442

Approaching your group, you spot movement from the back of a vintage sedan, a two-tone red-and-tan classic Chevy with the top down. In the front seat, an older woman with gray hair sits in the passenger seat, but from the back of the car comes a young man in his late twenties or early thirties. He wears a gray muscle shirt and tight-fitting black jeans and cowboy boots. His hair is swept back like a fifties rocker, and a thin gold chain hangs from his neck. "Is that your house over there? The one on fire? Any way I can help?"

"Mind your manners, boy, and introduce us," the woman snaps.

The man walks up to you and extends his hand. He has bright green eyes, the color of ivy, and he speaks with the hint of an Irish accent. By the bulge under his shirt, he has a sizable pistol tucked halfway in the front of his pants. "Name's Reilly. That beautiful lady is my ma, Nora."

"We were going by and saw the place on fire," Nora says and raises a metal cane pointing at the house. "I use to live 'round here on Aspen street. House with the willow tree in front."

You remember that house. It belonged to an old man named Russell, a known bank robber in the area. Your paths never crossed in a professional sense but word is Russell robbed seven banks before getting caught. None of the money was ever recovered.

Nora continues, "Now I know this ain't none of our business, but we had to stop to see if anyone was inside that needed help. Thankfully, no one was."

Though the woman's story is believable, something about it seems off.

From down the road comes the furious howl of the infected, and the clatter of gunfire. Someone shouts for help, and you turn away from the two strangers and hasten back to your group.