Adam followed. A glance at the Bronco’s skin told him how close they’d been to being fried. The paint on the fenders and along the driver’s side had blistered. He watched as Emma kneeled in front of the front wheel on her side and turned the locking hub. As she stood to cross to his side, Adam said, “No, let me do it.” He mimicked what he’d seen her do, surprised that the lock turned as easily as it did.

“This truck is purely old-school,” Emma said. “It’s underpowered as shit on the highway, but it’ll climb trees, given the chance.”

Back in the driver’s seat, Emma pulled the four-wheel selector into place, and then they were moving again. She piloted the vehicle far to the left—off the road, really—until the heavy branches of the fallen tree started to thin.

“Here we go,” she said. She turned the wheel to the right, gunned the engine, and they rumbled through the smoldering mess. The Bronco bounced and tilted on every axis at the same time, bouncing them all over the interior, but Emma never stopped. Slow and steady. Branches slapped against the windows and steel frame. At one spot, they reignited a small fire at the point where a branch broke off.

And then they were on the other side.

* * *

If it weren’t for Joan of Arc Academy and the Clinton N. Hedrick Military Academy, the tiny burg of Mountain View, West Virginia, would be little more than a gas station and maybe a few residences at the intersection of Routes 52 and 44, near the Kentucky border. King Coal Highway ran east to west out here, marking it as the heart of Coal Country. Known for its stunning natural beauty—especially in autumn—it was a part of the country that was rarely visited by outsiders who were not affiliated with the schools.

As the academies grew in size and prestige, they brought unprecedented prosperity to Mountain View. Faculty and staff needed places to live. Parents and siblings needed places to stay for Parents Weekend and graduation. Clothing, groceries and toilet paper all had to be purchased somewhere, so the Logan Grocery thrived, as did four restaurants, one of which was run by a displaced Michelin-star chef who specialized in local game.

Now it was all gone. The fire spared nothing. In the town center, every building had been gutted. Some were still burning. The only structures still standing were the ones built of brick or stone, and even they were rendered to nothing but teetering facades. The bloated and charred remains of some poor soul lay on the sidewalk outside of Buddy’s Outfitters, the town’s only source for rental kayaks and bicycles.

Adam and Emma drove in silence down the center of the road, taking in the horrors as best they could. Was it possible that everybody was dead? As in everybody?