242

You lock the front door of your home and follow the path down your property to the road. The sun hasn't climbed far past the horizon, so there's still a morning chill. At this time of day, there's little movement in the area, but the sounds of the country are all around you. A tractor rolls along a field just across the main road, its motor rumbling, the sound eclipsed only by a passing school bus. In it, over a dozen uniformed soldiers ride, their stoic and reserved faces showing through the small square windows. As you walk by a neighbor's house, you hear loud shouting between a man and a woman, along with breaking glass.

The Taylor farm sits on nine-hundred acres of rich Colorado land, and though the soil has been rich enough to produce plentiful crops in years past, the last season yielded little. Though hard times have fallen on many of the farmers in the area, the Taylors never asked for help and were too proud to accept charity. At least they had Billie's college fund to help them through that lean season. With the cold winter, you doubt the crops would have done much better this year. Of course, it might not matter given the current state of apocalyptic affairs.

As you walk along the side of the road, a low growl startles you from nearby, and your head turns toward a thick grove of trees to the left. A moment later, you hear a high-pitched moan vibrating through the air. You stare into the tree line but see no movement, and the sound dies out as quickly as it came