Knocking on Stone

The knock came just after midnight. It wasn't loud. It wasn't frantic. Three steady raps against the chapel's reinforced front door—even, deliberate, spaced with military precision. I was in the basement when I heard it—sitting on my cot, sharpening a bone spike with a rasp, when the sound echoed through the stone walls and sent a chill down my spine. No one knocks anymore. Not since the second week. Not unless they want something. Or they want in. I killed the light and moved silently to the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. I crouched behind the observation slit I'd carved in the door frame, peeled back the cover, and looked through.  One person. Female. Mid-twenties. Lean frame wrapped in a military field jacket three sizes too big, dirty jeans, combat boots, and a canvas backpack strapped across both shoulders. Her dark skin and short-cropped hair were visible, and one hand held a flare gun pointed down at her feet. The other hand was empty. She wasn't moving. She stood straight, eyes locked on the chapel doors, as if she knew I was already watching. She looked cold. But not desperate. That made her dangerous.  I opened the intercom grill—an old repurposed battery speaker tied to a directional mic and mounted behind a metal grate. My voice came out low and filtered. "Name." She didn't flinch. "Marin." "Alone?" "Yes." "You infected?" "No." "You sure?"  She paused. "If I weren't, I wouldn't knock. I'd tear the door off." Fair enough. But not good enough.  I kept her standing there for another ten minutes. I observed every blink, every breath—no tremors, no jaw ticks, no glassy pupils. Her eyes tracked too cleanly for mimic behavior. Her breath fogged in the cold air, so she was not cold-blooded.  Eventually, I made the call. I opened the side entrance.  She entered with both hands raised. I searched her in the hallway—methodical and professional. I found two concealed knives, one inside a boot pistol with a single magazine, and a roll of protein strips sealed in plastic—no mutant blood. No tech. No wetware. The flare gun had a fresh charge. Military grade. Probably scavenged.  Her voice was even. "You done?" I nodded once. She didn't smile.  I led her to the chapel proper, keeping her ten feet ahead of me the whole time. She glanced at the murals, the waxless candles, and the words I'd carved into the altar. "Home," she read aloud. "That's yours?" "Yes."  She crouched beside a boarded window, peering out through one of the mirrored slots. "How many have you killed to keep it?" I didn't answer. I didn't need to.  In the kitchen alcove, I handed her a ration packet and a sealed water canteen. She opened neither. "Thank you," she said anyway.  I didn't offer conversation. She sat cross-legged on the tile floor and slowly began eating, chewing with a kind of mechanical rhythm—calculated and careful, as if every bite was being tracked and stored somewhere behind her eyes.  I sat across the room. Watched. Waited.  She was the first to speak again. "I came from the port." "East?" "outh pier. Ferry yard." I raised an eyebrow. "That's a dead zone." "It was. Until two days ago." "What changed?" "Something came out of the water." She said it as if she were talking about the weather.  I leaned forward slightly. "How big?" "Too big for one boat. Long limbs. Fast swimmer. No eyes. It didn't hunt for food—it just listened. Dragged one of our men down by the throat while he was on patrol." "Yours?" "My people. What's left of them?" That phrasing mattered. It meant she wasn't running. She was scouting. Or recruiting.  "You have a base?" I asked. "Temporary shelter. Ten confirmed. Three questionable. We move every three days." "You came alone." "I wanted to see if your fire was real." "I don't light it for company." "You lit it anyway."  She finished the meal, rolled the packet up, and tucked it back into her bag. Then she stood straight-backed and steady. "I'm not here to take your place," she said. "But if you've got space for one more mouth, I don't break under pressure, and I know how to kill clean."  I studied her for a long moment. Then I nodded once. "Trial day. You fail, you leave." "Fair."  I didn't show her the basement. Not yet. But I let her sleep in the side hall under the statue of the angel with the broken wing. I gave her a blanket, a battery lantern, and a warning: "Don't wander at night."  She didn't ask why. She just said, "Got it."  I sat up in the loft that night, watching the door behind which she curled. There was no sleep, not really. But I didn't need rest. I just needed time to think.  A stranger had entered my home. And for once, I wasn't sure I hated the idea.