Aftershock: A Collection of Survivors Tales Read Online Free PDF

would curl up in a ditch somewhere and wait… for what I did not know. I encountered very few of the dead on my journey back to the church, which was a blessing as I had not thought to grab any kind of weapon. I found those I did come across to be easily avoided. It took me about a day and a half to return to my town and when I saw the steeple of my church rise over the hill in front of me, my blood boiled. All the rage I had been struggling with came to the surface and I broke into a run. As I neared the door I realized it had been barricaded, as had most of the windows. I could see wooden pews stacked behind the glass.
    I rounded the back looking for the gas can that we kept by the shed full of various lawn maintenance implements. I came around the back corner of the building and stopped in my tracks. I saw the remains of what looked like either a hastily constructed funeral pyre, or the most grotesque barbecue in Man’s history. Human bones from a dozen corpses lay mixed with charred wood and ash. As I stood stunned by the site I heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being racked behind me.
    “Put you hens in the air!” yelled a disembodied voice, heavily laden with a Latino accent.
    I did as I was told. My intentions of burning down the church evaporated and all of the sudden I found my will to live again. Funny how something as simple as having a large gun pressed against your spine can bring things into perspective. I heard frantic muttering in Spanish, some of the words I could make out like “padre” and “iglesia”. “Father” and “church”. I did not feel that it was the appropriate time to correct them. I was a United Methodist; we were not referred to as Father, but Reverend or Pastor. I also heard the word “mata” which I believe means “kill” and “muerta”, “dead”. I heard a pleading female voice and an angry male one. Then I heard a child. I slowly turned, hoping I would not be shot for the violation. I was confronted by a small family. Before any of us could continue the discussion we all heard the moans. Across the parking lot were four of them slouching slowly toward us.
    “Adentro! Adentro,” screamed the man, then to me, “Inside. Quickly!”
    We ran inside the back door and barred it from the inside with two-by-fours. In a moment we heard pounding and scraping from outside. The children, there were four altogether, ran for one of the Sunday school classrooms. I saw three women begin crying and praying, though quietly. Five more men came from the sanctuary each with a weapon of some kind. There was more rapid conversation in Spanish. After some reassuring from the man who had brought me inside, they finally seemed to notice my presence. More heated discussion in that smooth, oddly poetic tongue and again the man who had brought me inside seemed to assuage their fears.
    “I tell them you no dead. They say ‘For now’.”
    I did not know what to make of this cryptic statement, but it did not sound like a heartwarming welcome.
    “My name Alejandro,” he said, “This is mi esposa Morena and mi hijo Berto.”
    “I am, or was, Reverend Samuel Mathis. This was my church before…” I did not know how to continue. Before what? Before the dead began to rise and destroyed the world? Before that bastard raped and murdered my wife in the sanctuary not thirty feet from where I stood? Before I all but renounced my faith and turned my back on my God? I briefly wondered what their response would be if I told them I had returned here today with the intention of burning the building to the ground.
    I was introduced to the rest of the group. Each gave a brief greeting and a firm handshake. A thud against the back door ended our little meet and greet rather abruptly. The children were swept into the sanctuary and Alejandro moved to one of the rear windows.
    “Solomente hay uno, pero pienso viene tres mas,” he spoke rapidly to his compadres.
    They moved to the back door and readied