyed? How?”

“We received threats, Mr. Horowitz. Many of them. People were afraid to attend. We had no funding or support, and the mosque was torn down. People moved, attended mosques farther away, in safer areas.”

“What about you?” Mr. Horowitz said, nearly stopping at the stairs.

“I believe that Allah will understand, and forgive me,” Mr. Salih said. He headed down the hall.

****

On Thursday
Mr. Horowitz once again met Mr. Salih.

“What
’s the word today? Does it have to do with proper treatment of your many wives?”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Salih said. “Perhaps yours will give proper instructions on how to kill your enemies.”

Mr. Horowitz had almost looked forward to the meeting today, but the feeling had left him before he had even spoken.

“
‘He is the only One who controls life and death. To have anything done, He simply says to it, ‘Be,’ and it is.’”

“
‘Be not quick in your spirit to become angry, for anger lodges in the bosom of fools.’”

The two reached the stairs.

“Give the man down the hall my regards,” Mr. Horowitz said, and began to descend. Mr. Salih followed. Mr. Horowitz tried not to look surprised.

“I am afraid I cannot,” Mr. Salih said.

“Why are you following me?” Mr. Horowitz said.

“I am not following you, my friend. It seems that today, our paths have been drawn the same. But my reason is no different, I am going to see the same man.”

“So he moved?”

“He moved on. The man down the hall passed away this morning. I am asked to identify.”

Mr. Horowitz tried his best to maintain a balance of apathy and respect.

“My condolences.”

“He is with God, now,” Mr. Salih said. “Your condolences are unnecessary. I think, somewhere, he looks down on us now. He offers us
his
condolences.”

“Who was he, anyway?”

“He was a good man,” Mr. Salih said.

“Was he
… you know,” Mr. Horowitz said.

“A Muslim?”

“Yeah.”

“
…He was a good man, Mr. Horowitz. That is all there is to know.”

The two parted ways after leaving the front door, and Mr. Horowitz had an inescapable feeling that Mr. Salih did not quite know the answer himself.

****

Friday
came, and everything changed. The radio came on and told a horrific tale of monsters eating people in the streets. There was chaos, and after the shock and feeling that it must be a joke had passed, Mr. Horowitz was convinced that the end times had finally arrived.

He put on his suit and vest and reached for his hat, just like every day. The only difference was that this time, he brought with him a small revolver.

He walked down the hall, and saw that the reports were not incorrect. A man lay on the floor at the top of the steps. Above him, another man knelt down, ripping and tearing at the man, bringing bits of flesh and other things to his mouth.

There was a groan, and Mr. Horowitz turned to see another of the monsters. It grabbed for him, and Mr. Horowitz fired. The man fell into him, and both fell to the ground. The strange man did not move.

“Good day, my friend.” Mr. Horowitz turned and saw Mr. Salih standing there, shotgun in hand, blood splattered on his shirt.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mr
. Horowitz said. He pushed himself to his feet, brushing off Mr. Salih’s attempt to help him.

“I am afraid not,” Mr. Salih said. “Something is happening, as I see you are aware.”

“What are you doing out here?” Mr. Horowitz said. “Go back home, get inside.” He wondered what had brought Mr. Salih out in the first place, since he wouldn’t need to visit the man down the hall anymore. A thought occurred to him that Mr. Salih had come out to see a different man from down the hall, but Mr. Horowitz dismissed it.

“I don
’t think I will be safe at home anymore,” Mr. Salih said. His eyes widened for a moment, and he pulled his Quran out. “One last passage?”

“This is hardly the time,” Mr. Horowitz said.

“This is the perfect time,” Mr. Salih said, “for it may be the final time.”

Mr. Horowitz looked at him, and then sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

“‘The day will come when this earth will be substituted with a new earth, and also the heavens, and everyone will be brought before God, the One, the Supreme.’”

Mr. Horowitz eyed the shotgun.

“What’s that for? Is it time to kill the infidels?”

“Yes, I think so,” Mr. Salih said. He gestured to Mr. Horowitz
’s revolver. “And you, too?”

Mr. Horowitz eyed the two guns. He pulled his book from his jacket.

“‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding.’”

Mr. Salih raised his shotgun and fired. The sound was deafening, and Mr. Horowitz felt his heart beat faster as he shut his eyes tightly and his hands instinctively went to his ears. The book fell from his hand.

He opened his eyes. Just behind him, another of the creatures was falling to the ground. Mr. Salih reloaded his shotgun.

“Shall we kill the infidels?” he said.

“Yeah,” Mr. Horowitz said. “Yeah, Mr. Salih. Let’s kill the infidels.”

Mr. Horowitz retrieved his book from the ground, the page still held in place. He looked at it, finished the verse to himself.

In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make straight your paths.

It was
Friday, and Mr. Horowitz walked down the hallway with his closest friend, Mr. Salih.

The Living Dead

He wanted to kill himself.

He went through high school with little to say. He never made any friends. He just shuffled through his days, did his homework, got straight Bs and Cs. He was shy. He would come home and read a book or listen to music. His mom would stay out late nights fucking men she hardly knew. His father was dead. He had killed himself.

He didn
’t get along with anyone. He finished high school. He skipped his graduation ceremony. He got a job at the local grocery store. He hated it. He never complained, and he was never rude to the customers, even when they were being assholes. He never asked for a raise.

He moved into a small apartment. He lived alone
and hated it. He paid for classes at the community college. He went to class in the mornings, and in the evenings he went to work.

He finished community college, and he didn
’t care to go on. He wanted to kill himself. He had just been here too long.

He slept through mornings. He went to work in the evenings. And in the wee hours of the day, after he got off, he walked two miles to a bridge overlooking a river. It was a small drop but a large enough one. He would look at the reflection of the moon in the river, and he
’d want to kill himself. He’d stare until he could see the sun’s reflection in the water, and then he’d walk back home and go to sleep.

One night, when the wind was warm and only a little strong, he got up onto the concrete barrier. He stood there, and he waited for the wind to push him over. But the wind died. He wanted to kill himself, but instead he stepped back down. The wind picked back up again. He walked home early that night.

Years passed. He visited the bridge every night, wanting to kill himself. He thought about getting a gun a few times, but the river seemed a much better idea.

One night he stood by the bridge, staring into the water, wanting to kill himself. A car passed by, its high beams blazing. It was the first car he ever remembered driving by. It slowed, and the man driving rolled the window down. He asked for directions.

He gave the man directions, and watched the car fade from view. He wanted to kill himself, though he was beginning to think this river would never take him. He turned back to it. Something floated by in the water. It was far too dark to see, even with the reflection of the moon in the water. He walked home in the morning.

He slept in late. His alarm clock went off, but the radio was silent. He was late for work. He didn
’t care, however, because he really just wanted to kill himself. He got ready for work. He turned on the television; he liked to listen to the lives of fake people as he got ready. Only there was nothing on. All of the stations were off the air. He switched over to the emergency channel, and read about an incident. It said to stay indoors.

He walked outside. There were dead people all around. A half of a dead man hung from the balcony of the apartment across from his and up one story. His blood collected on the concrete steps. There was another body below, it appeared as though someone had hurriedly left their home, slipped on the blood, and broken their neck against the stairs. He heard screams in the distance. He heard screams from the apartment above his.

He rushed up the steps. The door was open. He saw a horrified couple standing in the corner of their living room, deep in embrace. Across the room, a young boy was eating his younger sister. The wife ran to aid her. The boy ripped her throat out with ease. The husband screamed. He grabbed a gun from the nightstand and blew little Johnny’s brains against the television, which had a dead signal. The husband looked at him.

“They
’re all dead,” he said. He started crying. “They’re all dead.”

The husband put the gun against his own head. He killed himself.

The man walked across the room and got the gun.

He walked to the river. He looked at its reflection. Fifty feet down the road, a car overturned trying to avoid another crazy person. That person attacked as soon as the car stopped moving. It bashed itself against the window. The man could hear the screams of the people in the car, still alive, trapped.

He wanted to kill himself. But he had more important things to do. He knew that the river would never take him. The sun was shining, reflected in the river he would never see again. The man turned and headed toward the wrecked car.