The Stranger in the Pew

It started with a sound.

Not an explosion. Not a scream. Not the crash of broken glass.

A cough.

Dry. Shallow. Human.

It came from the main chapel—ten steps from where I slept.

I didn't move at first. I lay still, listening. The basement was cold that night. A low fog had crept in from the cracked foundation. My breath came slow. Controlled. My body still, wrapped in the thick tarp and wool layers I used for insulation.

Then I heard it again.

Another cough.

Closer this time.

And then footsteps—bare, soft, padded across broken tile.

I rolled quietly off the cot, reached for the axe beneath my blanket, and pressed my back to the wall. The scent hit me next—sweat, blood, rain-drenched cloth. Not infected. Not beast. Human.

Or something very close to it.

The stairs to the main hall creaked once.

Then again.

Then silence.

I climbed them slowly, careful to avoid the fourth step—that one always groaned under pressure.

When I reached the chapel doors, I paused and listened.

There was someone inside. Breathing hard. Unsteady. The scent of rot clung to them—not decay, but sickness. Infection maybe. Or starvation.

I eased the door open and stepped into the chapel.

The light was low.

A few stubby candles flickered near the altar—half-melted wax pools glowing orange against the walls. They were mine. I'd left them lit during my last round. I hadn't thought they'd attract anyone.

Apparently I was wrong.

A man sat on one of the front pews. Thin. Mid-forties. Wearing a black windbreaker stained with mud and blood. His head was shaved close. Face sunken, eyes sunken deeper. One hand clutched a bundle of cloth. The other rested on a knife—not drawn, but not hidden.

He turned as I entered.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't speak.

Just stared.

I said nothing at first.

Just stood in the shadows by the door, axe held low but ready.

His voice broke the silence.

"You the one leaving bags outside?"

I nodded once.

He didn't thank me.

Didn't curse me either.

Just coughed again. Wet this time. From the lungs.

"I followed the scent," he said. "Fire. Meat. Not canned."

I didn't answer.

He blinked slowly.

"I haven't eaten in three days."

I stepped forward, slowly, and tossed him a sealed ration pack—mutant jerky, dried fungus, vitamin strips. Harsh, bitter, but safe.

He opened it without a word.

Ate like a man who didn't care about manners or pride.

But he never once took his eyes off me.

We stayed like that for maybe twenty minutes.

Him on the pew.

Me in the aisle.

Two shadows surrounded by broken saints.

Eventually, I broke the silence.

"What are you running from?"

His chewing slowed.

He swallowed.

Then: "Group of twenty-three. Camped north side. Gas station stronghold. Got overrun three nights ago."

"Mutants?"

"No. Something worse. Looked human. Moved like it wasn't."

My grip on the axe tightened.

"Any survivors?"

He shook his head. "Maybe. Didn't stay to check."

I studied him closely.

His hands were shaking.

His skin was pale.

But his pupils were steady.

No signs of neural spasm. No discoloration in the veins. No scent markers for infection—those always came with a chemical sharpness, like spoiled citrus mixed with copper.

I didn't trust him.

But I didn't kill him either.

That meant something.

"You staying?" I asked.

He looked up.

"No."

A beat passed. He added, "I just needed food. Rest. Thought maybe…"

He didn't finish the sentence.

Didn't need to.

He knew this place wasn't built for sharing.

I gestured toward the front pew.

"There's a cot in the back if you need six hours."

"I'll take three."

He leaned back. Closed his eyes.

Didn't sleep.

Not really.

Neither did I.

While he rested, I checked the traps.

No breaches.

No tampering.

I doubled the tension on the tripwire near the east exit and refilled the dart reservoir with sharpened bone tips dipped in beast bile—fast-acting paralysis on contact.

When I returned, the man was gone.

The cot was folded.

The food wrappers neatly stacked.

And on the front pew sat a single item: a compass.

Old. Brass. Still working.

A note scratched into its lid:

"North trail is mined. Use the bridge instead. Watch for eyes under the cars."

No name.

No farewell.

Just another ghost passing through.

I added the compass to my supplies.

Not out of sentiment.

Out of respect.

That night, I wrote:

Day 11. Contact made. Not hostile. Showed restraint. Left warning. Left tool.Humanity isn't dead. Not entirely.That matters.Shelter remains uncompromised. No mutation surges. Mental state stable.Still alone. But not as alone as before.

The wind picked up after sundown.

It carried strange sounds through the steeple—metal dragging stone, teeth clacking like chimes.

I watched the dark from the choir loft with a hand on my axe.

No stars in the sky.

Only clouds.

And the weight of another day survived.