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There's no reason to involve yourself with the mob or Mr. Makarov. Why risk your own safety? How would you stop the mob, anyway?

Outside, the crowd has pushed further onto Mr. Makarov's pavement, and some are pounding on the walls and rattling the storm door. Some of your neighbors wander away, probably sensing the impending violence. You look for Billie or Vince, but neither seem to be among the mob. They must hear the commotion, and you wonder if the noise will draw the infected out. So many people in one area would be decimating should zombies attack.

Mrs. Ortega turns from the back of the crowd and hurries away as the crowd pushes closer to Mr. Makarov's house and become more animated in their verbal assaults. Bottles and rocks now strike the Makarov house as people shout and pound on the front door. Threats follow, and the crowd chants their demands.

"We know he's infected!"

"Bring him out, or we're coming in!"

"He's going to turn!"

As the crowd chants their demands, the second-floor window opens, and Mr. Makarov leans outside and shouts down at the mob. "Get out of here! All of you!" He draws a rifle through the window and fires it once into the air with a boom.

Panicked screams rise from the crowd, and people scatter in all directions. Some run behind parked cars, while most sprint down the street or return to their own homes to escape the madness of what's unfolding. A few courageous, defiant neighbors stay behind to argue and continue their shouting, but Mr. Makarov aims down at a trash can and fires, sending the bin into the porch of a nearby house. Garbage flies into the air, littering the area.

From the far edge of the street, a voice booms through a bullhorn. "This is the National Guard. Your area is under a strict curfew. Return to your homes."

A trio of armored Humvees roll through the street in a line, and the voice of the soldier reverberates through mounted speakers, repeating the message. Spotlights shine from each vehicle, shooting bright circles from house to house. Doors open and close, curtains slide past windows, and the street turns desolate save for the three roaring military trucks. Even Mr. Makarov and his rifle disappear.

As the spotlight passes your home, invading it with a beam of bright white, you turn away from the window and listen as the Humvees pass.