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Though it may take longer to reach the school, walking there is far less risky and allows you a greater chance of avoiding roadblocks. As you walk down the road south away from your property, a trio of jet fighters streak against the backdrop of clouds, rumbling across the sky. Chills run up and down your spine at the thought of war planes flying in the airspace over your neighborhood. The last time you saw such a thing, the Rockies were in the World Series, and F15s passed the stadium to celebrate. You doubt they're here for the fanfare.

A window shatters in the house off the road some fifty feet away, breaking your daydreaming, and you quicken your pace. The country has already degraded further than you could have anticipated. You pull around a burnt-out delivery truck. You slow down long enough to see that the supplies have been looted clean. Further along the road, you steer around a knocked-over tree, behind which the half-torn body of a disfigured corpse sticks out from the massive trunk. A state trooper van passes the intersection, and mounted loudspeakers play a recorded message. "The County has instituted a mandatory quarantine. Return to your homes and stay locked inside until further details."

You walk on, sticking to back roads to avoid the more heavily trafficked areas in your neighborhood—those places you'd find activity. Human and infected carcasses lie everywhere, filling the country like a vast open cemetery. As you turn onto the main highway leading to Chipper Ridge High School, you smell an overwhelming acrid charcoal odor and soon spot an enormous pile of burning corpses at the edge of an open field, flames still poking from the top. Several figures in Haz-Mat suits hold lit metal pipes over the bodies, and a garbage truck, like the one you saw coasting past your home, empties its cargo of infected dead.

You push past this horrendous scene, holding your nose so as not to breathe in the stench. You walk for at least fifteen minutes before hitting a bend in the highway. On the other side of the curve, you spot a yellow school bus in a grass field on your right. Deep trenches in the ground lead to the bus, and its motor is still running. You step across the field to inspect the bus.

"Safe to say this don't look good," Woody says.

Thin ribbons of white smoke rise from the engine in front. You swipe your arm across the glass of the door to clear some dust. The driver sits slumped in his chair, eyes closed and hands on his lap, but from this angle, you see no other passengers. You raise your .38 Special and push on the door, which hisses as it folds back. The floor creaks as you take each step, and you keep watch for any movement. A pungent stench reaches your nose, and you cross your arm over your face. And that's when you see them—dozens of children sitting in the belly of the bus, all still as if sleeping. You take a deep breath into the crook of your arm. Muddy footprints lead through the bus, and several heavy ones stop along the rows of seats. The two closest children have small marks on their foreheads, dark and red, and a thin line of blood trails down their serene faces. You estimate the ages of the children to be between eight and twelve. You turn toward the driver and see a similar mark at the base of his head, a thin puncture wound. His skin has grayed, and light-green patches of skin cover his face, all showing early signs of infection.