Kill Every Living Thing
“They come shaking in triumph their long, green hair:
They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore.”—J. Joyce
“Thus saith the Lord of hosts, I remember that which Amalek did to Israel, how he laid wait for him in the way, when he came up from Egypt. Now go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not; but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and ass.”—1 Samuel 15: 2-3 KJV
“Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence?”—Psalm 139: 7 KJV
1
Reality was following the dream, as always—why I dread dreams. What is more terrifying than prophecy? It makes its own truth. A truth that can be supplanted only by a stronger prophet. But as I stood there, feeling the rancid dream inside me, gazing up at the shadowy army shoulder to shoulder on the ridge, choking the horizon, waiting for sunrise and emitting a nervous murmur like locusts, there was no other prophet around.
In my dream there was only me, and the army came from the sea: my dreamshop’s preferred imagery. Enormous ships disgorging the wild, righteous soldiers, goaded by their own prophet, merciless under the aegis of their god. First a faceless horde, then the thunderous charge, the faces getting closer, coming into focus, slashed with colors, flowing green hair, crazed by some unimaginable decoction—roaring over the beach like a tidal wave—savage, yes, more than merely cruel—flush with the pure joy of slaughter.
Struck by the sight, I waited until it was too late. Too late!—I tried to run but my dream steps bogged in the heavy sand. One of the soldiers, his lewd face even now seared in my memory, came after me, methodically, in no hurry. Mere seconds from his sword, I woke up.
But now I’m not waking up and I’m not alone. And they’re not coming from the sea but from the ridge up above. My fellow holders are all petrified by what is about to happen. Some, wielding pitchforks, shovels, rakes, kitchen knives, are trying to rally some kind of defense—but there is no defense. And nowhere to flee. Some are trying to hide their valuables—absurdly, pathetically—but there is no hiding of anything now. Our vain possessions, only what we try to hold as we breathe—when we stop breathing, they are someone else’s. Some holders are hysterical, others trying to stifle those wild sobs to keep from going mad. Some are resigned, refusing to look at what is about to be loosed upon them—some, like me, unable to keep from looking.
It feels like sacrilege to appeal to your own deaf gods. Worse than sacrilege—a sham.
I am reduced to what I have until this point been able to hide from: myself utterly alone. Without comrades, brothers, sisters, no refuge, no rescue, no salvation, no redeemer, no deliverer, no balm in Gilead, none here, no philosophy, no doctrine, no code, no other anything in my heart, no saving grace, and not even the hope of hope.
Nothing good—but nothing evil either—no remorse, no guilt, no buried sin to fear the consequences of—all of that is vapor.
I am not going to be judged, only impaled.
2
Dread.
What they are feeling down there, as they endure the terrible wait. I can feel it too. And smell it—a sickly scent the dawn breeze brings us—a taste some among us inhale and savor.
Certain doom—what would that feel like?
I threw up all night, but now the time has come, the juice has hit, and I know I will make it through. I relax and time slows down. I anticipate only being done with it. When we hear the command, we raise our swords and axes and spears, and start down with a berserk cry and can almost hear the whimpers of the innocent, smell their loss of control over their bowels, as we advance. Except they aren’t innocent—tell yourself over and over until it freezes your heart. They are thieves—they live a lie. God has willed it and they are standing in the way of God’s will.
This power, passed from one to another as we stand together until as a whole it embodies the irresistible force of God’s wrath—there is no rush like it.
No mercy—kill every living thing—plant, animal, and man—and leave the spoils: they are God’s. Burn it to ashes.
As we reach the outer stone walls, we divide into two flanks and encircle the place. Some are singled out to pursue the few who make a futile attempt to flee. They will dispatch them, and return.
It takes only minutes to ram down the front and rear gates.
I only have to get by the first—luckily a woman coming at me with a short knife—don’t they know the ones with sharp things will be the first to go? What does it matter—you see them try to find some courage in this final moment—and it’s distressing to see courage look so feeble. After her, I don’t feel anything—blindness falls over my eyes, ice over my heart—and I remember to keep a running tally to sharpen my concentration. At ten, in short order, it is all done. Complete destruction comes with its own haunting smell, and once you get it in your nostrils, you can never get it out again.
Only finding the survivors now. In the first dwelling I enter, I hear the bleat of a goat and follow it into a back room where a young girl, her face contorted in terror, is backing into a corner, holding—what?—an icon of her god?—as though she will get any help from that. She screams as I almost sever the head of the goat with one stroke, and then come for her. The juice, my duty—I do not let myself feel any of this. Then I see that she is clutching a small purse in her hand. I make quick work of her, then reach down and unpeel her still pliable, wet fingers from the purse. I open it and find a little cache of gold coins. I look nervously around me—shouts coming from out in the streets, but only the last gasps of life in the house. With a mad surge I shove the purse into my tunic and start out.
Then I stop. I stand there in sudden dread that quickly swells to mortal terror I feel in the rotten pit of my soul. The place where the foul thing is lodged against my abdomen burns. Sweat suddenly floods my face, and I’m not sure I can support my own weight. Not sure I can control my own bowels. I claw it from my tunic and throw it on the floor with a cry: All for you, Lord!
Silence. My hands are burning now.
I fall to a knee. I give all that I have, all that I am, to you, O Lord!
Silence.
Too late?
Fear drives me out the door, and as I step outside into the street the sun slides behind a cloud and a cold shadow falls over me. Is this my answer? The burning is now inside me. I can’t hear the cries anymore—only a silence growing stronger like a rock sinking to the bottom of the sea—worse than silence, a feeling like the engine of the world is dying.
Too late? Please not too late!
I can feel no impulse to move. I can feel no impulse at all. Something is crying Flee!—and though there is nowhere to run, I run.
My God, I can smell your hound smelling its way to me.
February 11, 2024