Blood in the Aisles

Gabriel didn’t hesitate.

The second Lucas Calloway told him to choose, Gabriel pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed through the church, deafening in the enclosed space.

Lucas moved fast—faster than Gabriel expected.

The bullet clipped his shoulder instead of hitting him dead center, sending him stumbling backward.

For half a second, everything was still.

Then—chaos.

Lucas’s men opened fire, bullets ripping through the pews, shattering stained glass.

Gabriel dove for cover, his ears ringing.

He could hear Sam Keller barking orders over the screaming.

"Fall back! Fall back!"

The defenders scrambled, dragging the wounded toward the back rooms.

Gabriel fired three more shots before ducking behind the altar.

By the time he peeked out again—

Lucas was gone.

Retreating, his men covering him, dragging him through the shattered doors.

Gabriel’s stomach twisted.

He had missed his chance.

And now, Lucas Calloway would be back.

With an army.

The attack didn’t come immediately.

Lucas’s men pulled back, regrouping beyond the church walls.

But Gabriel knew it wasn’t over.

It was never over that easily.

By nightfall, the siege had begun.

Lucas’s militia set up camp outside St. Mark’s, their torches flickering in the dark, their voices carrying through the ruined streets.

They weren’t trying to rush the church again.

Not yet.

They were waiting.

Making the defenders suffer.

Inside the church, the air was thick with fear.

The survivors huddled together, whispering prayers that felt hollow.

"We can’t hold out forever," Sam muttered, sitting beside Gabriel near the altar.

Gabriel’s jaw tightened. "We don’t have to. Just long enough to make them bleed for it."

Sam gave a bitter chuckle. "You really think God’s still watching?"

Gabriel looked out at the shattered windows.

At the bullet-riddled cross hanging above the altar.

He didn’t answer.

Because he wasn’t sure anymore.

By morning, it was clear.

Lucas wasn’t going to wait much longer.

The food was gone.

The water was running low.

The people were weak. Tired. Terrified.

And outside the church, Lucas’s men were preparing for the final push.

Gabriel watched from the bell tower, scanning their movements.

Men moving into formation.

A battering ram being prepped.

No mercy. No negotiations.

Gabriel exhaled, gripping the wooden railing.

He had made his choice when he pulled the trigger yesterday.

There was no going back now.

The Battle Begins

The doors of St. Mark’s Church had stood for seventy-eight years.

Built thick and heavy, meant to withstand storms and looters alike.

Tonight, they were coming down.

BOOM.

The first slam of a battering ram shook the wooden frame.

Dust rained from the rafters. People screamed, huddling in the pews.

Gabriel gripped his rifle, his heart pounding.

This was it.

No more waiting. No more bargaining.

The wolves were at the door.

And they weren’t leaving without blood.

"Get back!" Gabriel barked, waving the civilians toward the back rooms of the church.

"Barricade the side entrance!" Sam Keller shouted, shoving a pew against the secondary doorway.

The battering ram struck again.

The door splintered, wood cracking.

"Hold it!" Sam yelled.

Gabriel wasn’t a soldier, but he had been preparing for this moment since the first gunshot rang out days ago.

The church wasn’t a fortress, but it had been reinforced.

Barricades. Sniper positions. A handful of weapons, scavenged from the dead.

They weren’t going to win this fight.

But they could make it cost them.

Gabriel pressed himself against the stone wall, rifle in hand.

He exhaled slowly.

"Lord," he whispered, "if I die tonight, let it be for them."

Then he raised his weapon.

And the doors exploded inward.

The first man through the breach never saw Gabriel’s shot coming.

The bullet slammed into his chest, sending him stumbling backward into the others.

Shouts erupted. Muzzle flashes lit the church in bursts of fire.

Gabriel ducked behind cover as bullets ripped through wooden pews, splintering them into jagged shards.

"Pick your shots!" Sam roared.

The defenders opened fire—short, controlled bursts, cutting down two more of the attackers before they could fully push inside.

For a brief moment, they held.

Then Lucas Calloway’s men pushed forward.

And the real slaughter began.

Gabriel fired until his rifle clicked empty, then switched to his pistol, aiming for the shadows moving between the pews.

A man lunged at him, swinging a crowbar.

Gabriel sidestepped, drove his elbow into the man’s ribs, then fired point-blank into his gut.

Blood sprayed across the church floor.

Another attacker tackled Sam from behind, slamming his head into a wooden bench.

Gabriel turned—too late.

A rifle butt smashed into his temple.

The world tilted.

Pain exploded across his vision.

Gabriel hit the ground hard, his skull ringing.

Boots crunched over broken glass.

Lucas Calloway’s voice echoed through the chaos.

"That’s enough."

The gunfire stopped.

A few last gasps and gurgles filled the silence as the final defenders bled out.

Gabriel blinked, trying to clear his vision, but his head was swimming.

Rough hands hauled him up, shoving him forward.

His knees hit the altar steps.

He tasted blood.

Lucas Calloway stood before him, wiping the dust from his military fatigues, his face calm.

"You made this harder than it needed to be, Father," he mused.

Gabriel spat blood at his boots.

Lucas sighed.

Then he lifted his pistol and shot Sam Keller in the head.

Gabriel’s breath hitched.

He heard the body collapse behind him.

The church was silent again.

Lucas crouched down, resting his pistol against his knee.

"You made me waste bullets," he said. "That pisses me off."

Gabriel clenched his fists. No prayers left. No mercy left.

"You’re a disease," he rasped.

Lucas smirked.

"And you," he murmured, standing, "are out of time."

Then he turned to his men.

"Burn it."

Gabriel’s stomach dropped.

No.

The soldiers moved fast, pulling out gasoline cans, splashing fuel across the pews, the altar, the bodies of the dead.

Gabriel struggled, but the men holding him slammed him down onto the stone floor, pressing a boot into his back.

The smell of gasoline filled his lungs.

Lucas flicked a match.

"You’re not the first church I’ve burned," he said.

The match dropped.

And St. Mark’s went up in flames.

The fire roared, smoke curling into the rafters, licking at the stained glass.

Gabriel’s lungs burned as he was dragged out into the street, his boots scraping over the stone steps.

Behind him, the church burned.

The people inside screamed.

Gabriel fought, twisting against the men holding him, but a rifle butt slammed into his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs.

He hit the ground hard, coughing.

Lucas crouched beside him, his silhouette framed by the glow of the burning church.

"You should’ve surrendered," he said, almost regretful.

Gabriel wheezed. "And let you turn them into slaves?"

Lucas smirked. "They’re not slaves. They’re recruits. If they’re strong enough."

Gabriel’s hands curled into fists.

"You’re worse than the plague," he rasped.

Lucas chuckled. "Maybe."

He stood. "Bring him."

Gabriel felt rough hands pull him up again, dragging him forward.

Away from the fire. Away from the ashes of St. Mark’s.

He didn’t know where they were taking him.

Only that he was still alive.

And as long as he was breathing—

He wasn’t done yet.