These days, Clark still wakes to the sound of screaming and fires. Originally, He had kept to himself this sort of matter- but like all information, he somehow slipped through the cracks of one's filter and became public knowledge.

Now, there's a reason for that, for those noises were in fact the very beginning of his warpath.

In the Church's broom cupboard, he had woke with a start, coughing, sputtering, reaching and yanking for the light cord.

Even from in there, he could sell the smoke. It scratched the back of his throat, reaching all the way down to rasp against each alveoli in his lungs.

He could hear shouting hoarse, deeper ones, coming from the old Father's mouth- younger, more excitable ones barking out all sorts of comments.

"Grab the cross! No, not the wooden one. The silver one!"

"I need another molotov!"

Then a deeper, more authoratitive one.

"You boys shut up! I'm the one makin' orders here."

Clark didn't have time to place the accent, fiddling with the lock on his door while grabbing for his toolbox. A click as the lock gave in, another as the box opened up.

"Yeah well- what're we supposed to do with Saint Nick over here?"

Fishing through the box now- allen keys, screwdrivers, crowbar. Yes, that'll do. Clark pushed the door open, inch by agonising inch, trying not to draw attention to himself as he got a look at what was going on. The chapel was a mess- pews askew, stained glass windows shattered- a Christ with no head or halo, in another a dove with no tail feather.

There were four people in the room- two scrawnier guys, wielding knives, and a big one, with a Mossberg shotgun, pointed directly at Father Nicholas, who lay on the floor in a cassock covered heap. One of the scrawny ones was close to his cupboard, Clark thought, if he could just sneak over and-

The sound of the pump sliding on that Mossberg drew him back to reality. He looked at the beefy fellow wielding it, taking in all that bulk and bad attitude. Just a couple dozen months back, before the outbreak, he was at the water cooler, having a talk about the footie with him. As a matter of fact, Clark knew that guy was a Gunner, like him. He could try negotiating rather than senseless violence, he said to himself. The old Father would love that.

He cleared his throat, triumphantly kicking open that door, crowbar still in hand cleared his throat.

"Ohhh- Roland, is that you, big guy? Should have told me you were coming to visit me mate- I woulda woke up earlier."

The look on Roland's face said it all.

"Boys, get 'im." He said, just to make it clear.

The two scrawny fellows charged Clark, one after the other, a considerable delay between them. Clark tried going for an underarm swing to the neck with the first one but failed in a way he felt perfectly good about. The swing was too late, but still executed well enough for it to hurt like all hell when it landed between the guy's legs. He keeled over, letting Clark get in a knee to the head. before shoving

him aside.

The next one had a distinct advantage over Clark in that he actually knew what he was doing. Clark swung once, -and was immediately punished with a clean miss and a cut along with his forearm. In fact, Clark had to kick the bandit in the hand, disarming him before he could go in for any sort of knockout. He grabbed the man by the shoulder, and with his free hand thrusting the rounder part of the crowbar into the solar plexus. Not once, but five times. Clark may have taken getting slashed a little personally. The poor bandit dropped to his knees, in a heap.

That left him, Roland, and the old Father.

Hey, mate- I don't think you remember me. But I was the electrician- y'know, for Alco." Clark said, coming off a bit too hopeful.

Roland only stiffly nodded, clearly not in the mood for any sort of reunions today. "Tell your pious lil' friend here that yer packin' up your bags and leaving this dump."

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Clark looked down at the father, who laid there, unmoving.

"I think he's knocked out. Or worse."

"Old fart probably died of shock or something."

Clark couldn't really disagree. As unceremoniously ait was put, Father Nicholas

could have just got scared and died. Morbid, but not an morbid as the condition of that bandit's love life thanks to Clark's crowbar.

"Meh.. wouldn't put it past him. What about them two?"

He asked, gesturing towards those two skinny bandits.

"Leave 'em. With the way you hit the poor blokes, they're blighter food."

It all felt a bit surreal to Clark. Like he still hadn't woken up from a dream. e figured that leaving the Church and the old Father behind would be a decision he would agonise over, instead it came to him all too naturally.

"Right then... Just lemme grab some stuff and I'll be with you in a sec." without waiting for an answer, Clark Half-scurried into the Father's study. He knew exactly what he was looking for- a dusty old tome- that he felt would carry h his sorry bun through whatever to come. Brushing aside the father's copy of the Old Testament, he found it- The Anatomie of Blighters: Daemonologie Revised, by Father Simon Nicholas.

without even a second- or first- thought, he picked it up, along with the leather satchel hanging on the Priest's door, and the little gold crucifix necklace hanging off of it. Spiritual assurance and barter material, all rolled into one.

Roland was waiting for him at the altar, which was still smoking, as was most of

the church.

"Our ride's waitin' outside. Finished packing for our little holiday?" He asked, with a sort of amused impatience.

"Depends, do we need sunscreen?"

"Hold your horses- it's only March, boy."

The two men snickered amongst themselves, leaving the House of God for dead, and its sole occupant. Sure enough, at the bottom of the Church's little perch of a hill, there was a yellow Chevrolet convertible, with a bored looking man laying on its hood, having a smoke. As they neared it, Clark could make out the man's features better- boyish, but coated with stubble and general rough-around-the-edges-ness for it to be considered manly, handsome even. He was wearing a longcoat, and a wide-brim hat- both in brown- and the pistols he had on his belt gave him the appearance of an old West gunslinger.

Half asleep on a yellow Chevvy, smoking a Marlboro Light.

"Oi Rols- who's the lad you've got there?"

Speaking with a Cockney accent. Clark was beginning to think that he hadn't woke up at all.

"Old mate from work. Watched the footie with him a couple of times. He didn't support Spurs, so I thought he'd be good to 'ave around." Roland said, scratching at his beard."

At this, the man chuckled, the Marlboro staying seated on his lips. He then looked at Clark with a smirk, appraising him from under the brim of his hat.

"Well, ain'tchu a lucky one. I hope Roland didn't give you too much trouble- not that he would, the gentle giant." A wink at Roland, who didn't seen impressed at the slightest. "Anyways, I'm Roger. Roger Winston. And I'll be your ride for this fine morning. Well met, mate."

Roger said, sitting up properly and sticking out a hand to shake.

"Clark." A gentle, still firm shake from him.

"Just Clark? Thought we were doing a full name exchange. Suit yerself."

"Last name.. err- it's one of those things, y'know?"

Roger smirked, the Marlboro dancing on his lip as he spoke, a cartoonish looking effect.

"Right, your reputation precedes ya, I see. What's it, then? Windsor? Rothschild? Maxwell?" Clark half-winced at that not one.

Roger's smirk only broadened.

"Ohh, related to Mr. Prime Minister? The Pee Ehm? Must be fancy, ehh? How well off were you before all this?"

were you before this?"

"Well off enough to be working with Roland."

At this, all three men shared a hearty laugh.

"You're a clever one, I'll give you that. Now, get in."