185

You walk the hill to the Cathedral, the last stretch of land before you can rest, if resting is what you intend to do. But as you plod up the path, legs cramped, back aching, you cross the crest of the incline and spot the remnants of war—corpses lying on the grass, blood sprayed along the stone walls, shell casings spread over the grounds, and the smell of death and decay hanging heavy in the air. Zombie bodies, whole or in parts, are sprawled across the land, hacked or shot, dismembered or flayed. You stagger around the undead obstacles, mindful of any movement, should the dead not know they are truly dead.

The massive doors of the Cathedral shake when you push them but do not open. Weary from the trip, mentally drained from all that has transpired, you pound the wood with the palms of your hands.