Beneath the heel of rusty concrete stairs, through a weary, unlit corridor, hides a door to an eerie storeroom.
A lone lamp hangs from the ceiling. Embedded in the wooden floor lies a wide trapdoor of brute steel, painted to blend in, concealing more—an even deeper descent.
A stark contrast to the corroded entrance veiled behind the hidden door forged into the wall of the Country Church, the stairwell leads to an underground, four-storey bunker—a sight almost majestic in its secrecy.
It's built strong, fortified to withstand even the most brutal assaults.
The lowest floor shelters the women; the one above houses the men.
Double-layered, thirty rows of metal bunk beds line the halls—structured, parallel, endless. Each room holds about a hundred and twenty souls, not counting the children glued to their mothers' sides.
Neva rests against the wall, seated on the bottom bed of a metal bunk. Midnight looms, and a gloomy moon hangs in the sky. Sleep eludes her.
The men are on guard, taking turns to protect the shelter.
Rhett had checked on her before leaving with the countryfolk to defend the rest of the town.
She lets her head fall back against the cold wall, eyes fixed on the ceiling, heart clamped with sorrow.
She can still hear it. It's chaos outside
The countryside is burning.
There must be people out there—shelterless, bared to this mayhem.
She is hidden here, powerless to stop the devastation—innocent flesh consumed in fire, children crying, blood soaking the earth.
The room lies still. Whether awake or half-asleep, fear claws every mind, bleeding the heart.
It poisons and rots the soul.
They are all so brutally helpless.
She had reunited with an unharmed Mrs. Barlowe and Anna. The ache in her belly earlier, which had lasted a few minutes, Mrs. Barlowe had dismissed as Braxton Hicks.
Neva is breathless, her palms are pressed to the bed, fingers creasing the white sheets, she scrunches her face in pain—
Her energetic baby refuses to rest. The movement is strong enough to visibly shift her garment.
"Coming into a hard night, my dear?" a gentle, elderly voice startles her.
Neva glances to her right.
On the bunk beside her, an old lady with wide, watchful eyes smiles—wrinkling the ashen folds of her skin.
"Yes," Neva replies, a faint smile brushing her lips. Her feet are swollen.
The pain in her back has only worsened.
Her abdomen hurts—she's uncomfortable almost everywhere...
The old woman sits up slowly. "Mothers are the strongest. The bravest," she says with a nod.
The room glows faintly under the hazy golden light of lanterns.
Her silver-white hair flows far past her waist as she rises and shuffles toward Neva.
She perches on the edge of the bed, and Neva slowly scoots aside to make space.
"May I?" she asks softly, eyes flicking from Neva's bump to her face.
Neva nods.
The woman smiles, placing a gentle hand on her belly, stroking it in soothing circles.
The baby almost calms under her touch.
Then she pulls her hand back and lifts her gaze. "The child is rather healthy, dear."
Neva smiles, placing a hand on her belly. "You couldn't sleep either, Grandma?"
The woman appears to be in her eighties, dressed in a white, floral-printed granny gown. Despite her age, her eyes are vibrant. Her presence radiates a quiet strength.
She shakes her head. "I can sleep if I wish," she replies softly. "But I waited for us to be alone." She reaches out and takes Neva's hand. "You are just as beautiful as I saw you in my dream, my dear."
Neva stiffens. Her breath catches. Did she hear that right?
"What do you mean, Grandma?"
"I've had dreams about you—for many long nights," the woman says, smiling.
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
Chills run down Neva's spine. Her hand still in the woman's grasp.
"Do you... have precognitive dreams?" she asks.
"It is a gift from God," the woman answers, gazing upward with a sigh.
"I'm amazed," Neva murmurs, wonder swimming in her eyes. She believes her.
"You're a sweet little lady," the old woman whispers, her eyes moist with emotion.
"I'm so happy to see you." She lifts Neva's hand to her forehead, a single tear slipping down her cheek.
Neva doesn't know how to respond. Her heart swells with something unspoken.
The woman meets her eyes. "I'm grateful to you—and your husband.
I thank you both for delaying their attempt to plunder the treasure of the Church."
Neva's eyes widen.
Does she know about Rhett fighting the guards outside?
But what is it about the treasure?
She swallows. "Did you dream that too?"
The woman nods. "It will be over by morning. The night is rough, but daylight shall summon grace upon the land."
She kisses Neva's hand. "Sweet dreams, dear."
She releases her and rises slowly. Her steps are soft as she returns to her bunk.
She lies down, hands on her chest, a peaceful smile still painted on her face.
Neva watches, dazed. Her heart is warmed by her serenity.
"Sleep well, Grandma," she whispers.
She carefully slides back onto her narrow bed, hoping for a little rest.
Lying on her side, she closes her eyes and prays quietly, hoping peace will come.
⑅ ⑅ ⑅
Twilight clings to the countryside. The sun has yet to rise over Ziriri.
Neva has barely slept an hour—her mind steeped in dread, her belly a restless storm.
The battle above roars on, wild and unrelenting.
Dust and pieces of concrete scatter over them.
The bunker suddenly shudders—so violently that everyone jerks awake.
Women leap from their bunks, children scream in terror.
An earthquake?
Infants, toddlers, youths—all cry in their mothers' arms.
Panic trembles through the crowd. But an ancient truth holds:
Mothers are the strongest. The bravest.
Their hearts are sanctuaries. Their bodies—the fiercest shelter.
A mother's love knows no bounds.
Neva's eyes sweep the room.
She spots Anna, trembling in the embrace of Mrs. Barlowe.
Mrs. Barlowe glances toward Neva's bed. Their eyes meet.
"Are you alright, my dear?" she calls, raising her voice above the chaos.
Neva nods.
She glances at the bunk beside her.
The old woman is still lying there, smiling in her sleep.
But, something's off.
Neva frowns.
Her chest—isn't moving.
The stillness only deepens..
Neva's heart drops.
She carefully climbs out of bed, inching closer.
Gently, she pats the woman's shoulder.
"Grandma? Grandma, wake up."
No response.
Curious eyes begin to watch. Mrs. Barlowe frowns in concern.
Neva bends low, hand hovering near the woman's nose. No breath.
She presses her fingers to her neck.
No pulse.
Standing upright, Neva looks around. Whispers stir the air.
All eyes are on her and the old woman.
Mrs. Barlowe approaches. "What's wrong, dear?"
Neva swallows, her voice quiet but clear.
"Grandma's no more."
Gasps ripple through the crowd.
Children wail, screams rising in fearful waves—terrified by death among them.
Some of the women rush forward, checking for breath, for warmth.
"She's cold... she's been gone for hours."
"Nana Gracie is dead," one announces.
Murmurs erupt like tremors.
Neva sits on the bed, stunned. It feels like a dream—they'd just spoken a few hours ago. She had been glowing. Vibrant. Alive.
"How did she die?" someone whispers.
Another woman sobs. "Oh, Nana Gracie. She's the reason we're alive!"
She collapses onto her body, grief echoing across the shelter.
The noise jostles Neva from her trance.
People pray around her, mourning their beloved seer. Gracie's hands rest peacefully on her chest. Her face—graceful in death.
A thunderous explosion.
Dust rains from the ceiling. The entire shelter quakes.
Are they breaching the Church directly?
How long can this place endure?
Suddenly, the door slams open.
"HURRY! WE NEED TO ESCAPE—NOW!"