Episode 10 — The Church

Inside, people packed the pews, the aisles, even the back steps. Some stood with their heads bowed, others clung to each other like if they let go, they’d disappear too. A few sat on the floor near the stained glass windows, staring blankly at the walls.

Michael scanned the crowd instinctively for one face.

He found her near the front—standing with her arms crossed tight, lips pressed in a thin line. She held a small child, a boy around six years old.

Mrs. Clara or as he called her:

“Mom.”

She turned. Her hair, usually pulled back neat and tight, hung loose at her shoulders, wild like she hadn’t touched it since yesterday. But her eyes…her eyes were sharp. Calculating. Taking stock of everyone in the room like she was already two steps ahead of whatever was coming next.

Michael knew that look. It was the same one she wore during evacuation drills when he was a kid. The one she had while checking the locks three times before bed. The same look she gave in class when no one answered her questions fast enough.

She stood near the left aisle, flanked by two other adults who looked equally hollowed out. Her heavy grey sweater stained at the sleeves with something that might’ve been blood.

“Michael,” she said, stepping forward quickly and pulling him in tight. “You’re safe.”

He didn’t hug back right away. Not until he felt the slight tremble in her shoulders. Then he clung to her like he was eight again.

Sasha stood a few paces back. Her arms crossed, eyes scanning the room—not for people, but for cracks. Every instinct in her bones whispered that something was wrong. Or more accurately, the voices in her head.

At the altar, Pastor Mathers stood before a small huddle of townsfolk. His voice was steady, but there was a weariness to it like he’d aged ten years overnight.

“…We will bury the dead,” he said. “We will honor them. And we will survive this like we always do.”

He stood tall making sure everyone could see him, palms raised as if cradling the very air. He continued. his voice low and assuring, yet each syllable carried like the wind before a storm.

"I know you’re all scared but please, let’s all pull together. We’re all family in this town.”

Soft murmurs rippled through the room. Some nodded. Others just sat frozen.

“We’ll need volunteers,” he went on. “To assist the undertakers. To help gather the remains…what can be gathered.”

A ripple of discomfort moved through the crowd at the word remains. You would think they had gotten used to all this, but every now and then a trigger, a word would remind them of their horrific reality.

Then his voice dropped lower.

“And for those who feel…lost… or without direction. I will offer counsel after this. I promise… we will get to the bottom of this. But for now, be calm. The Lord has not forsaken us yet!”

That last part seemed to calm everyone down. A fragile calm, like glass waiting to shatter.

Michael caught a glance between Pastor Mathers and his mother. Sharp and quiet. Something passed between them he didn’t understand but he knew it in his very bones, it was something about what had happened, something only the two of them knew.

As the crowd began to break apart, Michael and Sasha made their way toward the front—just in time to hear a sharp exchange.

“…You should’ve called the meeting last night,” Clara hissed under her breath.

“I had people bleeding in the streets, Clara,” Mathers snapped back under his breath. “Forgive me for not holding a town hall while the dead piled up.”

Michael froze.

Sasha pulled him forward, pretending like they hadn’t heard a thing.

Pastor Mathers turned, spotting them and his expression smoothed instantly, face shifting into the calm mask of a man of the cloth.

“Michael. Sasha.” He nodded at them. “ I forgot you're here. Good. We could use your help.”

Clara’s eyes softened when she looked at her son—but only a fraction. Her jaw stayed tight.

“You sticking with the others?” she asked, already seeing the answer in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he replied ruffling the hair of his younger brother still clung to Clara’s hip.

“Stay together. Remember, you’re stronger so they’ll be depending on you. Lead them well.”

That was all she gave him before turning away, already striding toward the back with two other adults—her figure rigid, unreadable.

“I’m ready to get started, Pastor,” said a tall guy holding paper bags and gloves tucked into his waistband.

“Ah, right on time,” Mathers said, clapping him on the shoulder. “This young man is Clark. He’ll show you what to do for the time being. Sasha…come here a moment.”

He pulled Sasha to the side.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice lower now, gentler.

“Yeah, Dad. I’m fine. Did you sleep at all?”

“Don’t worry about me, my child.”

Mathers gave her a brief once-over, concern flickering through the exhaustion in his eyes.

“Go help your friends. We'll talk later,” he said, squeezing her shoulder like he wasn’t sure he’d get the chance.

Before Sasha could respond, Tania tugged her away toward the door. Anya chose to stay behind, hoping to find their parents. Tania gave her a quick hug before disappearing outside.

Michael was already sizing up Clark like an unwelcomed fly buzzing all over his face.

Clark was tall, wiry with pale skin and dark circles under his eyes. He looked…older than he should for someone barely in his twenties. Like time had pressed down too hard on him.

“So, Clark… you do this all the time?” Tania asked.

Clark nodded, hoisting his bag over his shoulder.

“Since I finished school five years ago. Couldn’t leave I guess,” Clark said putting on his pair of gloves.

The others chuckled softly.

“Yeah,” he continued. “My dad was an undertaker himself, so it was more like a family business.”

“They really let kids do this?” Tania asked.

"Let’ isn’t quite the word,” Clark said with a hollow laugh. “First time I helped was after the library collapsed. I was sixteen. But don’t worry chances of that happening again are slim since the remodelling, which I also helped with.”

He handed each of them two paper bags —one marked with white tape, the other red—and a pair of gloves.

Clark’s expression hardened a little.

“Here’s how it works. You pick up what you can find.” He glanced at their pale faces. “Fingers, teeth, loose limbs. If something has a unique characteristic, say a tattoo or a ring…. bag it in the red tape bag. We’ll try to ID them later.”

He took out a weathered notebook.

“Sometimes you’ll find headless bodies. Don’t move them. Mark the location exactly ....the street or building number if you can. A second team will come with stretchers and tarps to carry them.”

“What happens to the bodies?” Jasmine asked softly, fidgeting with the sleeves of her sweater.

Clark hesitated.

“…We try to get them back to their families. For one final goodbye before we lay them to rest tomorrow.”

Clark felt the others shifting uneasily beside him. Saw the same look he once had on his first stint.

“I have to warn you, though. This kind of work is tough and will test your very soul,” Clark added quietly. His voice dropped almost like he was telling them a secret. “My first time, I puked all over a woman’s body in the gym. I couldn’t eat for days.”

He looked up, meeting each of their eyes.

“If you can’t handle it, I won’t blame you. No shame in walking away. Cause…once you see it… you can’t unsee it.”

Jasmine swallowed hard, her hands shaking.

No one spoke for a moment.

Then Tania lifted her chin.

“We’ve already seen it,” she said. “All of it.”

“The whole night,” Sasha finally said. “Their screams and agony during their final moments. We couldn’t help them…but now we can make sure their bodies get the respect it deserves.”

The others nodded. Even Jasmine, though her body looked like it wanted to run.

Clark studied them for a moment. Then nodded and motioned them forward.

They spent the next few hours in silence, moving through streets near the school. The blood had dried to a deep brownish red, sticky and crusted in places. Flesh clung to drains like rotting leaves. Bits of hair stuck to cracks in the pavement. Jasmine tried to clean up the blood with a mop she got from the school but Clark assured her that the second team would take care of it.

Michael’s stomach turned more than once. The air was thick, sweet and sour at the same time, like fruit left too long in the sun. He breathed through his sleeve, blinking sweat out of his eyes. His head throbbed faintly.

Tania leaned against a wall halfway through, blinking hard like her vision had gone blurry. Sasha pressed her hand to her chest, breathing slow and shallow to avoid gagging.

Clark taught them how to slide organs into the bags without rupturing them. How to use the notebook. How to keep their hands steady even when their eyes wanted to blur everything out. Michael kept calm as he wrote on his notebook, trying not to breathe too deeply. Suddenly, any thoughts he had about Clark evaporated.

Jasmine drifted constantly toward side alleys, scanning faces—what was left of them. She hadn’t found her grandfather yet. If she was being honest with herself, it was the only reason she was here with the others. Her grandfather was sixty years old, one of the oldest towners left. Most his age had already died—from stress, shock, terror, or all three.

Michael watched her pause beside a burned-out car.

“He’s probably back at the church by now,” he said gently, resting a hand on her shoulder.

She flinched.

Then nodded.

But her eyes never stopped moving

His words, while reassuring, didn’t help.

And deep down…Michael wasn’t sure he believed them either.