In the early morning of the first of March, the church stood empty. It was a small thing, out of place as it sat nestled between two towering buildings, the white wood fading and chipping from years of elemental stimulation. As people walked through freshly laid snow, they paid it no mind, and perhaps only the most devout would notice that the black iron gate was shut firmly today. Father Richard McCarthy was out.
It wouldn't be much longer before the Father was hurrying down the street, pushing and pulling two shopping carts worth of canned food, with a pit of heavy guilt in the bottom of his stomach. The food bank had given him all he had asked for - non-perishable food that he so desperately needed. In his mind it was for the best. If his dreams hadn't come true, he could host a food drive, give it to the people who truly needed it. After all, the homeless population of Chicago was nothing to scoff at. And if his dream did come true...
The fear sparked again, and the Father took a deep breath before he looked around warily. Fives years now, of living with the knowledge of his dream. Five years of silence, and torment and nightmares. Five years of praying to God everyday that his dreams weren't real. It was the day of reckoning though, and only time would tell if the omen he had been given was true.
Transferring the contents of the shopping carts took him a solid thirty minutes. Heading up and down the small flight of stairs wore him out more than he wanted to admit, so he sat himself down on the creaking wood to watch the morning unfold. It was normal, so far. People were going about their business outside of his gates, the birds were singing their songs. The peace radiated around him, and for a moment, he had forgotten all that he had prepared for these five years.
A cop car speeding down the street pulled him from his thoughts. Siren's blaring, Father McCarthy felt his heart drop for a moment, before the stillness set in. Letting out the breath he had been holding, the older man stood, hand on the wooden banister to turn towards the church, before he stopped. Another cop shot by. Then another. And...Another? Sucking in a shaking breath, the Father hurried into the church.
Walking past the rows of pews, moving into the door that was behind the altar, Father McCarthy stepped into the sacristy. To the left, the most sacred items of his Church, tucked away and almost out of sight, while the rest of the room had been transformed into a make-shift bedroom. A cot tucked away to the side, the blankets a mess on it, and a small crt tv sitting across from it on a rocking table. Fiddling with the buttons, the TV flashed on, a quiet buzzing humming from it as the man found the first News channel.
"March madness is almost upon us, folks--"
"The weather today will be slightly cloudy with ch--"
"Three are dead in the bizarre attack that left Chicago citizens shocked."
The words caught the Father's attention. Sitting on the bed, eyes trained at the television, a hard lump began forming in his throat.
"Chicago residents are told to be on guard as a wave of attacks spread through the city. Officials are saying that they are not connected, but citizens are still being warned to stay in their homes for now. What can you tell us about these attacks, Mitch?"
"Well, from what we know so far, they seem to be random. We're not sure when they started, but they're becoming more frequent as the day goes on. Reports are saying that the civilian's have a crazed look in their eyes and aren't responding to any sort of communication or actions from the victims. Even children are being attacked!"
"Now that's pretty scary. Who would attack a child?"
"A crazy person," the on air personality shook his head. "Officials are saying to stay away from any contact with a person who's been attacked, as well. It's like the crazy gene is being spread through contact, so stay inside, folks."
The TV flicked off, and Richard sat there for a moment, staring at the black screen. So it was all true, then…
Legs shaking as he stood up, a numbness flowed through him as he moved to his phone. Grabbing the small piece of technology, he stepped towards the drawer that sat beside his bed, and reached inside. A 9mm pistol sat, looking the same as the day he bought it. Hands shaking, the Father stared at it for a moment longer, before picking it up into his hands and cradling it. This was the beginning of the end.
Steeling himself, he wasted no more time. Moving himself back through the church, he stepped out into the now melting snow, and stood by the gate. Months of storing contacts in his phone, of people in a fifty mile radius of his church, he began with the first one.
“This is Father Richard McCarthy. I know you don’t know me, but please, I implore you. My church is located on Fifth Street and Durum. I have food and water, and a safe place to be for these trying times to come. Everyone is welcome. If you can make your way here, you will be safe.”
