for the night?” she said as we continued driving.
“It depends if we can find a safe place,” I said.
She went silent. She stayed that way for some time.
Thirty minutes later we realized that we had taken a wrong turn. We had turned south on a road instead of turning north. According to the map, we were near a small town named Egypt.
A pop then came from underneath the van. We stopped and I got out of the van.
We had a flat tire, and no spare.
I got back in and told Jennifer.
“What are we going to do?” she asked me with a look of desperation on her face.
It was then we heard a gunshot.
It came from the direction of a large field.
In the back of that field there was a church. It looked like a hundred cars were parked around it.
“Drive towards the church,” I told Jennifer.
“Do you think it’s safe?” she asked.
“We will have to find out,” I responded.
Church Bells
A flat tire was all that we needed. Of course, when you really need a spare you don’t have one. My senses were on full alert . Here we were, trying to find some refuge from the freaks that had tormented us for the last few weeks, and now we could be stranded in the open countryside in a very vulnerable position.
“Keep driving, Jennifer – but go slow!” I said. “Let’s see if we c an make it to the church over there on this flat. We’ll need to try not to tear up the tire. We’ll get stuck if all we have left to drive on is the rim.”
“Ok, I think we can make it,” said Jennifer with her eyes fixed on road ahead, and both hands gripping the steering wheel. I kept quiet, not wanting to disturb her concentration. Ever so slowly we were getting closer to the church that we could see on the other side of the large field.
Why were there so many cars surrounding it?
We continued to hear gunshots as Jennifer slowly drove our blood splattered, white utility van towards the church. We turned onto a long dirt driveway that led to the parking lot. The gunshots were getting louder no w, and each echoing blast vibrated the loose interior paneling of our vehicle. Trying to ignore the rattling from both the gunfire and the flat tire we were driving on, I continued gazing out of the passenger window to try and figure out what was going on at this the house of worship – it certainly wasn’t worship.
“Where are the shots coming from?” Jennifer asked.
“I think from behind the church,” I said.
While still peering at the large, white country building I noticed the gunfire had stopped.
“Keep going. We need to find out what’s going on here,” I told her.
I saw a figure walking out from among the vehicles that surrounded the church.
“Is that a freak?” she asked, bringing the van to a stop. We carefully looked closer at the figure approaching us. It was not a freak, but a man – a fellow survivor – waving at us. Jennifer carefully edged forward towards the tall man who was motioning for us to come closer.
“Stop here. I'll get out and talk to him,” I told Jennifer.
“Be careful,” she said.
“I will,” I answered. “Hold onto the dog. We don't want him getting out.”
“Here, doggy,” she called to the small tan Chihuahua as she scooped him up into her lap.
With our canine companion secured, I stepped out of the van and walked towards the man. He towered over me as I tried to think of what to say. His black jacket and gray dress pants seemed too formal and too clean for some reason I couldn’t yet comprehend. Suddenly, he put out his hand and stated, “I'm Deacon Cooper of Harvest Church of Christian Fellowship. Welcome to our church.”
After shaking his hand I noticed a few other survivors standing some distance behind him. Two women and a man were watching us warily. The man had a gun in his hand.
“Thank you. My name is Hank, Hank Harper,” I said.
“Where are you from?” he asked while continuing to peer down at me with a cautious look.
“We’re from Sandy
“It depends if we can find a safe place,” I said.
She went silent. She stayed that way for some time.
Thirty minutes later we realized that we had taken a wrong turn. We had turned south on a road instead of turning north. According to the map, we were near a small town named Egypt.
A pop then came from underneath the van. We stopped and I got out of the van.
We had a flat tire, and no spare.
I got back in and told Jennifer.
“What are we going to do?” she asked me with a look of desperation on her face.
It was then we heard a gunshot.
It came from the direction of a large field.
In the back of that field there was a church. It looked like a hundred cars were parked around it.
“Drive towards the church,” I told Jennifer.
“Do you think it’s safe?” she asked.
“We will have to find out,” I responded.
Church Bells
A flat tire was all that we needed. Of course, when you really need a spare you don’t have one. My senses were on full alert . Here we were, trying to find some refuge from the freaks that had tormented us for the last few weeks, and now we could be stranded in the open countryside in a very vulnerable position.
“Keep driving, Jennifer – but go slow!” I said. “Let’s see if we c an make it to the church over there on this flat. We’ll need to try not to tear up the tire. We’ll get stuck if all we have left to drive on is the rim.”
“Ok, I think we can make it,” said Jennifer with her eyes fixed on road ahead, and both hands gripping the steering wheel. I kept quiet, not wanting to disturb her concentration. Ever so slowly we were getting closer to the church that we could see on the other side of the large field.
Why were there so many cars surrounding it?
We continued to hear gunshots as Jennifer slowly drove our blood splattered, white utility van towards the church. We turned onto a long dirt driveway that led to the parking lot. The gunshots were getting louder no w, and each echoing blast vibrated the loose interior paneling of our vehicle. Trying to ignore the rattling from both the gunfire and the flat tire we were driving on, I continued gazing out of the passenger window to try and figure out what was going on at this the house of worship – it certainly wasn’t worship.
“Where are the shots coming from?” Jennifer asked.
“I think from behind the church,” I said.
While still peering at the large, white country building I noticed the gunfire had stopped.
“Keep going. We need to find out what’s going on here,” I told her.
I saw a figure walking out from among the vehicles that surrounded the church.
“Is that a freak?” she asked, bringing the van to a stop. We carefully looked closer at the figure approaching us. It was not a freak, but a man – a fellow survivor – waving at us. Jennifer carefully edged forward towards the tall man who was motioning for us to come closer.
“Stop here. I'll get out and talk to him,” I told Jennifer.
“Be careful,” she said.
“I will,” I answered. “Hold onto the dog. We don't want him getting out.”
“Here, doggy,” she called to the small tan Chihuahua as she scooped him up into her lap.
With our canine companion secured, I stepped out of the van and walked towards the man. He towered over me as I tried to think of what to say. His black jacket and gray dress pants seemed too formal and too clean for some reason I couldn’t yet comprehend. Suddenly, he put out his hand and stated, “I'm Deacon Cooper of Harvest Church of Christian Fellowship. Welcome to our church.”
After shaking his hand I noticed a few other survivors standing some distance behind him. Two women and a man were watching us warily. The man had a gun in his hand.
“Thank you. My name is Hank, Hank Harper,” I said.
“Where are you from?” he asked while continuing to peer down at me with a cautious look.
“We’re from Sandy
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