I am going to follow Clova

You step away from your door and quickly get some clothes to dress in, as well as your pistol belt at the last moment. You do all of this with only a moment to spare. By the time you tie your boots, Clova stepped out. It’s a risky game to partake of, but you follow her out of the hotel and into the sleepy Sunday morning.

Clova turtle necks and stuffs her hands deep into pockets as she uses the sidewalk to the edge of town. You remember her saying that this was the strongest point of their wall because they couldn’t keep it manned all the time, so you decided to lag behind and watch what she was doing.

She stepped along some stones, not daring to leave any tracks, and then stepped into some thick brush. You waited for a little longer, but when she didn’t come out, you traced her steps and broke into the thicket. It was dark, cold, and hard to move around, but you figured she was probably far enough away that she wouldn’t be able to hear you make all this noise.

Eventually, after all the struggle and getting your face cut, you press the flat of your hard against the metal surface and begin to feel around for something— anything that could be the reason why she came here.

Your fingers fail to find something, but you do step on something loose. You look down and step-around. You’re standing on top of a camouflaged hatch. You step back and lift, finding it light and noiseless as it’s opened. A tunnel greets you, lit by dim lights that suddenly flip on as soon as the opening is discovered. You listen intently and don’t hear anything. “Alright, Clova…where did you go?”

You step into the tunnel and follow the path out, just beyond the wall, before it gradually ascends towards a dirt wall. You place your hand against the wall and feel a gentle breeze going through it. A false wall! You push out and find the outside world again.

The forest surrounds you. It’s so quiet that you can only hear yourself breathing. Yet, when you look down, you spot a singular boot track. Clova.

It’s hard following her steps, but you manage to do it anyway. Her tracks lead you through the forest and then the breakthrough of the tree line. It was an effort, but it paid off when you saw a building, aged and decaying, in the middle of a meadow about half a mile deep; the building was no doubt a church, the bell tower was still somehow erected, and the body of the structure still had some integrity leftover from the apocalypse. Then you realize how quick Clova is when she wants to be. The tall grass and undeveloped landscape indicated that no one had been through this part of the area in a long time. As the sun shines through the clouds, it causes the frost to explode with twinkling lights that make you squint.

You followed the tracks.

At the foot of the church, chipped stone steps lead towards the front door. There were weathered signs that couldn’t be read, but at least admired were faint scorch marks hinted where they were once written. The windows had been shattered, but the fragments still linger as sparkling reminders of what this place used to be.

Hollow footsteps against the stone as you slowly advance up. You work all the up and peek inside. Rows of church pews line the floor, covered in dust and decay from the ceiling. The carpet is torn and weathered—Off-color from age and neglect. The front center was a lifted stage, a podium, bronze in color, blanketed by rot like the organ and rusted pipes. There are rows where choir members used to sing holy hymns and worship Christ Almighty.

A sense of odd peace washes over you as a cold morning breeze rattles the interior with such gentle ****. It sounds like the wings of an eagle. You step inside and look around, expecting to see a sign of Clova somewhere.

When you don’t see her, you decide to take a seat on one of the back pews and cup your hands together, letting the silence consume you.

For a few minutes, you don’t do anything. Then, you don’t think about anything either. It’s the first time you’ve had a clear mind in months.

You only shuffle off the chair when you hear someone sniffing somewhere upfront. You stand a squint. At the front pew was a bunched figure, dark in his form and definitely human as the sniffing melted into a broken sob.

“Clova?” You call out.

“Present,” a voice calls back. “Why did you follow me?”

You step into the middle of the rows and start walking over to her. “I was curious. So, I followed you.”

“Go back to the hotel, Warren.” Clova hasn’t turned to face you, but you could see her wiping her face.

In a few seconds, you’re sitting beside her, your knees barely touching. “Do you want me to?”

“Not really,” she remains hunched but moves the toes of her boots to touch yours, tapping it lightly. “I usually just sulk and bail my eyes out.”

“Does that help?”

“No.”

“Well,” you sigh and lean into your legs. “You’re not alone anymore. Not technically.”

“No offense, Warren, but if you’re not gonna shut up, get out.” Clova’s voice is monotone and drained. You don’t dare say anything in response.

You both sit in silence. Your brain is empty, but Clova has a few moments where all she does is lightly cry into her palms. You feel a little useless, but Clova also basically told you fuck off, so you don’t feel obligated to do anything for her.

Without any kind of warning, Clova taps your toes with hers. And nudges you with her elbow. “Let’s get back.”

You’re the first to stand up, but Clova is the first one out. She starts saying something to you, but she cuts herself off and straightens her posture. “Hello, there.”

When you step outside, you see a small circle of men on horseback. Too organized to be bandits, but too sloppy for private contractors.

Bounty Hunters.

“Flick,” the man upfront looks behind him. “You said the church was empty.”

“Was yesterday, Ashe.” The man known as Flick leans back, his gaze lazy and bloodshot.

Ashe turns to look at Clova and then at you. He takes a cigarette and sticks it between his dry lips. “Ya'll livin’ in that rundown temple?”