Annie took several more shots before tipping the brim of her hat down and rising to her feet. The rest had come to an end and the search for survivors needed to continue, if for no other reason than to find out what had happened to this small, isolated town. Henry stood a little more hesitant. He held more than a little trepidation for what they may find.

The doors to the saloon gaped wide enough for one person to leave at a time, ready to slam closed should either of them need to, but it appeared the Drifters, outside, had wandered away. Not far, never far, yet far enough that they could leave the relative safety of the saloon to sally forth to the street once again.

Keeping close to the wall, Annie held her pitchfork at the ready, weighing up their options. The general store was closer, but Henry presumed that if anyone had survived, they would have looked toward the sanctuary the House of God would provide. Churches had always taken on that burden, in times past, and most times that would prove enough to keep people safe. Few would dare defy the sanctity of such places. This was not those times, however. In this world, nowhere was ever truly safe, or sacrosanct.

They moved at a slow, deliberate pace until they crossed the gap to the stoop of the general store, not catching the attention of the Drifters that had congregated in the small alley between the two buildings. At the doors of the store, Annie glanced in, tapping the butt of her pitchfork against the door frame. A short wait without a Drifter emerging and Annie slipped inside. A quick circuit of the store showed that they were alone and Annie got to work, checking the stock.

While she worked, Henry kept his eyes on the street. For a town overrun, there were relatively few Drifters. They meandered through the streets, giving the impression of townsfolk upon slow constitutionals, but that was where the similarities ended. They shuffled and stumbled, jerked forward and stood swaying, all with such unnatural movements. Bodies corrupted by a disease that no-one understood or could cure. Forced to exist beyond death as nothing but ravenous cadavers.

Something touched his hand and he jumped to the side, raising his knife, but it was only Annie. In her hand, she held a simple, short-handled scythe, used for cutting grass or errant crops missed by its long-handled sibling, found among others within the store. He knew why she offered it to him. Using a knife took more precision, coming too close to a Drifter in order to dispatch it. A scythe, he could swing in the general direction of the creatures and cause much damage without the accuracy required by the knife.

He tucked the knife back into the side of his boot, near enough to reach for, should he need it, and grasped the handle of the scythe. It felt strange in his hand. The weight distributed at an odd position, the weight mostly in the middle of the curve. The blade looked fresh and sharp. Soon, he did not doubt, it would serve a purpose far different that that intended by its maker.

Annie had found a bag and, as she closed the flap, Henry saw it packed with boxes of ammunition. At any other time, he would scold her for stealing, if he could find the courage, but he surmised she would need that ammunition far more than the owner of the store, or the townsfolk who would once have purchased such items. She fastened the flap closed and adjusted it to hang against the small of her back before looking outside once more.

"Reckon if any folks're still standin', they'll be in the church." She had a fresh cigar in her mouth and Henry noted he had also seen more than a handful of those in the bag alongside the ammunition. "Doors're closed. That's a good sign. What ain't is I can see marks upon them there doors and, if I'm to judge, I figure that's blood."

Henry hadn't noticed the marks upon the doors, but now he paid attention. He adjusted his spectacles, leaning forward, though that would not make the sight any clearer. If he had a fancy, he could almost make out the lines of fingers in those marks, as though someone with bloodied hands had closed those doors. It felt more than a little sacrilegious to see blood upon those doors. As white as snow, the church towered above all other buildings, its bell tower pointing toward the heavens. A Heaven that Henry hoped had not abandoned this congregation entire.

With a nod, Annie indicated it was time to attempt to reach the church. Scythe gripped in his hand, Henry stepped out after Annie and, before she had moved ten feet from him, Henry heard the unmistakeable hiss of a Drifter to his side. With a yelp, he fell away from that noise, feeling something pass before his nose, the stench causing him to retch even as he fell. His hand swept outward, catching something upon the scythe's blade. A momentary catch, a stall of the movement and then the scythe continued to move in its arc.

A hand, twisted, filthy, with fingernails broken, chipped, or lost altogether, fell to the boards of the stoop, still twitching. The Drifter, however, paid little attention to its lost appendage. Once a woman, the Drifter twisted its neck as it reached out to Henry with its remaining hand and its new stump. Henry fancied she may once have been beautiful, with long, curling blonde hair that cascaded about its bony shoulders. A dress, once pretty and colourful, now torn and filthy, hindered its movement. Enough to give Henry a chance to regain his balance. But he could not strike her.

She had once lived. A vibrant, beautiful woman, now descended into horror, and Henry could only think of the woman she once was and, as a gentleman, he could not countenance attacking her with the scythe. He backed away as the creature continued to follow him. Fast, faster than they appeared while shambling without the motivation of flesh before them, the creature almost caught Henry more than once. Still he could not strike her down.

Annie could. She appeared by Henry's side, driving both tines of the pitchfork deep into the creature's face, pulling the pitchfork back with a snap and watching, ready, as the woman Drifter dropped to the wooden boards in an instant. Henry tried to catch his breath and saw Annie looking at him, her head shaking.

"I am not a killer by trade!" He looked down upon the unmoving form of the woman, twice-dead. "Though I do understand that I must put aside my feelings. It is ... difficult to reconcile. Surely you must understand that?"

"Reckon I do." She grabbed the shoulder of his jacket, dragging him away as she caught sight of more Drifters arriving. "Reckon that reconciliation should happen soon. We're gonna have to take the long way around."

Indeed, the altercation had caught the attention of several Drifters that had all turned their way and that meant they would follow Henry and Annie to the church, should they head there immediately. They had to lead the Drifters away and Annie appeared to have a plan. She dragged him toward a house not too far from the store, looking through the windows before opening the door and tossing Henry inside.

With a chair jammed under the door's handle, Annie busied herself moving furniture to the edges of the room, paying close attention to leaving a clear way to a window at the back. The house did not have a rear door, but Henry could see what Annie intended. She placed a sturdy table in front of the window, opened it wide and peeked outside. Happy with that, she turned back to Henry.

"You want me to play bait again, do you not?" Even as he spoke, she gave a noncommittal shrug, looking out of the window once more. "Go. I shall endeavour to draw these damned creatures near."

"Obliged." She touched the brim of her hat, before dropping the bag of ammunition out of the window, followed by her pitchfork. She paused. "You hoot n' holler after moving' that chair an' openin' that door. Don't go escaping through the window too soon. Give 'em something to reach for. Un'erstand?"

Henry did, but she didn't wait for him to acknowledge it. She had hitched her leg out of the window and dropped outside already, leaving Henry with a growing crowd of Drifters outside the door. The press of their bodies had already caused the door to make ominous cracking sounds and Henry did not doubt they would soon break through, whether he opened the door or not.

He gave Annie a few more seconds to prepare herself, taking a look around the room and the moved furniture, and then reached his hand out for the chair. The hand recoiled as a thump hit the outside of the door and his other hand flexed and gripped the handle of the scythe. He had to do it. He had to do it soon, or the entire enterprise would prove pointless. He could make it. Through the room, onto the table and out the window. He could.

Still he hesitated. It was one thing being the sacrificial goat without knowing it, but choosing to do such a foolish thing caused him to balk. Outside, yet more Drifters had arrived. He could hear the volume of hissing, snarling and groaning increasing, drawing others to this little house. The more Drifters that arrived, the more pressure would become placed upon that door. It could not hold forever.

He turned the handle of the door, releasing the catch from the door frame and the door heaved straight away, pushing the chair backward, a desiccated hand reaching through the gap. Henry's throat had dried and he tried to generate enough spit to wet it again. The chair shifted again, the gap opening wider, and Henry stepped back, tugging a small table in front of him. Back again and he pulled a chair forward, providing obstacles for the dead, to slow their progress, if only a slight.

"Hey! Hey! Here! Here!" He stomped his feet upon the floorboards, slapping the metal of the scythe blade against the wall. "Come on! Roll up! Roll up! Get your free meal here!"

He had heard such words at carnivals, back east, though he doubted the Drifters would appreciate it. He doubted they appreciated anything but the fact that he had warm blood and flesh that they could tear into and feast upon. The chair creaked and groaned and then two of its legs snapped, allowing the door to open wide.

The dead began to pour into the room and those obstacles did nothing to halt their approach. Henry had yet to clamber upon the table.