happy holidays, friends! this is a really lame GRAPHIC, and i threw this together really quickly, which is why i MENTIONED how lame i am. i can make better graphics but i’m lame, and super lazy, and i can’t believe there are 1,200 of you already?!?! jesus christ guys. six years of writing my trash child rick grimes, and you’ve all been so wonderful to me. i mentioned as many people as i could, i love every single one of you, but if you’ve known me long i’m a scatter brain.
The highways through the mountain ranges were mostly barren, dotted only by the occasional pit stop or random house. The car glided over the hills far more languidly than she felt comfortable with, as if in this isolated space, the end of the world had never come. They had bags of snacks- candy and beef jerkey- strewn about, and in the cupholders two cans of DP they’d nicked from a little house with no occupants. It was just likes when they were children, driving to Orlando for summer vacation, or perhaps upstate to visit Henrie in Baton Rouge.
But then they had come through a town, and they were reminded that this was no time to feel so at peace.
The streets were cluttered with abandoned vehicles, trash, debris, bodies. Some collapsed under what seemed like gun wounds, others up and fumbling, raspy screams all they could say. They eyes... grey and soulless. Evangeline gazed through the glass at them as they whizzed by- Henrie had punched the gas in slight alarm. He was always on edge now. Paranoid, afraid, protective. She couldn’t blame him. Her hand gently knotted in his sleeve and he relaxed.
But he knew to stop as the steeple rose in their view. White, but the crest snapped off by storm or by age, and instead crumpled against the stone steps. They parked the car and Henrie said ‘be quick, kay?’ Evangeline nodded as she ran up into the building.
Graceful arches met her, turned blue and red and green and gold by stained glass windowpanes. The white paint gave it a never-ending space, as if the ceiling rose on into forever. She paced he isles but found nothing, then up the steps to the stage, and she found nothing more. The sacred pieces of worship of course- gilded gold, wilted flowers, the open hands of the virgin Mary. But she had no time to sigh and admire- a body wandered from the back door that most likely led up to the choir. A figure in regular worn clothing, a bite in it’s thigh, and the face of a weathered old woman. Evangeline blinked at her and for a long ten seconds the face wheezed, shaking hands reaching, but no coordination to get up steps. It fell.
Evangeline had stopped feeling the immense sadness she once had for these beings. In the face of a horde, you cannot sympathize for them. You can only run, hope they cannot catch you, and keep going. She also stopped wasting bullets as a mercy on their souls. Every day she instead told herself to pray. That is how she can save them. Without someone wishing over them, there is no peace, and the church will have turned it’s back on it’s people.
Evangeline turns from the collapsed corpse and finds her brother still outside, leaned against the car hood with his Beretta in hand, giving her an apologetic look. ‘you ready?’ He didn’t bother with faith she knew- he never had. But he respected her own.
“Yeah.”
They drive from the town with a few more snacks in the trunk and new clothes still marked by price tags. She watched the steeple fall away into the horizon. That night she prays long and hard in the cold outside the car. The weathered pearls shine in the light of the moon, reassuring.
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