Daniel Lewis huddled in the darkness of the staff bathroom with five others. It was one of the few rooms in the old high school that still had a secure, locking door. He pressed his ear against that door now, listening for any sounds of voices or approaching footsteps. It seemed quiet.
"I think we are okay," he said. Lesley lit one of the precious stubs of a wax candle, and illuminated the circle of gaunt, anxious faces. They were the only ones left who had NOT contracted the illness, out of the two hundred or so people who had been at the camp when the coughing started. They called themselves the Immune.
There were seventeen Survivors who were fading into ghost-like whiteness. Daniel knew they couldn't help that their bodies were changing, and he didn't mind about their colorless skin
