191

You stare at the tall wooden doors of the Cathedral, the thick sheets of plywood, the tall beams supporting the structure, steel latched across the seams. They bulge inward, a high-pitched straining sound filling the church, like a boat stressed in turbulent waters.

All are silent in the Sanctuary. Eyes fix on the front doors, which push in then recede like the ebb and flow of some great ocean's tide. The wood clicks together with a knocking noise.

"No one's home," Heather says. "Come back later."

"The doors won't hold for long! We need a plan!" Mindy shouts from the upper area of the catwalk.

The harsh, guttural sounds of the zombie legion fill the area, a constant buzz like a swarm of bees. Dust shifts across the floor as the stomping of the ground outside shakes the foundation of the old Gothic Cathedral, a place you have called home for months, safe from the death and chaos of the outside world. The beating of the doors sound like ancient drums pounding in a rhythmic tone. You shift the weapon in your aching hands having squeezed the metal so long. Beads of sweat roll over your face, distracting as they slither down the skin, but you are too focused on the Sanctuary doors to care.

Emma huddles in an alcove near the inner doors, cradled in the stone where a statue of a saint once stood for decades. She looks fearless and resolved, whether with the courage to survive or no fear of death.

"Most of the zombies are passing by," Mindy calls down from on high. "But at least thirty are storming our doors."

As the walls are hammered and the doors buckle, you consider a plan for you and the survivors.