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You lock the front door of your home and follow the path down your property to the road. The sun hangs in the sky on your left.

As you scan the neighborhood, an ambulance speeds along the road, its sirens blaring. A long black mark runs along the side of the emergency vehicle, with blood smeared in the dent where it must have collided. Once it passes, the ambient music of the country returns: the buzz of insects, the songs of birds, the whistle of the wind. In the backdrop, an errant howl of the infected tells you they're out there, somewhere.

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.