March 15, 2035

Hey there. If you’re reading this, keep hanging on.

The last letter I sent was picked up from the mailbox outside the Pinehill Post Office, which I still find very interesting. God bless the folks running the mail. They’re a courageous bunch.

The last time I wrote to you, I heard a loud explosion outside. I went to investigate. By the time your replies reached me, many of you said I should have done exactly that.

Maggie was barking loudly at the column of smoke rising from the west. My dad had also walked outside to see what was happening.

“Kenneth!” he yelled. “Better go get those shotguns. This isn’t looking good.”

The black smoke couldn’t have been more than two miles from the property.

I rushed inside, grabbed my shotgun, and threw the sling over my shoulder. I leashed Maggie, then she climbed into the truck.

“I’m going to go check what’s happening,” I told my dad as I drove through the metal gate. “I’ll radio you when I get to where the smoke is coming from.”

“Sounds good, son. I’ll be standing by,” he said. “If it’s those runners, don’t lead them back here.”

Maggie was in the passenger seat, sticking her head out the window. As I drove, I saw Clifton, my closest neighbor, about a quarter mile out. He was staring at the dark smoke.

“What the hell is going on out there?” he asked, looking at me. I could see fear in his eyes.

His wife, Elsa, was standing at the entrance of the house, the door halfway closed.

“I’m on my way to check it out,” I said.

“You think it has anything to do with the infected?” he asked. “I was afraid they were going to make it out this far.”

I assured him it was probably some kind of accident. I didn’t want to add to his fears. He’s in his eighties and has a heart condition.

“Better go back inside and wait, Clifton. I’ll radio you when I get there.”

“OK, thank you. Please let us know,” he said, walking quickly back toward his home and his wife.

—

The gravel roads don’t allow me to drive faster than forty-five miles per hour on a good day, but I was probably doing sixty that afternoon.

I stopped at a safe distance and decided to make the rest of the way on foot since the smoke was coming from a forested area with no road access. I left Maggie in the truck with the windows partly open.

I was about to disappear between the pine trees when I heard another vehicle approach. It parked next to my truck.

It was Aaron Garcia, our sheriff.

“Don’t you go in there alone, Kenneth,” he called out as he secured his rifle and walked toward me. “I called it in, but there’s no response from any of the stations yet.”

We walked side by side. We advanced slowly until we could clearly see what was burning.

It was a military plane. It had split in half and was burning like a bright ember. Everything around it was charred.

“Let’s go see if there are any survivors,” Sheriff Garcia said. Then he stopped and turned to me. “Actually, stay here.”

“Sheriff, I want to go with you,” I insisted.

“No!” he said firmly. “Go back to my vehicle and let anyone who answers know that the Air Force just lost a plane. It’s probably from Kirkland.”

Then he took off into the smoke.

I stood there for a few seconds, hesitant to let him go alone, but decided it was best to alert people.

Within minutes, I was back at my truck and the sheriff’s vehicle.

“This is Kenny Lujan, over,” I called. “Dad, it’s me. Over.”

There was static for a few seconds. My mind was racing.

“This is Emerson. What’s going on, Kenneth? Over,” my dad responded.

“Dad, it’s a military plane that crashed. Sheriff Garcia is checking if there are any survivors,” I replied. “I’ll radio with an update here in a few. Please let Clifton know.”

“OK, will do. Over,” he said. “Be on your guard, son.”

“Aye. Over.”

—

I waited by the truck for a few minutes, then walked back into the pines to check on the sheriff and any possible survivors.

When I got there, the plane was still engulfed in flames, but I didn’t see anyone.

“Sheriff?” I called out. No response.

I circled the wreckage, searching.

Then I saw him.

A half-burned figure in military uniform was crouched over the sheriff, tearing at the arteries in his throat with its teeth.

I ducked behind a fallen tree, losing my footing and falling backward from the shock.

I slowly got back up to take another look, but the figure was gone.

The sheriff’s right hand was still moving.

I started toward him.

As I got closer, the shadow figure showed up and snapped its teeth at me.

Its pupils were a sickly whitish yellow. Saliva poured from its mouth.

I took off running, the shotgun still hanging over my shoulder.

I didn’t have time to stop, turn, and aim.

He was less than ten feet behind me, running faster than I’d ever seen anyone move.

I made it to my truck and jumped into the bed, dropping flat as I cocked the shotgun.

Then I heard Maggie barking ferociously.

The runner came at us fast.

The shot echoed through the trees.

He dropped.

I opened the driver’s side door to calm Maggie.

As I moved toward the driver’s seat, she started barking again—louder this time.

Before I could climb in, Sheriff Garcia appeared behind me, grabbed my shirt, and threw me to the ground.

That’s when Maggie launched onto his back, barking and biting at his neck.

He lost his balance, and I scrambled free.

I grabbed my shotgun and fired—again and again.

Gasping for air, I radioed my dad and told him what had happened.

I drove back still struggling to breathe. My mind replayed the struggle— the soldier, the sheriff. I still couldn’t comprehend what had just happened.

Then, just before I reached the property, Maggie climbed into the back seat—and collapsed.

K. L.