“It’s outside.” Cary gasps. “I need to see—we have to know how close it was—we think it might—we think it might be—”

“It’s help!” Harrison bursts out. He pushes past Cary and Rhys and runs toward the window. Cary screams “Wait!” and tears after him and then after a stunned moment, we run after Cary, down one hallway and up the next and it’s dark because of the poster board over the window but I still make out a lumpy shape beneath it. Cary is holding Harrison, half-restraining him, half really holding him.

“Stop, Harrison, just stop—”

“But they won’t know we’re here—”

“We can’t draw attention to ourselves,” Cary says. “We have to think how we’re going to do this—we can’t just uncover the window, you know that—”

“But they’re going to leave us—”

“Jesus, you’re such an asshole—get off him!” Trace shouts. “All you have to do is take the poster board down and look outside—”

“Slowly,” Rhys interrupts. “We have to do it slowly—”

“Then fucking do it already!”

We surround the window and pull at the tape holding the poster board up. Cary says careful over and over while we’re doing it, but no one’s careful. Everyone is fevered with the idea of rescue. When the last of the tape releases, the poster board slides to the floor. We jump back and then stand there, terrified of what has to be done next.

Maybe we don’t want to see what made that noise after all.

“Someone has to look,” Harrison says, but he doesn’t move.

No one does for the longest time. Trace finally steps up. He stands in front of the window and leans forward, squinting.

“What is that…?”

We move in next to him so we can see what he’s seeing. An intense orange glow lights up the distance. Smoke billows into the night sky.

Fire.

I’ve only seen something like this once before when Cortege’s old feed mill burned down and the whole town left their beds in the middle of the night to watch the piece of local history get devoured by the flames.

“Where is that?” Grace asks. “Is it close?”

“I think it’s Russo’s,” Cary says. Russo’s Gas Station. “Shit…”

I let my eyes travel from the fire to the street below. Cortege is almost a parody of itself. Shadows move across the street, the illusion of a former life. Men and women stand in the school’s parking lot, the road, before hurrying away, like they have somewhere very important to be. They’re all moving that way. All in the same …

“God,” I whisper.

“What?” Grace asks.

I blink, try to make sure of what I’m seeing.

“They’re leaving.”

“What?”

Waves of dead are running to the fire. Of course. Of course they’d want to investigate, in case there’s something there to satisfy their hunger. Other survivors …

I want to tell them we’re in here.

Grace laughs in disbelief as the school parking lot clears.

“Oh my God … they are—they’re going—they’re going away—Trace, they’re going away!”