The church spire rose above the compact multifamily homes and apartment buildings surrounding it like a finger pointing at heaven.

  St. Augustine's was beautiful. Red brick with darker stone trimwork, stained glass windows reflecting the last rays of sun and rich wooden doors closed. A building that spoke of faith, community and hope.

  Unlike the surroundings it didn’t seem to suffer the same sense of forboding quiet but bore up with grace under the circumstances.

  David's spirit hearing picked up whispers before they even reached the parking lot. Not loud, not directed, but present. Having seen the update to his status he was now sure that he could hear more than he could even hours earlier and from further away. The low murmer, like distant conversation that made his skin crawl. It also made it hard for him to gauge how close things were or how active.

  "Something's here, I can hear them" he said quietly.

  Camila's hands tightened on the wheel. "Living or dead?"

  "Dead, I think. Or dying. Hard to tell. My senses have been getting sharper so I’m still figuring all this out."

  They pulled around the church moving towards the shelter which was in a separate building, tucked in the back, though still on the Diocese land.

  The parking lot posed their first challenge. They were parking in an exposed area, while visible from multiple directions the space was cramped enough that it would be a shuffle to get the van turned around ready to leave quickly. All with no cover, no concealment.

  "We need to position the vehicles for escape," David said. "Pointing out, engines running if possible."

  "That'll waste gas," Charlie said from the back seat.

  "Better than getting trapped," David replied.

  Mark had already figured it out. The van swung wide, instead of taking the turn head first as David expected he started backing toward the entrance. Once they got into the lot he backed past the rectory and the cars and van parked in front of it and towards the two-story building in the back corner of the lot. A sign above the door read "St. Augustine's Community Shelter" in faded letters.

  Camila followed suit, positioning her car for a quick exit. They left enough space between vehicles for people to move but not so much they'd be scattered.

  "Everyone ready?" Camila called through her window.

  David checked his crowbar, testing his grip pleased by how much the combination of his health stat and Mark’s skill had helped his aching wrists. The pain was dull, more like the sensation the morning after brisk exercise than the warning of worsening damage.

  "Ready," he called back.

  They climbed out, weapons in hand. The air was hot and a little sticky but cooler now the sun wasn’t directly on them.

  David paused, Decay. Death. The sickly-sweet scent of transformation. His nose was telling him a grim story about what they would find and the low murmer still tickled at his spiritual hearing.

  Charlie emerged from the back seat, his face still swollen and bruised. He carried his hockey stick in one hand, the other free for casting. All their mana had recovered fast during their rest at the park. David knew that earlier he had maybe four or five Firebolts before tapping out.

  Now, given that he hadn’t been picking up health he didn’t know. Maybe more? He had been worried about running out after all. He kicked himself, they were again racing against the clock and more preparation would have been better.

  Katie and Mark joined them, forming up in the arrangement they'd discussed. Katie in front with Mark close behind. Camila on one side, David and Charlie bringing up the rear.

  "Stay alert," Mark said unnecessarily. "Call out threats."

  They approached the entrance. The door stood slightly ajar, darkness visible beyond. No lights inside, no sounds except the ambient whispers David's senses tracked.

  Katie reached for the door handle, then paused. "David? How bad is it?"

  He strained his perception, trying to distinguish individual voices from the murmer. Multiple sources. Some stronger than others. But nothing moving, nothing active.

  "Bad," he admitted. "But nothing immediate. I think."

  "You think?" Camila asked.

  "It's not an exact science," David said. "I'm still learning how this works."

  Katie took a breath and pulled the door open.

  The smell hit them immediately.

  Death. Unmistakable and overwhelming. The scent of bodies left in summer heat for three days. Mixed with something else, something chemical and wrong that David's brain associated with the transformation slime.

  Charlie gagged, covering his mouth with his sleeve. Even Mark, with his medical training, went pale.

  "Oh God," Katie whispered.

  They stepped inside anyway, because what choice did they have?

  The entrance was a small waiting room. Half a dozen cheap chairs against walls painted institutional beige. Two desks with clipboards and papers scattered across their surfaces. A hook board on the wall held keys, each labeled in neat handwriting.

  And slumped over one desk was an elderly man in a priest's collar.

  "No," Camila breathed. "No, no, no."

  She moved forward before anyone could stop her, reaching the body with quick steps. Her hands went to his shoulders, turning him gently.

  The man's skin was gray-pale, eyes closed. A lividity mark darkened one side of his face, blood pooled by gravity after death. He looked peaceful, like he'd simply fallen asleep at his desk.

  "Father Mendez," Camila said, her voice breaking. "He was... we knew him. He came to our apartment for tea once."

  Katie moved to her side, putting an arm around her friend. "I'm sorry."

  David approached carefully, his senses tracking the whispers. They were louder here, clearer. He placed a hand gently on the priest's head, feeling for any sign of movement.

  There. Just the faintest tremor. And beneath his palm, the murmer resolved into words. Move. Move. Move.

  "It's happening to him," David said quietly. "The transformation. He's early in the process, but it's started."

  Camila made a sound like a wounded animal. Tears streamed down her face as she looked at the man who'd apparently been her friend and confessor.

  "Can we stop it?" Katie asked. "Is there any way?"

  David shook his head. "I don't know. I don't think so."

  The silence stretched. Then Camila straightened, wiping her eyes with angry motions.

  "Cover him," she said. "Please. I can't... I don't want to see him like this."

  David spotted a stack of folded blankets beside a bin of thin pillows near the door. He took one and draped it carefully over Father Mendez, hiding the lividity mark and peaceful face.

  "He died helping people," Camila said, her voice steadier now. "That's what he was doing when the wave hit. Taking care of the homeless and vulnerable."

  "That's what we're doing too," Katie said gently. "Finishing his work."

  Camila nodded, jaw set with determination. "Then let's not waste time. People need help."

  They moved deeper into the shelter, passing through double doors into the main hall. The space opened up, larger than David expected. Cheap lightweight cots filled the floor in rough rows, maybe thirty total. About half were occupied, bags and belongings tucked underneath or piled alongside.

  The smell intensified. Multiple bodies in various stages of decay or transformation.

  David's spirit hearing caught whispers, so many whispers, overlapping and competing. Some loud, some barely perceptible. All speaking that same alien language his corrupted bloodline translated into simple intent.

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  Move. Feed. Hunger. Move.

  "Spread out," Mark directed. "Check everyone. Call out if you find survivors."

  They moved between the cots, checking each occupant. Most were clearly dead, their bodies showing the signs David had learned to recognize. Gray skin. Stiffness. The terrible stillness that only came with death.

  But some wore that greenish slime, covering them in layers that hardened like cocoons. Beneath the surface, movement. Writhing. Transformation in progress.

  Katie made small sounds of distress as she worked. Camila's face had gone hard, jaw clenched against emotion. Mark worked methodically, checking pulses with professional detachment.

  Charlie stayed close to David, his face pale despite his bruises. "This is worse than the 7-Eleven," he said quietly.

  "Yeah," David agreed. "A lot worse."

  "I found one!" Katie called out suddenly. "He's alive!"

  Everyone converged on her position. An older man, maybe sixty, lay on the cot. His breathing was shallow but steady. Pulse weak but present.

  "Thank God," Katie said. "Mark, check him."

  Mark did a quick assessment. "Unconscious but stable. We can move him."

  They kept searching. David found the second survivor, a younger man with weathered hands and work-worn clothes. Then Camila found a third. Then Katie found three more in quick succession.

  Six total. All men, all unconscious but breathing. Not a great survival rate given the number of cots, but better than David had feared.

  "Where are the women?" Camila asked, looking around the hall. "And children? Billy said there were families here."

  Mark pointed to closed doors on the far wall, and stairs leading up. "Probably separate areas for women and families. Common in shelters."

  They quickly moved the six survivors, carrying them one at a time to the van. David's wrists ached a little worse with each load, but he pushed through the pain, refusing to ask Mark for help when they could need that resource for something worse.

  While the others worked, David did a grim tour of the dead. He had to know if any were close to turning, if they posed an immediate threat.

  He touched each body briefly, listening to the whispers. All infected. All transforming at various rates. But none active yet. The ones in cocoons were furthest along, but even they weren't ready to emerge.

  How much time before that changed? Hours? Days?

  David didn't know, but they needed to work fast.

  "Upstairs," Mark said once the six men were loaded. "Let's clear the rest."

  They checked the remaining doors on the ground floor first. One was locked. The next opened onto a bathroom, empty except for the institutional smell of industrial cleaner mixed with decay.

  The stairs led up to a second floor with a different layout. More private rooms, doors closed. A smaller open area with fewer cots. Two elderly women lay on those cots, clearly deceased.

  David checked them anyway. Both transforming, neither moving nor about to based on what his senses told him.

  "Try the doors," Mark said, gesturing David forward. "Use your crowbar."

  The first door was locked. David wedged the hooked end of the crowbar into the gap between door and frame, near the handle. One violent wrench and the cheap frame splintered with a crack like a gunshot.

  The room was empty.

  "Next one," Mark said.

  David moved to the second door. Another wrench, another splintered frame.

  Empty.

  The pattern repeated. Third door, empty. Fourth door, empty. Each time David's hope rose and fell.

  Then he reached the sixth door. He wrenched it open, the frame splitting easily.

  Inside, two beds had been pushed together. Four figures lay huddled together under blankets. An adult woman and three small children.

  David's heart seized. Not children. Please not dead children.

  "Check them," Mark said urgently, pushing past.

  Camila was faster, kneeling beside the smallest figure. A girl, maybe four years old. Dark curls spread across the pillow, face peaceful in sleep.

  Camila's hand trembled as she reached for the girl's neck, feeling for a pulse.

  Then her face transformed. "Alive! She's alive!"

  Katie dove for the next child, a boy slightly older. "This one too!"

  Mark checked the third child while David checked the mother. Both breathing. Both unconscious but stable.

  "They're all alive," Mark said, wonder in his voice. "The whole family."

  David felt tears sting his eyes. Good tears for the first time in days. They'd found living children. Not corpses, not transforming monsters, but actual breathing kids who could be saved.

  Camila was openly crying, checking each child again as if she couldn't believe it. "They made it. All four of them made it."

  "Why?" Katie asked. "What makes them different?"

  "Maybe being together," David said. "Body heat, proximity. Or maybe just luck."

  "We'll take luck," Camila said fiercely. "We'll take this win."

  The mood shifted. Suddenly the horror of the shelter felt bearable because they'd found this family. This mother and her three children who'd survived against terrible odds.

  "We need to move them carefully," Mark said. "They're stable but we don't know what waking them up too fast might do."

  They worked gently, wrapping each child in blankets and carrying them with infinite care. Camila seemed to effortlessly carry the oldest kid while Charlie and Katie both struggled with the younger ones.

  The mother was last, David and Mark supporting her weight between them.

  His wrists ached even more with the heavier burden but David didn't care. Getting her down the stairs was hard, hot work, and while Mark with his athletes physique made light of it David was sweating and breathing hard by the time they got her downstairs.

  Still, this was worth any amount of pain.

  As they descended the stairs, David felt hope bloom in his chest for the first time since the apocalypse began. They could do this. They could actually save people.

  "More rooms to check," Katie said, ever practical. "We're not done yet."

  She was right. They'd checked maybe half the second floor. More closed doors waited, more potential survivors.

  Or potential threats.

  David's spirit hearing was telling him that, gradually, and like the body in the Chinese takeout place what felt like a lifetime ago, the spiritual parasites digging in and animating the dead. The Nath he reminded himself. They were becoming more agitated, as though their dim senses registered movement and life near their host bodies.

  One stood out. Stronger than the others. Different somehow.

  "David?" Camila asked, seeing his expression. "What's wrong?"

  "I'm not sure," he said slowly. "Something feels off. One of the whispers is... louder? More coherent?"

  "Dangerous?" Mark asked.

  "Maybe. I don't know."

  They secured the family in the van, arranging them as comfortably as possible among the other unconscious survivors. The cargo area was getting crowded.

  "Last few rooms," Mark said. "Then we get out of here before dark."

  David checked the lengthening shadows through the windows. Maybe thirty minutes of daylight left. They were cutting it close.

  They climbed back upstairs, weapons ready. The remaining doors waited like dark promises.

  David moved to the next one, crowbar ready. As he wedged the tip into the gap, his necromancer senses suddenly flared.

  The murmer behind this door was loud. Clear. Different from the others.

  "Wait," David said. "Something's wrong with this one."

  "Wrong how?" Charlie asked nervously.

  "I don't know. Just... be ready."

  David wrenched the door open, frame splintering. He stepped back to let Mark and Camila see inside first, his crowbar raised defensively.

  Then Mark's strangled cry: "Shit!"

  David stepped around to look and his mind went blank.

  A woman stood on the other side of the door. Not lying down. Not unconscious.

  Standing.

  Her skin was gray, eyes clouded with milky white. Her face slack, expressionless. But she was upright. Moving.

  Her hands started to rise toward David's throat, smooth and purposeful.

  David's mind froze. He should move, should dodge, should do something. This one was different, moving too smoothly, and he didn’t know why. Then it dawned on him: too slow. He was too close, too surprised, still processing what he was seeing. Thinking not acting…

  The zombie's hands were going to reach his neck before he could pull back.

  Then flame blossomed.

  Charlie's Firebolt hit the woman in the chest with a whump of igniting clothes. She staggered backward, fire spreading across her torso.

  A second Firebolt followed immediately, catching her in the face. The impact sent her sprawling backward into the room, flames engulfing her completely.

  She made no sound as she fell. No scream, no cry.

  Just collapsed into a burning heap.

  David's ears rang with sudden psychic feedback. It was different, though he didn’t understand how.

  Not as loud as the refrigerator zombie, and definitely not as loud as the one he had run over.

  But present. Noticeable. A death broadcast that would summon others, but almost as though the wind had been knocked out of the caller and they were wheezing. Still the background buzz in his spirit senses shifted in response, the collective reaction building.

  "We need to leave," David said urgently. "Right now."

  "What?" Camila asked. "Why?"

  "Screamer, not as loud as the others, but I can hear responses. Things are coming."

  Mark didn't question, just moved. "Everyone downstairs. NOW."

  They ran for the stairs, David's warning cutting through any debate. Behind them, the zombie's body continued to burn, smoke beginning to fill the second floor.

  As they hit the ground floor, David's senses tracked multiple sources. He saw movement from not just one but several of the corpses they had checked earlier. It was spasmodic, not really controlled but purposeful.

  Worse there were louder more distant noises. He couldn’t tell if they were approaching.

  "Fight or flee?" Mark asked looking at the twitching corpses between them and the exit.

  "At least ten," David said. "Maybe more. With louder more active ones outside."

  He made a snap decision “We run, we can’t risk the people outside.” Unspoken was the fact that they couldn’t risk themselves either.

  They piled into vehicles, the idling engines roaring to life. The van was packed with unconscious survivors, but they hadn’t left anyone behind.

  Camila floored it, tires squealing as they pulled out of the parking lot. Mark followed in the van, the vehicle swaying slightly with its heavy load.

  In the side mirror, David saw shapes moving. Hard to resolve what exactly as Camila swerved the car and headed back towards the park. His hearing told him that activity was concentrated behind them and off to the sides once they pointed towards the Obelisk.

  The response was too slow. They were already pulling away, his spiritual hearing tracked the response as it fell behind them, while the familiar sound of the barrier created by the Obelisk rose ahead.

  David leaned back in his seat, adrenaline making his hands shake. They'd done it! They'd found survivors. They'd saved a family with children. After a second he realized he was grinning uncontrollably even as tears welled up in his eyes as the sheer power of the emotions hit him. Saving kids was different, he didn’t know why, but it was.

  That alone suddenly made everything he had suffered worth it. He looked around in the car and saw that despite Camila concentrating on the road, her face a picture of ferocity and determination.

  "Everyone okay?" Camila asked, eyes on the road.

  "Define okay," Charlie said from the back seat. His voice was hoarse, strained. "That was too close, man. Way too close. We didn’t even fight anything and I’m buzzed."

  After a moment he realized they didn’t know they were out of danger, he opened his mouth and spoke.

  “We’re clear! We got in, got the people and got out without having to fight! We saved all the men, women and children who could be saved! We fucking did it!” He was half shouting with a combination of joy and released terror by the end.

  "Not bad for a day's work," Camila said, a ghost of a smile on her face now as she seemed to accept they might not have to fight after all.

  They'd learned valuable lessons today. About preparation, about the death scream, about working as a team. Things were still far from perfect but this was the cleanest act they had pulled off.

  But mostly they'd learned they could make a difference. That despite the horror and the danger and the overwhelming odds, they could actually save lives.

  The park's beacon grew larger ahead, promising safety and rest.

  They weren't home yet. But they'd completed the mission.

  And tomorrow, they'd do it again.