sunshine, he detected, from the corner of his eye, a change in the boy’s face, a kind of lightening; he might have even smiled.
“Thanks, Danny,” he said.
Omaha was burning.
They saw it first as a throbbing glow over the horizon. It was the hour when the light had flattened. They were approaching the city from the southwest, on Interstate 80. Not a single car was on the highway; all the buildings were dark. A deeper, more profound abandonment than anything they’d seen so far—this was, or should have been, a city of nearly half a million. A strong odor of smoke began to flow through the bus’s ventilation. Kittridge told Danny to stop.
“We have to get over the river somehow,” Pastor Don said. “Go south or north, look for a way across.”
Kittridge looked up from the map. “Danny, how are we doing for gas?”
They were down to an eighth of a tank; the jugs were empty. Fifty more miles at the most. They’d hoped to find more fuel in Omaha.
“One thing’s for sure,” said Kittridge, “we can’t stay here.”
They turned north. The next crossing was at the town of Adair. But the bridge was gone, blasted away, no part left standing. Only the river, wide and dark, ceaselessly flowing. The next opportunity would be Decatur, another thirty miles to the north.
“We passed an elementary school a mile back,” said Pastor Don. “It’s better than nothing. We can look for fuel in the morning.”
A silence descended over the bus, everyone waiting for Kittridge’s answer.
“Okay, let’s do it.”
They backtracked into the heart of the little town. All the lights were out, the streets empty. They came to the school, a modern-looking structure set back from the road at the edge of the fields. A marquee-style sign at the edge of the parking area read, in bold letters: GO LIONS! HAVE A GREAT SUMMER!
“Everybody wait here,” Kittridge said.
He moved inside. A few minutes passed; then he emerged. He exchanged a quick look with Pastor Don, the two men nodding.
“We’re going to shelter here for the night,” Kittridge announced. “Stay together, no wandering off. The power’s out, but there’s running water, and food in the cafeteria. If you need to use the facilities, go in pairs.”
In the front foyer they were met by the telltale scents of an elementary school, of sweat and dirty socks, art supplies and waxed linoleum. A trophy case stood by a door that led, presumably, to the main office; a display of collages was hung on the painted cinder-block walls, images of people and animals fashioned from newspaper and magazine clippings. Beside each of them was a printed label bearing the age and grade of its creator. Wendy Mueller, Grade 2. Gavin Jackson, Grade 5. Florence Ratcliffe, Pre-K 4.
“April, go with Wood and Don to find some mats to sleep on. The kindergarten rooms should have some.”
In the pantry behind the cafeteria they found cans of beans and fruit cocktail, as well as bread and jam to make sandwiches. There was no gas to cook with, so they served the beans cold, dishing everything out on metal cafeteria trays. By now it was dark outside; Kittridge distributed flashlights. They spoke only in whispers, the consensus being that the virals might hear them.
By nine o’clock, everyone was bedded down. Kittridge left Don to keep watch on the first floor and climbed the stairs, carrying a lantern. Many of the doors were locked but not all; he selected the science lab, a large, open space with counters and glass cabinets full of beakers and other supplies. The air smelled faintly of butane. On the whiteboard at the front of the room were written the words “Final review, chaps. 8–12. Labs due Wednesday.”
Kittridge stripped off his shirt and wiped himself down at the washbasin in the corner, then took a chair and removed his boots. The prosthesis, which began just below his left knee, was constructed of a titanium alloy frame covered in silicone; a microprocessor-controlled hydraulic cylinder, powered by a tiny hydrogen cell, adjusted fifty times per second to calculate the correct angular velocity of the ankle joint, imitating a natural gait. It was the very latest in prosthetic limb replacements; Kittridge didn’t doubt it had cost the Army a bundle. He rolled up his trousers, peeled off the mounting sock, and washed his stump with soap from the dispenser by the basin. Though heavily callused, the skin at the contact point felt raw and tender after two days without care. He