I woke to the sound of an unpracticed, halting note by note performance of the Beatles’ “Hey Jude” wafting quietly in from the rectory. It was early; bright morning light spun shimmering curtains of color through the stained glass windows of the church. I rubbed my eyes and sat up, popping my neck and cursing the pew that had served as my bed for the past two weeks. Things weren’t looking well. We were running dangerously low on supplies, the electricity had finally shut down on us the night before, and the baptismal fount we’d been using to bathe had since grown tepid and questionable for hygienic use. My brother Victor had ventured out for help and supplies two days ago, taking dad’s .9mm and the Tundra, our only working vehicle. We haven’t heard from him since.

Sauntering into the bathroom, I saw Michael McCoy, the parish’s maintenance man shaving over the sink with his shirt off, humming in accompaniment to the Beatles tune.

“Not to sound territorial, but I do believe this restroom is strictly ladies only.”

“Morning,” he gave me a toothy smile. “Toilet’s backed up in the men’s. I couldn’t stand the smell.”

I sighed and unzipped my small bag of toiletries resting beside one of the sinks. “Anything new on the radio?”

“Nope, same broadcast.”

“So we’re still fucked.”

Michael placed his razor aside, wiped up, and walked up behind me, pressing his face to the back of my neck. “Christy’s getting better at the piano,” he mumbled into my hair.

“Yeah, she woke me up this morning,” I said dryly, allowing myself to take comfort in his presence. “Michael?”

“Yeah.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I think we should wait out one more day for Vic,” he said quietly, reaching underneath my dress. “If he still doesn’t show, we’ll take the reverend’s revolver and hop over to the parking lot bright and early tomorrow and try hotwiring one of the cars.” I silently congratulated myself on shaving my legs the night before. “I got my eye on that scratched up Land Rover.”

I felt him nip the back of my neck and rested against him, my worries momentarily forgotten. “I’ve been wondering why dad never bothered to mention owning a pair of guns to anyone.”

“For situations like this I imagine,” he whispered. We sank to the floor.

Breakfast consisted of a hardboiled egg, a slice of toast, and a glass of ceremonial wine. Christy still wouldn’t take to the wine and insisted her share of water for the day. I didn’t mind her fuss; I was still basking in my post sex afterglow. Noticing my uncharacteristic detachment, Christy took the opportunity to list a number of personal issues on her mind, her main concern being the acquirement of a new hat. I guess the end of civilization proved only a minor detail to the mind of a seven year old. Michael was preoccupied with making makeshift candle holders out of spare mugs by dripping melted candle wax into the bottom as a form of adhesive for the candlesticks.

“It’s all tatty Miranda, look,” she whined pointing at the pink sun hat resting on top of a statue of St. Francis.

“Fine, fine, you can root through the charity boxes,” I said. “Just mind what I said about the shed door.”

She squealed and sped off. With her gone, I leaned over and brushed my lips on Michael’s cheek. “Quiet last night?”

“Dead quiet, not sure if I can really do anything now with the street lights out,” he said.

“It’s been awhile since we’ve seen any since Sister Marjorie. Maybe they’re finally moving on,” I sipped the wine and made a face. “I wish we could give her a proper burial, I hate seeing her strewn all over the patio every time I pass by the forum.”

“I sprayed some holy water on her after I shot her,” Michael said sheepishly, shrugging. “Y’know, whatever helps.”

I laughed, running my hand through his hair. “She’s infected Michael. She’s not a vampire.”

“Close enough,” he grew indignant. “All I know is dead people are walking around and that ain’t natural,” He looked at me shyly, knowing how I felt about religion. “I know God will see us through this Miranda. I don’t believe he’d bring us together through this calamity just to leave us stranded.”

I didn’t like where this conversation was headed. “Michael, I liked you before any of this happened,” I began.

He cut me off. “I’m thirty years old Miranda, you just turned nineteen. Before the world got thrown upside down you never would’ve considered…” I watched him fiddle with a spent matchstick nervously. “We both know you deserve better than some mick janitor, but we only have each other now.”

I didn’t let him continue. “Michael, shut up.” I kissed him, wishing he knew.

For the rest of the day, we basked in hazy languor. With nothing to do but wait for tomorrow, we spent the day like any other summer day, taking turns on the piano, racing paper boats in the baptismal fount, flying makeshift kites on the rooftop, having sex. Dinner was meager; Michael and I gave the majority of our portions to Christy to sate her ravenous appetite. We had half a pack of Pall Malls to tide us over until tomorrow.

At sunset, we spotted five zombies aimlessly wandering around the parking lot. I made sure Christy was safe inside before climbing to the rooftop for a clearer view of the surrounding area. Michael had one of the entrance doors propped open downstairs and was a good thirty feet away from the nearest shuffling target. The revolver he wielded was an antiquated six chamber piece with an extended barrel. There was always a chance the zombies would leave as abruptly as they appeared, but we didn’t want to take any chances. Hesitation with Sister Marjorie had nearly cost Christy’s life. From the rooftop I could hear the gunshots, counting the six he emptied after ripping apart an elderly woman and clipping the newspaper boy neatly in the head. He reloaded, took aim, and shot down a teenager in her swimsuit through the neck. Coagulated blood dribbled from her wound as her ankles twisted beneath her from the momentum of the bullet, slamming her ashen grey figure to the ground. It took three bullets to take down the lumbering businessman with a missing arm, a bullet for each kneecap and one straight through the left eye. Two bullets until reload and only one left. Michael’s execution was pitiless and quick.

The remaining undead member, a former postman caught sight of Michael and tore through the parking lot towards him with a speed that betrayed a bestial like agility hidden behind its normally maladroit movements. I tensed and waited for Michael’s first shot, saw it knick the sprinting postman’s temple before scurrying down the ladder to help. Racing down the corridor towards the forum, I recalled the death of Tony Burgess, a local parishioner who had found refuge in our church during the height of the zombie attacks which a local news radio deejay had wistfully coined as the “Resurrection”. He had stayed with us the first week during which crowds of zombies could be seen meandering around the area. As zombie appearances began to dwindle, Tony opted to take his chances outside one particularly quiet morning. I watched a young Latino child single-handedly disembowel him across the street only seconds after he had made it across the parking lot. En route to the entryway, I spotted and grabbed the ceremonial staff used for masses. Its firm weight reassured me. I figured it could serve as a bludgeoning tool.

When I reached the forum, Michael was already dead. The postman looked up from its kill with what was left of Michael’s face resting in its jaws. It slowly shambled towards me. I could feel it tickling behind my waking mind, the impeding torrent of emotion threatening to cripple me completely, barely held in check by a cold clarity that I had to finish what he started, that I would earn my time to grieve. I noticed it dragging its right leg; Michael’s last bullet had caught the monster in the ankle. He must’ve thought it would’ve hampered the zombie’s progress long enough for him to put some space between them, to reload.

I ran towards the post man, plunging the staff forward and smashing the crucifix headpiece into its face, relishing the impact and the reassuring crunching sound it made. It fell to the floor heaving. At this point, my thoughts gave way as I felt something inside me collapse. The room was lit with a brilliant white fire as I brought the staff on his head again and again, my arms refusing to tire, the forum reverberating with the clash of metal against bone. It twitched, I slammed. It bled, I slammed some more. It wasn’t about grief anymore or vengeance. I reveled in the sacrosanct joy of hating this thing that posed as a person, knowing that no force in existence could hold it against me. I touched on something rarely felt by anyone, a black consuming hate righteously justified, and willingly threw myself into the throes of it. By the time my arms finally gave in, the postman’s head had been reduced into rust colored paste, fragments of bone and strips of pounded sinew floated above it like flotsam.

I went to the bathroom to clean up. Twisting on the tap, I swept my bloodied arms beneath the running water and gently chided myself for chipping my fingernails. I looked at Michael’s razor resting in the basin beside me and felt hollowed out like a gutted trout. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t feel.

Christy was in the rectory, huddled underneath the piano with a pillow clasped between her reedy arms. She knew before I told her. I coaxed her to bed, whispered promises I suspected were actually snatches of different songs I’ve known, hymns and ballads that did nothing for me or her but fill the silence. The bed was small, it barely managed to fit the both of us but we managed. She didn’t say her bedtime prayers and I felt perversely proud of her. Curling up beside her, I knew I would die defending her tomorrow as I touched the hammer of my father’s revolver hanging in its holster on the bedpost beside us and briefly wondered how that would feel.