“John,” she whispered insistently.
“What?”
“There’s something moving in there.”
He stopped, raised the shotgun, and his eyes scanned the road ahead. It seemed deserted except for abandoned cars, some burned out. “Where?”
“The bus!”
She was right. The overturned orange bus seemed abandoned until he looked carefully. When he did: small corrupted faces, tiny blackened hands scratching at unbroken windows.
He stayed still for a time, then opined: ”I don’t think they can get out. It’s safe. Let’s go”
'”But…” she hesitated, “we can’t just leave them like that…”
He shook his head. “Can’t spare the ammunition.”
“Poor things…”
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