The Church

The heavy oak doors of Saint Michael’s offered a blessed reprieve. They groaned shut behind us, the sound echoing in the cavernous space, a final, defiant slam against the encroaching madness. Bubba, his face grimy and etched with exhaustion, leaned against the cool wood, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sarah, her nurse’s uniform torn and stained, clutched my arm, her knuckles white. Jesse, ever the steady rock, scanned the interior with a practiced eye, his hand resting on the worn grip of the wrench he’d taken to carrying.

“Think we’re safe here, Bub?” I asked, my voice hoarse. The silence inside the church was a stark contrast to the cacophony of screams and guttural snarls that had been our constant soundtrack for the past few hours.

Bubba pushed himself away from the door, his gaze sweeping over the rows of pews, the stained-glass windows depicting scenes of serene biblical narratives now eerily out of place. “For now, Jesse. For now. Earl said this place was solid. He’s got a cousin who’s a deacon here.”