It had been two weeks since the world had gone off-kilter. Reverend Jim had known the end was near. Of course, the end had been near for a long time. That was the nature of ends—they were always approaching, always just beyond the next breath. He did not stand with pride in his knowing, only with a quiet foreboding.

  He had already attended four funerals that week. Four names spoken over closed caskets. Four families staring at him as though he might explain why.

  There were empty spaces in the pews now—familiar absences where laughter once sat. Hats unclaimed. Hymnals untouched. Death had come to San Francisco.

  He had not been surprised. That troubled him more than the deaths.

  “Now is the time to rejoice, for God is nigh!” Reverend Jim spread his arms wide as if to embrace the rafters themselves. His voice carried strangely in the sanctuary—not loud, not booming, but buoyant, as though it rose of its own accord. He had an extemporaneous way of speaking. Notes bored him. Prepared remarks felt like a lack of faith. The Spirit would provide, he insisted. And if occasionally the Spirit wandered, well… so did he. His theology was loose in the hands but sound at the spine—at least, if he were to judge it himself.

  “The System,” he said, smiling as though discussing a new hymn, “is a gift from God. We should embrace it. For are not all things beneath the heavens a gift? The rain. The fire. The trembling of the earth. The rising of the dead—” A pause. A few uneasy glances in the pews. He nodded gently. “—yes. Even that.”

  He clasped his hands together, pleased. “God gives us nothing we are unable to handle. Nothing. If He places a weight upon our shoulders, it is because He knows our bones will hold.” He looked out across the congregation. He noticed the empty seats. He always noticed. “Today we gather in this house to give praise to God and His son, Jesus Christ Almighty. We give thanks for those brave souls in New Orleans who stood against a monster most dire. We give thanks that the Mississippi Valley yet stands. We give thanks that we are counted among the living.” His smile widened—not warm, not cold. Simply certain.

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  “For the dead are also counted. Just… elsewhere.” Silence stretched. Then softly: “And perhaps closer than we think.”

  It was at those words that the thud came. Not a knock. A thud.

  The heavy doors of the sanctuary shuddered in their frame.

  The congregation stirred. Some gasped. Others went still in that particular way that comes before panic.

  More than one parishioner quietly rested a hand on the weapon they had brought with them that morning. The old ways had returned quickly to San Francisco.

  Reverend Jim did not flinch. “Brother Theo,” he said gently, as though requesting another hymn, “please welcome our guests.”

  Brother Theo, oldest of the deacons and stiff of knee, rose from his pew. He hobbled toward the door, each step slow but steady. The sanctuary was silent now except for the faint scrape of leather soles against wood. The doors stood tall—over seven feet of dark-stained oak.

  They had seemed imposing once. Theo drew the latch. The doors opened inward. He stumbled back. On the threshold stood a figure too large for comfort and too still for safety.

  “Good day to you.” The voice was deep—bass and stone and distant thunder. It did not echo, yet it filled the sanctuary. “We are in search of the Warden.”

  Several heads turned instinctively toward Reverend Jim. Jim smiled.

  Not surprised. Not afraid. Merely pleased. “Ah,” he said softly. “You’re early.”

  Jim folded his hands at his waist, as though greeting a visiting pastor rather than something that had cast a shadow across the threshold without stepping inside.

  “You’re early,” he repeated, tilting his head slightly, studying the height of the figure, the way it seemed to dim the light behind it rather than block it.

  A murmur moved through the pews—whispered prayers, the faint metallic click of a safety being disengaged.

  Brother Theo had not risen.

  The figure did not cross the threshold. Its voice came again, slower this time. “The Warden has awakened. The locks are compromised. Protocol requires confirmation.”

  Jim nodded thoughtfully, as though considering a minor administrative matter. “Yes,” he said. “I had wondered when you would notice.”

  Faith itself felt suddenly less certain.