a series of tiny tugs but that was all. Moments later, he looked down to see the gash and its flap of skin replaced by a tight black line. Lila spread ointment over it, then dressed it with a bandage.
“The stitches should dissolve in a couple of days,” she said as she was snapping off her gloves. “It may be a little itchy, but you can’t scratch it. Just leave it alone.”
“How did you know how to do that?” Grey asked. “Are you a nurse or something?”
The question appeared to catch her short. Her mouth opened like she was about to say something; then she closed it again.
“Lila? Are you okay?”
She was sealing up the kit. She returned her supplies to the Volvo and closed the hatch.
“We better be going, don’t you think?”
Just like that, the woman who’d stitched his arm was gone, the moment of her emergence erased. Grey wanted to ask her more but knew what would happen if he did. The pact between them was clear: only certain things could be said.
“Do you want me to drive?” Lila asked. “It’s probably my turn.”
The question wasn’t really a question, Grey understood. It was the natural thing to ask, just as it was his job to decline the offer. “No, I can do it.”
They got back in the Volvo. As Grey put the car in gear, Lila took up her magazine from the floor.
“If it’s all right with you, I think I’m going to read a bit.”
A hundred and twelve miles to the north, traveling east on Interstate 76, Kittridge had also begun to worry about fuel. The bus had been full when they’d started; now they were down to a quarter tank.
With a few minor detours, they’d managed to stay on the highway since Fort Morgan. Lulled by the motion of the bus, April and her brother had fallen asleep. Danny whistled through his teeth while he drove—the tune was nothing Kittridge recognized—gamely spinning the wheel and working the brakes and gas, hat tipped to his brow, his face and posture as erect as that of a sea captain facing down a gale.
For the love of God, Kittridge thought. How in the hell had he ended up in a school bus?
“Uh-oh,” said Danny.
Kittridge sat up straight. A long line of abandoned vehicles, stretching to the horizon, stood in their path. Some of the cars were lying upside down or on their sides. Bodies were scattered everywhere.
Danny stopped the bus. April and Tim were awake now as well, gazing out the windshield.
“April, get him out of here,” Kittridge directed. “Both of you to the back, now.”
“What do you want me to do?” Danny asked.
“Wait here.”
Kittridge stepped down from the bus. Flies were buzzing in vast black swarms; there was an overwhelming odor of rotten flesh. The air was absolutely still, as if it couldn’t bring itself to move. The only signs of life were the birds, vultures and crows, circling overhead. Kittridge moved up the line of cars. Virals had done this, there was no mistaking it; there must have been hundreds of them, thousands even. What did it mean? And why were the cars all together like this, as if they’d been forced to stop?
Suddenly Danny was beside him.
“I thought I told you to wait with the others.”
The man was squinting into the sunlight. “Wait.” He held up a hand, then said, “I hear something.”
Kittridge listened. Nothing at all, just the creak of the crickets in the empty fields. Then it came: a muffled pounding, like fists on metal.
Danny pointed. “It’s coming from over there.”
The sound became more distinct with each step. Somebody was alive out there, trapped inside the wreckage. Gradually its components began to separate, the pounding underscored by a strangled echo of human voices. Let us out! Is somebody out there? Please!
“Hello!” Kittridge called. “Can you hear me?”
Who’s out there? Help us, please! Hurry, we’re cooking to death!
The sound was coming from a semitrailer with the bright yellow FEMA insignia printed on its sides. The pounding was frantic now, the voices a shrill chorus of indistinguishable words.
“Hang on!” Kittridge yelled. “We’ll get you out!”
The door had been knocked kitty-corner in its frame. Kittridge looked around for something to use as a lever, found a tire iron, and wedged the blade under the door.
“Danny, help me.”
The door refused them at first; then it began, almost imperceptibly, to move. As the gap increased, a line of fingers appeared beneath the lip, attempting to draw it upward.