Sam wasn't good with words.
He had trouble knowing what to say as he stood next to his three friends. The survivors.
He looked at the deserted altar and tried to shake words out of his mind. Something.
The air was still.
Brendan was the first to speak, surprising them all.
He spoke about Helena, mostly. He didn't know Emily like the others did. He never would, now.
His voice was hard and cold and sore. His face remained the emotionless slate he always kept it.
When he was done, he turned away and walked outside, leaving the rest of them to finish. He kicked roughly at one of the benches as he left, in a spurt of anger, the only emotion visible. Sam watched him go.
James was the second to speak.
"I don't know Emily, but..."
He trailed off suddenly, and Sam stared at him hard. Some weird emotion flickered over his face, and James took a step back. Something like longing, or grief, or pain.
Or a mix of all three.
And then the emotion passed as quickly as it came, and James cleared his throat.
Sam and Rory were the last to speak. Sam looked at Rory, who had stayed silent up to now. He continued to stare straight ahead.
Finally, Sam cleared his throat next, and tried to say something.
There weren't words that could equal to the lives they had lost.
He tried to say something meaningful. Sam looked at his hands and pretended not to notice the tears on Rory's cheeks.
And then Sam was back outside, with the cold air on his face and the walking stick clenched in his glove and the church to his back. Words echoed in his head and formed sentences that made no sense.
The others split off. Rory walked around the church to sit by himself. James went back to the car and sat on the hood. Brendan was farther away, leaning against a tree trunk, faced away.
Sam pressed his weight against the walking stick and started to walk down the little road. He looked up at the evening sky. The same sky as a week ago. The world underneath it was unrecognizable.
It was only a week since the end of the world. Three people were dead. Probably more.
His stomach dropped. Emptiness and grief smashed into Sam.
One week ago everyone was still alive and everything was fine.
Sam looked down at his legs. He wondered if he would be next.
Sam could see a zombie a few meters away, alone. Sam hadn't seen one by itself before. Always in groups, they attacked.
It was faced away, with a head too big for its frail dying body.
Sam figured it was his job to kill it.
He stopped a few meters behind it, took a deep breath, and lashed forwards, swinging his machete in an arc and cutting right through the zombie.
It screamed and whipped around, blood spraying out. Its little face was stretched in horror and Sam screamed when he saw her.
Brown eyes.
Long brown hair.
Sam screamed as she fell to the ground.
Sam's vision went black before it cleared, and it wasn't her.
