439

You reach the strip mall outside Thelma's Convenience Store. It's dark and boarded with not a single soul outside, no customers waiting to go inside or staff directing traffic to the nearby parking lot. As you move in closer, you spot a sign:

THELMA'S IS CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

THANK THE LOOTERS AND THIEVES WHEN YOU RUN OUT OF FOOD!

MAY THE RIGHTEOUS LIVE AND THE REST BURN IN HELL.

In the middle of the road sits a trio of cars lined up lengthwise from bumper to bumper, blocking any travel past them. You can barely make out their details through the darkness, but there's at least a half-a-dozen, all armed and pacing and watching.

A howl cuts through the air, and in a distance farther down the road comes a military truck.

"The curfew is still in effect. Return to your homes."

The voice comes from a loudspeaker attached to a large vehicle that comes around the corner of Walnut Avenue. Before it gets any closer, your van pulls away for the last leg of the trip.

Nearer to your house now, you watch as a blanket of black smoke billows over houses and the acrid scent of burning wood and metal spreads with it. So many homes in the area are boarded or abandoned, and your eyes fall across them one by one, empty and vacant like hollowed skulls left to whither. The three-story home, the boarded home, the Makarovs—all desolate and looted and violated. As you round the last turn towards your home, you see flames shooting up from the field in back. Clouds of white and gray plume and turn black against the sky.

As soon as your van stops at the end of your driveway, everyone leaps out of the van and rushes towards your field. You all see the source of the fire, a downed news helicopter. Your back porch smolders as flames rise from the back kitchen. As you approach, you spot a few familiar faces though they're covered in ash. Parker and a pale-skinned woman with long black hair watch on from a distance and pack a minivan with suitcases. Further down near your neighbor Vince's house, Rachel packs a camping trailer with suitcases and boxes. Beside her, a young, thin pale brown-haired woman, a tall, lean olive-skinned man with a scruffy beard, and a dark-skinned man carry out supplies from the house to the camper. As you watch, the olive-skinned man stops and waves, but Rachel says something to him, and he goes back to work.

"I'll go check around the other side with Woody," Jaime says and heads off. "Brody, Madison, you two stay back near the van." You circle the house to see how far the fire has reached, and to determine how far the fire has spread. As you start towards the front door, you hear your name called over the crackle of the fire and turn to see Parker and Kelly Kline walking over. You've seen Kelly's entertainment segment on the nightly news when she visits a hipster night club or interviews a local indie band. She walks up with Parker. "Helicopter was flying overhead for a while, and all of a sudden it spun out of control and plummeted to your field," she says and stops by your side.

"I tried to go in your house, Luth, but I couldn't stand the smoke," Parker says. "It spread too fast, but it's only at your kitchen. I even tried 911 but got nada. We don't know what to do. Rachel and her people tried to put it out, but—" Parker cuts himself off and turns away from the sight of the flames.

Looking at the house, you see flakes of ash now rain down from high up as a gust of air riles up the burning embers and carries them over the field and road and with it the smell of charred wood like a raging campfire. The glow of red-orange lights the dark night, and over the hiss of the fire comes the moans of the infected like a song in the background. Their forms show like shadows shambling in the distance, lost souls drawn to the light.