The hotel looked like any other, though the building seemed a bit wide for housing only a room on each side. In the office, a single man sat with his legs propped up on the desk, a TV playing news updates in the lobby holding his attention. As Peter walked in, the man waved in acknowledgement, though his eyes never left the TV. The man had a funny aura to anyone who had never seen a Risen before. He seemed to be Dead, as opposed to the undead of a vampire, yet his aura radiated from inside the flesh suit.
On the TV, it looked like a zombie movie. A news chopper was flying over Cairo where the streets were flooded with shambling hordes of zombies. Pockets of gunfire could be seen as struggling survivors attempted to keep their lives. The man behind the desk spoke up with a rehearsed greeting. "I have to ask, are you Julia, Raymond, Peter, James, John, Ringo, Glen, or Jesus?" The man seemed in his late twenties, and had the air of someone who didn't actually hold this position, but was filling in for someone for who know how long. His black jeans and blue polo shirt were wrinkled and unkempt as if he had just thrown them on. He had short black hair which wasn't long enough to really need care.
On the TV, it looked like a zombie movie. A news chopper was flying over Cairo where the streets were flooded with shambling hordes of zombies. Pockets of gunfire could be seen as struggling survivors attempted to keep their lives. The man behind the desk spoke up with a rehearsed greeting. "I have to ask, are you Julia, Raymond, Peter, James, John, Ringo, Glen, or Jesus?" The man seemed in his late twenties, and had the air of someone who didn't actually hold this position, but was filling in for someone for who know how long. His black jeans and blue polo shirt were wrinkled and unkempt as if he had just thrown them on. He had short black hair which wasn't long enough to really need care.
Stover United Methodist Church was not large by any means, but adequate enough for this small town. People filed in like a funeral precession, no one speaking until they settled in a small group if friends and family, praying and comparing stories of what they new. Everyone seemed to be avoiding the nuns. When Sister Meredith immerged, she would find a priest sitting in a chair near the cloister waiting for her. He was a young man, late twenties, early thirties. His black suit was finely tailored and ironed, and his face was clean shaven. He wore no jewelry and many of the religious symbols on his shirt seemed hand stitched. His voice was soft and soothing to hear, as if it had never yelled, though the lines around his face were wrinkles of stress and worry.
"Sister. I wonder if I may have a word with you in private," he said, rising to his feet. He pointed to a small door in the back corner of the room. "My office is there. Whenever you get the chance." With that he turned and walked off to his office. There was something strange about the man, though she would be able to feel a faith in him as strong as her own. It felt like a spiritual scar, healed, but forever branded in him.
"Sister. I wonder if I may have a word with you in private," he said, rising to his feet. He pointed to a small door in the back corner of the room. "My office is there. Whenever you get the chance." With that he turned and walked off to his office. There was something strange about the man, though she would be able to feel a faith in him as strong as her own. It felt like a spiritual scar, healed, but forever branded in him.
