Follow the continuing story of Reverend Wickes as he comes face to face with the zombie apocalypse.
He would deal with that issue when it came up, for now he focused on the words on the page as his voice calmed the agitated crowd and they settled in to listen. Turning the page, he grabbed a quick drink of warm water from the glass under his pulpit.
What will I do when that runs out? He worried as he returned the glass and continued to read. Seconds tumbled into minutes as minutes stretched into hours. And still he continued to read, his voice still clear as the morning bled into afternoon and the days heat rose. Cicadas in the nearby forest competed with his voice and he noted that his glass had run empty. He needed more water, but to take a break and get some might end with his own death.
Mrs. Bailey, he had to signal her somehow to bring more water. His throat was already becoming dry and sore, making it difficult to speak. Not impossible, not yet, but soon the words would fail him.
What would he do then?
Die. The answer came unbidden from the depths of his consciousness.
Under the pulpit was a bell he’d used in the past to alert Mrs. Baily to his needs while he preached the Sunday sermon. He’d put it there the past winter when he came down with the flu and needed her to provide him with warm broth while he conducted his services. He rang it and waited for a response, occasionally glancing at the door through which she would come when she heard it. If she heard it. He rang again, more insistent this time, hoping she would hear his call and come to him. The door opened a sliver, and he waved for her to come out. She stayed back.
A cough was building in his throat as he continued to preach, his voice had lost much of its luster, and he struggled against the need to cough, trying to contain that which could not be stopped.
It hit him then, a coughing fit that stopped him in his tracks as he bent over the pulpit with his handkerchief over his mouth. When he pulled the white cloth away from his face he noted the spots of blood standing out against the fabric.
He needed a drink. Now.
The congregation had grown restless again, several having left their seats to come down the center aisle towards him. He tried to continue reading but his once sonorous voice came out as a squeak.
“Mrs. Baily,” he shouted in pain, “bring me some water.”
The door closed and he turned back to the congregation, picking up where he left off, his voice not as powerful as it once was, but still enough to return those of the congregation who had been approaching the pulpit.
As he continued, struggling against each word Mrs. Bailey appeared with a pitcher of water. He motioned for her to come over and she carefully crossed the small stage, her eyes glued on the congregation and what had become of it. She filled his glass and left the pitcher under the pulpit.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
It was a question for which he had no answer as he shrugged in response.
What am I going to do? The questions repeated itself in his mind as he continued to read and the congregation settled into their seats. I’m not going to last much longer, he realized as he pulled at his collar to get some air.
The heat hung lifeless and heavy around them, and he noted for the first time since he had begun preaching at this church that no one was fanning their faces or fidgeting in their seat. He’d always dreamed of a captive audience, but never once imagined it might be like this. How am I going to get out of this? The question loomed large in his mind, and he realized he had no real answer. The only thing he knew for sure was that he couldn’t go on forever.
To be continued!
Authors note: It would appear I’ve written Reverend Wickes into the same corner I’ve written myself into. At this point I truthfully have no idea how I’m gonna get this guy out alive. I’ve got seven days to figure this out, guess I’ll be taking a lot of showers hoping inspiration finds me, at least I’ll be squeaky clean. See you next week.
Read everything up to this point here God’s Chosen.
Richard Schiver 
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