The riot van could take them no further. Quinn parked it in the relative shelter of a multi-story parking garage that overlooked the interstate, its engine falling silent for what felt like the last time. They walked up the spiraling ramp to the top floor, emerging into the open air. From here, they had a clear, unobstructed, and utterly horrifying view of the gauntlet that lay before them.
Interstate 95 was not a road. It was a wound gashed across the landscape, festering with infection. For miles in either direction, as far as the eye could see, it was a solid, impassable traffic jam. Cars, trucks, and buses were packed together in a chaotic jumble, a testament to the city's final, panicked attempt to flee. And moving between the vehicles, a thick, shambling carpet of the dead, was a horde of infected so vast it defied comprehension.
