Cutting Losses

Chapter 4

The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the empty streets as Bill and Francis trudged onward. Their boots kicked up dust on the broken asphalt, the silence of the dead city pressing in around them. Every step felt heavier than the last, the weight of their journey—and the loss of Louis and Zoey—sitting like a stone in their chests.

"We gotta find somewhere to bunker down for the night," Francis muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "Ain't seen a military checkpoint for miles. It's like they packed up and bailed on us."

Bill grunted, not in disagreement, but in acknowledgment. He scanned the horizon, his sharp eyes flicking between the derelict buildings, the skeletal remains of civilization. Nothing. No movement, no sound, except for the occasional distant groan of infected wandering aimlessly through the ruins.

They kept moving, the exhaustion making them less vigilant than usual. They’d been walking for hours, maybe days—time had become a blur, one endless stretch of survival. Francis was about to suggest they hunker down in one of the buildings when the faint outline of a church spire appeared in the distance, just barely visible through the haze of smoke and dust.

"Look," Bill said, nodding toward the spire. "Might be something there."

Francis shrugged. "Better than nothing."

As they got closer, the church seemed surprisingly intact compared to the rest of the crumbling city. The windows were mostly broken and boarded, but the walls still stood strong, and the doors were closed. No sign of infected nearby.

When they stepped onto the church grounds, the doors suddenly creaked open. A man appeared in the doorway, wild-eyed and shaking, holding a rifle pointed directly at them.

“Don’t come any closer!” he barked, his voice trembling with fear and paranoia. “You’re infected, I can see it in your eyes!”

Bill and Francis both froze, their hands instinctively going up, though neither of them dropped their weapons. Bill stepped forward cautiously, his gruff voice steady. “We’re not infected. Just lookin’ for somewhere safe to stay. We’re tired, that’s all.”

“Lies! You’re trying to trick me, I know it!” the man shouted, stepping out of the church and keeping the gun aimed squarely at them. His eyes were bloodshot, his clothes dirty and ragged. It was clear he hadn’t slept much—or eaten—recently.

Francis cast a quick glance at Bill, his fingers twitching on his own gun, but Bill shook his head slightly. No need to escalate things yet. "Look, we're not here to cause trouble. We're survivors, just like you," Bill continued calmly. "We lost our people. Just need a place to rest for a while."

The man hesitated, his hands shaking more now, the rifle dipping slightly. His eyes darted between the two of them, suspicion warring with desperation. Finally, he stepped back, motioning them inside with the gun. “Fine. But if you try anything…”

“We won’t,” Bill said, taking the first step inside, followed closely by Francis.

Inside, the church was in a similar state as the outside—broken, but still standing. Pews were overturned, religious pamphlets scattered across the floor. It looked like someone had made a makeshift barricade against one of the walls, and the man had stockpiled what little food he could find.

The man closed the door behind them, locking it with a loud click before turning to face them again, still clutching his rifle. “Name’s Emmett,” he muttered. “Used to be the pastor here. Before…” His voice trailed off, his gaze growing distant.

“Before all this,” Bill finished for him.

Emmett nodded, his grip on the rifle relaxing slightly. “A lot of people came through here. At first, I helped them. Gave ‘em food, shelter. But then…” He swallowed hard, eyes darting nervously. “Then they started turning. Right in front of me. I had to…” He broke off, unable to finish the sentence.