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For hours and hours into the night, your caravan drives down a quiet four-lane highway out of Nightfall, the place you once called home, now ruled by the infected. Your caravan of friends, neighbors, and relative strangers joined together as you set out west through Colorado to find a new safe haven. The highway stretches on for miles lit only by headlights. Though the road is empty of traffic, you move at a careful, steady pace, avoiding debris, abandoned cars, and even bodies of the newly created dead. No other vehicle has passed you coming or going from Nightfall. You flip on the radio. Through the static, the only station you reach plays a looped message about a FEMA aid camp outside of Stone Ridge, a small town further down I-70. Time ticks by, and you fight to stay awake with only the hum of motors and occasional howls breaking the silence. You have no destination in mind, but when you reach it, you'll know.

Past the Exit 37 off-ramp, you spot a blockage crossing all lanes of the highway, forcing your motorcade to slow. Wrecked cars and a small truck lie from end to end in a tangle of metal. Several bodies lie on the road, and there's movement in the back of a white sedan in the middle of the pile-up. The darkness hides the details, but in the glow of the sedan's headlights, you see blood splattered on the hood and more on the ground. Casings from a shotgun and a rifle litter the area around the small truck, and bullet holes dot the passenger door. The four vehicles impede any further movement. Though the right shoulder looks clear, you spot shards of glass littering the tarmac, making it treacherous for your caravan to pass. On the left, a steep hill of spruce and pine rises tall.

The minibus stops ahead of the accident. Jaime steps onto the highway and kicks the side of the vehicle. In the back of the caravan, a dark-blue Cadillac pulls up. You noticed this car following you from the beginning of the trip as you left your home in Nightfall.

Your companions soon step out of their cars: Parker stretches his legs, Brody eyes the crash site, and Rachel scans the area, a semiautomatic rifle propped against her shoulder. Woody leans out of the passenger window, rubbing sand from his eyes. You check the fuel gauge on your van, and the needle sits just above the E.

From the dark-blue Cadillac walks a short man in a pin-striped suit and pastel pink shirt. When he steps from his car, he dabs sweat off his nearly bald head with a handkerchief. When he sees you looking over at him, he strides towards you, hand waving. His smile spreads wide, showing a gold tooth on the bottom row. "Hey there, friend. My name's Dunbar Church. Friends call me Church, which is fitting, since I'm a preacher. I saw you and your group leavin' your burnin' home, headin' out of town, and thought to follow. Sorry about your home. Once this outbreak madness is over, I can get you help finding new housing. I'm on a committee working with Habitat for Humanity. But there's time to discuss that later, and once we get to a safe location, there's even more to discuss."

He turns and waves at Jaime across the caravan. "Big man! Let me talk to ya for a minute."

Before you can say a word to Church, he walks off.

As members of the large group congregate on the side of the road, they look around the area and talk to one another. No one makes a move away from the crowd. They seem confused, bewildered, and unsure of what to do.