Books of the Dead (Book 1): Sanctuary From The Dead (23 page)

When I considered
bugging out during my days of exile I created a stash of supplies, including a pistol, under the choir loft.  If I could get to the loft, maybe I could finish this.

I heard his footfalls, uneven and plodding, his breathing labored, coming down the hall after me.

“I’m coming for you, you son of a bitch,” he said, but his words were wet and mushy.  I guess my beating had taken out a few of his teeth.

I ran across the
hallway intersection to get his attention on me.  I saw his arm go up as he took a wild shot at me.  I heard a whizzing sound as the bullet flew by me and a chunk of plaster came off the wall behind me.   

I
yanked open the sanctuary door and entered.  Once I was fully inside, I noticed three gaping holes in the east wall where the moon light was streaming in.  Dust particles filled the air, dancing in the moonbeams.  The sound of gunshots filtered in through the breaches in the wall.  The shots were sporadic as if things were calming down outside.  That or the dead were winning again. 

Up until this very moment
, in this fucked-up, post-apocalyptic zombie-filled world, all the rules, be they truly warped, were explainable through rational processes, no matter how twisted those processes were.  A virus or plague of unknown origin bringing the dead back to life was based on some messed up scientific principles and could be explained.  Once you got used to the fact that the dead had risen and were attacking people, your latitude for the unexplainable or the extra-natural broadened greatly.   Even in a world with such elastic rules, what happened next defied any rational explanation and changed my worldview in the most fundamental way.

From the back of the sanctuary I could see people in the pews.  People sitting calmly, barely moving, their backs to me.  There were only a handful and they were spaced out in pews near the front of the sanctuary.  Each one sat eerily quiet and unmoving as if meditating or praying.  Despite their pla
cidity, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and goosebumps ran down my arms -- and I had seen some strange shit in the past few months.

In the hallway outside the sanctuary I heard Kurtz curse as he stumbled along. 

“Asswipe, I’m coming for you!” he shouted.

I had little choice but to move toward the front of the sanctuary despite my instincts holding my feet in place. 

I moved into the sanctuary slowly and got parallel to the first person in the pew next to me and took a look in their direction.  It was Mrs. Casey.  She had taught my Sunday school class when I was a kid.  A big piece of her face was missing and a flap of skin hung loosely from her neck.  She was clearly a zombie now. 

In every context I had experienced since the Outbreak, the most predictable chain
of events went like this; she would turn in my direction, launch herself off the pew at me with a snarl or groan and the rest of the zombies would follow in suit.  In just a few short seconds, I would be ripped to pieces by their ravenous teeth and rending hands, dying in one of the most horrible ways imaginable.

But none of this happened.  I paused for several seconds waiting for some reaction, but she sat unmoving.  I contemplated the idea that maybe something in her zombie brain was scrambled so badly that she was incapable of locomotion and decided to press on.  Edging up beside the next pew
, I looked over and saw Jake Tillson and a middle-aged lady whose name escaped me.  She had been in the choir.  Both of them showed signs of being attacked.  Jake had a large wound across his forehead, congealed blood hanging down from his left eyebrow.  The lady was missing an eye and had part of the skin gnawed away from her skull. 

Neither of them moved or even looked in my direction.  This was something very strange.  It was then that my mind had a little schism.  I felt like I had stepped outside
my body because this whole scene was so much like the dream or vision or whatever you wanted to call it, that I had experienced just a few nights ago.  Was that dream some sort of precognition or was it a vision from above?  I could have pondered these questions for hours but I came back to reality.  Whatever was true, I was still sitting in a room full of the undead with a psychopath chasing me.

The zombies knew I was there, yet they remained still and a quiet voice inside me told me that for some unknown or even supernatural reason that I was safe.  Maybe it was my mind breaking with reality after all the shit that had gone down, but it didn’t feel that way. 

The sanctuary door flew open. Ducking down, I hastened my way towards the choir loft.  Even with this urgent push, I was nearly stopped in my tracks when I passed the first pew where Pastor Stevens was sitting as placidly as the others.  He had been mauled badly.  His right cheek had three deep tear wounds and the ear on that side of his head hung loosely from a chunk of torn flesh.

“Where are you, you little bastard?” Kurtz shouted from the back of the sanctuary.  His words came out like he was talking with a mouth full of spaghetti.

I lowered myself to nearly a crawl and ascended the set of three stairs that led to the altar, passing Pastor Steven’s pulpit, and made my way into the choir loft. 

A g
unshot exploded over my head and a chair flew over backwards just a few feet behind me.  It was then that I moved to a full out crawl. 

“Who the fuck are these people?” The soldier asked with some perplexity in his voice.  I had no idea what he was doing, but he didn’t shoot again and I couldn’t hear him moving.  In my mind
’s eye I imagined that we had done, and was looking at the silent congregation and wondering what the hell was up. 

While he pondered, I crawled.  I made my way up the tiered choir loft to the third and final row of seats.  My stash was tucked behind the fifth seat from the right.  My hand groped in the dark and came upon the cloth bag containing some of my get-away items including a .45 automatic.  I slowly pulled
the bag out, but discovered I held the bag from its bottom.  As soon as I got pulled completely out, gravity went into action, pulling the contents down towards the mouth of the bag, spilling them down into the darkness.  The loudest noise came from the gun hitting the wooden floor. 

“There you are,” Kurtz said with a hint of satisfaction.  Two shots came in my direction, one hitting a chair just above my head and the other knocking a hole in the mural on the back.

My chances were next to nil of jumping behind the choir loft and finding my gun.  The space was just too tight and too dark back there. 

Another bullet winged by me. 
The soldier’s aim was getting better despite the beating he had sustained. 

With no better option, I slin
ked down the tiers of the loft on my stomach, making my way towards the altar. 

When I got to the
bottom tier, I took a quick look out into the sanctuary and spotted Kurtz moving slowly down the left aisle.  His movements were tentative, as he kept his aim trained on the choir loft trying to spot me while taking quick glances at the bodies in the pews.  If they hadn’t been there, I’m quite certain he would have rushed the altar and had me dead to rights.

My window of escape was
narrowing with each step he took forward.  The closer he got, the greater the likelihood he’d be able to pick me off when I stood and attempted a run for it 

I tensed my muscles, readying myself for action when I heard a low moan start in the sanctuary followed by the creaking of the pews.  I
stopped and turned my head to look out into the sanctuary. 

Almost in unison,
the people in the sanctuary rose out of their seats.  Their moaning was by no means melodic, but had a similar intonation like an eerie hymn.  Kurtz stopped and swiveled his aim from my direction to the zombies, targeting one, then another, but he didn’t fire on any of them.

“What the fuck,” he said and they started for him.  

He paused for a moment, seemingly perplexed, but then shot Mrs. Casey as she closed in on him.  His shot grazed her head, making her jerk, but she kept coming, her moan changing to a snarl.  His second shot went into her brain pan, putting her down and out.  Jake Tillson came at him from behind. Kurtz whirled and fired, the bullet tearing into Jake’s shoulder, slowing him down for a moment, but he shook it off and, hissing, bore down on Kurtz.  He took Jake down with the next shot.  Two more zombies came at him and he took one of them out with a headshot when the slide went back on his gun.  His gun was empty. 

Kurtz screamed in frustration and threw his gun at the closest one, backing away but went right into the arms of a zombie that was coming up from behind.  It was Pastor Stevens.  He embraced Kurtz in a bear hug, pulling the soldier backwards towards his waiting and hungry mouth.  His t
eeth tore into Kurtz’s neck.  He howled in pain, filling the sanctuary with an agonized scream.  Another zombie came at him from the front and he kicked at it knocking it back, but his movements seemed listless as he surrendered to his fate.  The zombie came again and fell on him, tearing into him with its hands and teeth.  Another one joined the fray and they started their grisly dissection of the soldier, a bite at a time.

I thought
Kurtz would have put more of a fight, but between the beating and that bite, something in him must have given up.  Maybe he realized it was all over with that first bite?  It was a horrible way to die, and despite all the pain he had inflicted on us, I felt pity for him.  In the end, all I could do was look away.

Why I didn’t run while the zombies had their way with Kurtz is beyond me.  That voice was still telling me that I was safe, that these creatures would not harm me despite the fact that they had just ripped a man
apart.  The only thing that started me moving again was Kara.  She was still across the hall, needing my help. 

Half out of it, I walked off the altar and onto the sanctuary floor.  The zombies looked up from their meal, but none of them came after me.  Pastor Stevens with his dull, milky gray eyes, stood and watched me as I passed.  Blood streamed off his chin and onto his chest, dripping down his body and onto the floor.  His eyes spoke of nothing but an endless and vacuous emptiness.  No love or hate or any emotion. 

At that moment, I was so numb from the events of the night that I didn’t feel the pain of losing Pastor Stevens.  That would come later.  I was tired down to my bones, feeling as if I had been to war and lost badly. 

When I
left the sanctuary I noticed that all the gunfire had stopped.  It wasn’t for another half hour before I knew we had won -- whatever that means.  I learned later that only a handful of the soldiers survived the melee and they left town without looking back.

W
hen the survivors looked back on that night, not one of us called it a victory.  The losses were beyond words.  Pastor Stevens and many friends died.  The warriors lost over half their ranks.  The only saving grace was that Doc Wilson had taken all the children and placed them in the boiler room with its blast safe doors.  Those doors were designed to keep any chance of a boiler explosion from reaching the rest of the church. It protected the kids from the attack throughout the night. 

I never tol
d anyone but Kara about what happened in the sanctuary.  I didn’t think anyone would ever believe me.  Even weeks later, I’m not sure I did.  Never before and never after had the zombies acted the way they did that night.  Kara’s only explanation was divine intervention and, for once, I couldn’t disagree with her, but the discussion never got much further.  Surviving the rest of that night took precedence. 

Since the church was
compromised, we moved the few survivors, including all the kids, to the public library just a half a block away. 

We left the events in the sanctuary that night to the dead and moved on to
the living. 

CHAPTER 33
On the Road

T
he people we lost that night took something from us, but Pastor Stevens’ loss was particularly hard.  Our ranks dropped from sixty seven down to thirty eight, but the biggest loss was our church -- our sanctuary.  The damage from the battle had taken a toll on the structural integrity of the building to such a degree that most people in our ranks felt that it couldn’t be put right.   

Our warrior ranks were hit especially hard.  Mike and Logan were lost with a couple others.  Hack’s body was never found, but someone thought
that maybe the zombies got him.  They never left much once they got started. 

That left Greg, Roger, Chuck,
Zach, and Jerry.  I don’t know where I fit into that group, but it looked like I’d have to do a lot more heavy lifting if we were going to make it.  Maybe I’d get to become a card carrying member of the warriors.  Blind ambition some might say.

The debate about whether to stay or go lasted two days with frequent interruptions as we fended off the zombies that had collected in and around the church during the siege.  It took a lot of bullets, but we were able to thin the horde down to manageable levels. 

The outcome of the debate was the worst kind - a split decision. The majority of the group decided to leave.  Despite impassioned pleas from Greg, Kara, and me along with others, there was a critical set of hold outs who said they would not leave -- under any circumstances.  The church meant too much to them and they felt that God told them to stay.  How can you argue with that? 

Splitting our group up was heartbreaking
. Deep down, we knew, if we were to survive in the long run, staying at the church wasn’t an option.  It was only a matter of time before foraging could no longer supply the food we needed. 

Even though the decision had been made, tensions ran high between the two groups as it meant not only splitting up our people, but also our limited resources. 
The battle with the soldiers expended a great deal of our ammunition and nearly half of our stockpile of food had been destroyed when a wall collapsed on it. 

The big question for those departing was
, where we going to go?  Kara suggested we go to her parent’s farm.  There were two houses there, a barn and some other buildings that we could use.  When she stopped there after the Outbreak, everything was pretty much intact, but her parents weren’t there. 

Since no other brilliant options percolated to the surface, her proposal won a unanimous vote as our destination.

Over the following days, anxiety and any bad blood dissipated as the reality we were really splitting up sank in.  For both groups.  We divided up all the supplies and the outbound survivors packed vehicles for the trip.  There was almost no dissension over who got what and I, for one, was glad that it didn’t come down to “what’s yours” and “what’s mine.” 

More than a few people cried
as we prepared to leave the home base that had kept us safe and whole over the last year.  I’m not absolutely sure I wasn’t one of them.

“Are you absolutely sure you won’t come with us?” Greg asked Roger. 

“She
’s a little worse for the wear,” Roger said, gesturing back to the church.  “But we’ve gotten this far with her so we’ll take our chances with her the rest of the way.”  Being Greg’s second in command and one of the few remaining warriors not leaving, he had taken leadership for those staying behind.

Kara moved past Greg and Roger and gave Roger’s wife, Claudia, a big hug.  Tears streamed down both their fa
ces.  Being an emotional cripple, I hung back, hands in my pockets, unable to articulate anything past long sighs.  It felt like a part of me was being surgically removed.  It was more the people than the place, but as much as I had trouble admitting it, the place had become a lot more cherished than I would have thought possible.

Hugs, tears, and handshakes filtered among the group.  The most common sentiment expressed was that we would see each other again, but deep down we knew there was a good chance that would never happen. 

Splitting our two groups increased the vulnerability of each of the separate groups.  The siege with the soldiers proved that.  Had we been any less in numbers, they would have easily overrun the church.  Instead, we barely survived.

Whether God was paying attention to us up in heaven was something I still questioned, but whatever He did, He gave us some great weather for our exodus from the church.  The sun shone brightly and the sky was full of white, fluffy clouds as our caravan drove northward on State Route 23. 

At cool wind ble
w across my face as I was now the wheelman for our SUV with Mike gone.  It was a bittersweet honor because I would have given almost anything to have him back, but it was not to be.  Kara sat in the passenger seat, her expression relaxed, yet alert.  Naveen and Madison Bloom sat in the back, talking quietly.  Madison and Naveen had become fast friends after losing their parents.  We seemed to be collecting too many orphans.

Our SUV was the caboose in our ten vehicle caravan, watching our back for any trouble.  Greg had the lead vehicle
as we drove north on Route 23.  Greg kept the caravan cruising along at a steady speed.  Just fast enough to make progress, yet ready for any surprises the road might throw at us.  The first surprise came just a few miles north of Rosemount. 

My walkie-talkie squawked to life.  “Anyone, you see those flashes on the hillside to the right?” It was Greg.

My eyes immediately tracked to the top of the hills, but my untrained eyes saw nothing but barren trees. 

“Nothing here, Greg,” Brandon reported in from the third vehicle. 

“I thought I saw something, but it was just a single flash,” Aaron said.  He was driving the eight passenger church van ahead of me.

“I think someone is watching us,” Greg said.  “Everyone, slow down some and be on your toes.”

Both Kara and I pulled our weapons close.

Kara looked over to the back seat and said, “Girls, make sure you’re buckled in and be ready to duck down if something happens.
”

Greg came upon
the roadblock first.  It was really less than an organized roadblock, but more a pile of overturned and blackened vehicles, the by-product of some sort of accident that went terribly bad. 

“This is a perfect choke p
oint for whoever is watching,” Greg said.  “Everybody stop.”

In concert, our caravan slowed and then stopped less than a quarter mile from the charred and mangle vehicles. 
We scanned the hills as we waited for a cue from Greg.  I thought I saw a brief flash and then movement about two-thirds up a hill to our right, but couldn’t be sure.  To be safe I reported it anyway.

“Yeah, I’m guessing the flashes are binoculars,” Greg said.  “
Keep your engine on and be ready to get out of here.  I’m going to ease up to get a closer look.”

I looked over to Kara whose lips were moving imperceptibly in what I guessed was a silent prayer.  I grabbed my pistol and pulled it close
r. 

Greg moved
closer to the pile of vehicles, making a long arc as he approached.  He was just about on it, when he stopped completely.  It was then when I saw several men pop-up from behind the blackened cars.  Each one held a rifle and all of them were aimed at Greg’s SUV.

I clicked off my safety and readied myself.  Kara did likewise.

“We need to get closer in case Greg needs back-up,” Kara said.  Then she added, “Girls, get down and stay down.  Not too close, Joel.”

I took my foot off the brake
and we crept up closer to the roadblock.  I came to a stop just about a hundred feet off Greg’s back. 

I saw an older man in a cowboy hat standing behind a burned out station wagon, his rifle aimed at Greg’s vehicle.
  At this distance, his features were indistinct.

I couldn’t read
their body language.  Were we supposed to turn around?  Were these road pirates?  Or were they just cautious folks who wanted to check us out?

The impasse was broken when Naveen shouted, “It’s him
!”  A second later, she jerked open the back door of the SUV and jumped out. 

Before I could even react, she was sprinting down the road towards the roadblock shouting something that I couldn’t make out, but it sounded like it started with, “Mister.”  The rest of what she said was lost in the wind as she raced away from us toward the roadblock.

Kara’s door flew open and she was out and onto the road, rifle in hand, shouting for Naveen to stop.  I jumped out, still holding my pistol, and started running after her, going full tilt.

She had a huge head start, but I was faster.  It wasn’t fast enough though.  Until now, I had been able to protect Naveen and the other kids from direct danger.  Now, we were in it. 

Naveen sped past Greg’s SUV and I could make out Greg’s stunned expression as I cut the distance between Naveen and myself, passing by him at a full run.

I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I just focused on Naveen and kept running.  I was so intent on her that I didn’t
see the older man come from behind the station wagon, lower his rifle, and start towards her at a slow jog.

I only knew that I was going to be too late.  There was no way I was going to be able to get to her before he did
.

The old man was just about on her. I felt a clutching in my abdomen and my heart sank.  I couldn’t lose Naveen -- not after what we had gone through. 

Naveen let out a squeal that I initially took for a scream which only spiked my panic level. 

The old man wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his body.

Then the world changed.  He spun around with her in his arms and hugged her tightly, laughing and crying at the same time.

I was nearly to them when he looked past me and said, “Joel Hendricks, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“It’s Mr. Underhill!  He’s alive!”  Naveen shouted over the man’s shoulder, smiling broadly.

The reunion was as bittersweet as our departure from the church.  We had to tell him what had happened back in town, but the sweet side was that he had survived along with several members of his family.  He explained to us that he kept spotters on the road, and one reported a caravan heading north.  The spotter saw one of the vehicles had the church’s name painted on the side.  He hoped it was someone from the church, but he had to make sure.

Hub Underhill was one of those sturdy old guys who never looked or acted his age, but I had to guess he was in his late sixties.  Maybe even pushing past seventy.  I had always been in awe of his quiet competence.  He could fix or build just about anything when I had trouble even holding a hammer by the right end.

“We had to make sure it was someone we knew and trusted,” he said his eyes still moist from his reunion with Naveen.  “There’s a lot of bandits running the road these days and they are not a good lot.”

He stopped and rubbed his eyes and looked down the road to Naveen who was visiting with Ruth, Hub’s wife. “It warmed my heart to see Naveen.”  He lowered his voice and leaned into toward Greg and me.  “What happened to her parents?”

Greg just shook his head.

“That’s damn shame.  She’s been through so much.”

“Are you back on the farm?”  Greg asked. 

“No.  The zombies over ran us.  Travis, he’s my youngest, rescued us just in the nick of time. 
Another day and I’m not sure we would still be here.  Anyway, we have a place that’s much better suited to these days.  It’s a real nice setup; protected with lots of room.   Maybe even enough for your people.”

“We’re headed for my parent’s farm,” Kara said.

Hub’s face fell.  “Aw honey, you don’t want to go there.  We checked that out just a month or so ago, and there was no one there.”

Kara stepped back, her face pinched with fear, and seemed to lose strength in her legs.  I shot out a hand, grabbing her arm to keep her from falling.

“Wait,” Hub said, “We don’t know that your parents didn’t survive.  They’re just not there.  I’d guess the place was overrun early on and then I think someone squatted there.  From the sight of it I’d guess there was some sort of fire or even a battle.  The main house was burnt to the ground and there were bodies of the dead, and from what I’m guessing, the undead all over the place.  Some burnt, some not, but none of them were your folks.  I’m pretty sure of that.”

“So, we have no place to go
now,” I said.

“Yes, you do,” Hub said.  “That settles it.  You’re coming back with us.  And I think you’re going to like it. 
“