North of New Albany is a whole lot of nothing, just dead winter wheat fields as far as the eye can see, which would have gotten rotated out with corn or soy in the summer. Too bad the virus didn’t hit later in the year. Cornfields would have provided plenty of cover.

We agreed to avoid major thoroughfares like Interstate 71 or U.S. Route 23. Instead, we’ll weave our way to State Route 61 and head toward Mount Gilead for the first part of our journey. There might be safer ways, small-town roads and access lanes that could get us there just as well. But in spite of years spent traveling the state for basketball, I’m just not familiar enough with the back roads of Ohio to keep us from getting lost. A small state route seemed like the right compromise.

Still, I’m ready to steer us off the road and into cover at a moment’s notice. My hands are already sweaty on the wheel, my neck tense from staring, staring, staring at the sky. It’s going to be a long trip.

We pass a newly paved road with a huge sign advertising a home development. STARTING IN THE LOW 300KS! it says. In the distance, a bunch of limp balloons hang from a marquee sign, marking model homes. Most of the balloons are completely deflated, flapping back and forth in the wind, but a single red one remains stubbornly full. I have no idea how.

A few miles later, I’m forced to hit the brakes. A coyote saunters out from a stand of trees and into the road. It’s the biggest coyote I’ve ever seen, still plush with its winter coat. A moment later, two tiny, fuzzy gray pups come stumbling after.

Emmaline growls.

The mother gives us this yellow-eyed look, like she’s saying What the hell are you doing on my road? Then she casually leads her young into a gully and disappears.

“Holy shit, was that a wolf?” Tanq says.

“Coyote,” says Trey. “A big one.”

“Not my first weird wildlife sighting since I woke up,” I say, getting the car rolling again. “Animals own the world, now that humanity has died.”

“The Orkins—or Farmers?” Trey says. “They didn’t go after animals. Just people.”

“Seems like,” says Tanq.

“I bet a lot of animals died by default,” I say. “House pets like Emmaline, stuck inside their homes with no one to take care of them. So many dogs and cats. Even birds and hamsters and—”

“Okay, Paige, we get the point,” Tanq says. “Dammit, now I’m depressed.”

“What’s that smell?” Trey says, just as I catch a whiff of stench. It’s both rotten and sweet, like manure in syrup.

In the rearview mirror, I watch Tanq pull her jacket over her nose. “My god,” she says, her voice muffled. “That’s awful.”