and thought about when the zombies had crowded in, pounding on the walls of the van as he escaped. Then a thought hit him.
Maybe the shooter had been taking some of the heat off of him.
That put an entirely new spin on things. There might be living people in the subdivision, and he had left them behind to face a mob of gimps he had attracted in the first place. As much as he thought being alone was a good thing, he didn’t like leaving behind people who tried to help him. And he had left them down in the city for two whole days while he got drunk, then recovered from a hangover. The notion sank his heart, and he slumped against the van. What were the odds whoever might be down there was still alive after two days?
6
The black SUV came from the east, from the direction of the Cape Breton Highlands. It followed the Trans-Canada Highway all the way down to Halifax County, where it eventually hooked up with Highway 101. Having never visited that part of the country before, the driver thought he would take the scenic route and make the best of it. He had all the time in the world to play tourist, and he knew that sometimes, great bits of fun could be had on side excursions. The final destination remained Halifax, and the armory located there, but it didn’t concern him if he got there this week or next. He suddenly longed to see the valley and the city of Annapolis.
The landscape meandered by, and as he drove around the occasional derelict car or truck, he admired the colors of the season. He pushed a button on the armrest, and the window came down. A blast of fresh air rushed into the interior, and he took a great whiff, missing the smell of burning leaves. That was one thing he loved about fall in Nova Scotia, that wonderful drifting scent that would cut under one’s nose when least expected. No longer, however, he thought with a frown. Maybe even not ever again. Unless he was the one doing the burning.
An Irving roadside service station came into view, with a number of cars and trucks parked around it. He had always enjoyed the meals at the restaurant attached to the station, back when the world still had all of its marbles. He glanced at the fuel gauge and saw that the tank was half empty. Why not ? he thought, and flicked on his indicator. It was important to him to observe the rules of the road.
He pulled into the parking lot, parallel with the gas pumps, and let the motor run for a moment, craning his neck to see if there was any reaction from inside. He saw none, but knew that really didn’t mean anything. Opening the door, he got out of the SUV and stretched. Standing at almost six-five, he thought of himself as a high cross of a man, thanks to his broad shoulders. His frame had been much more powerful two years ago when he maintained a better diet, but lately, he felt his strength ebbing away. Motorcycle boots covered his feet, complementing a pair of faded black jeans and a drab-looking, dark-olive sweater. His black hair, streaked with silver, ended in a fox’s tail at the back of his head. The silver in his hair highlighted the silver pricks deep in otherwise black eyes. Shark’s eyes, he liked to think. Soulless and hungry looking. Back in the day, his name was Joseph Tenner. He thought of himself as simply Tenner. It possessed a certain Road Warrior charm about it.
Tenner gazed at the cloudy morning sky and took another breath. He walked around to the rear of the SUV, depressing a button on his key fob and getting an answering chirp. He opened the rear door and squinted at the station, thinking he should’ve worn his sunglasses. He reached in and took out twin leather holsters, which he leisurely slipped one arm into and then the other.
From the station came a hissing. Tenner paused in arming himself and placed one hand on an aluminum bat that he sometimes used. The hissing continued, from multiple points, but he didn’t see any targets. From the back of the vehicle, he extracted a Glock 18. The
Maybe the shooter had been taking some of the heat off of him.
That put an entirely new spin on things. There might be living people in the subdivision, and he had left them behind to face a mob of gimps he had attracted in the first place. As much as he thought being alone was a good thing, he didn’t like leaving behind people who tried to help him. And he had left them down in the city for two whole days while he got drunk, then recovered from a hangover. The notion sank his heart, and he slumped against the van. What were the odds whoever might be down there was still alive after two days?
6
The black SUV came from the east, from the direction of the Cape Breton Highlands. It followed the Trans-Canada Highway all the way down to Halifax County, where it eventually hooked up with Highway 101. Having never visited that part of the country before, the driver thought he would take the scenic route and make the best of it. He had all the time in the world to play tourist, and he knew that sometimes, great bits of fun could be had on side excursions. The final destination remained Halifax, and the armory located there, but it didn’t concern him if he got there this week or next. He suddenly longed to see the valley and the city of Annapolis.
The landscape meandered by, and as he drove around the occasional derelict car or truck, he admired the colors of the season. He pushed a button on the armrest, and the window came down. A blast of fresh air rushed into the interior, and he took a great whiff, missing the smell of burning leaves. That was one thing he loved about fall in Nova Scotia, that wonderful drifting scent that would cut under one’s nose when least expected. No longer, however, he thought with a frown. Maybe even not ever again. Unless he was the one doing the burning.
An Irving roadside service station came into view, with a number of cars and trucks parked around it. He had always enjoyed the meals at the restaurant attached to the station, back when the world still had all of its marbles. He glanced at the fuel gauge and saw that the tank was half empty. Why not ? he thought, and flicked on his indicator. It was important to him to observe the rules of the road.
He pulled into the parking lot, parallel with the gas pumps, and let the motor run for a moment, craning his neck to see if there was any reaction from inside. He saw none, but knew that really didn’t mean anything. Opening the door, he got out of the SUV and stretched. Standing at almost six-five, he thought of himself as a high cross of a man, thanks to his broad shoulders. His frame had been much more powerful two years ago when he maintained a better diet, but lately, he felt his strength ebbing away. Motorcycle boots covered his feet, complementing a pair of faded black jeans and a drab-looking, dark-olive sweater. His black hair, streaked with silver, ended in a fox’s tail at the back of his head. The silver in his hair highlighted the silver pricks deep in otherwise black eyes. Shark’s eyes, he liked to think. Soulless and hungry looking. Back in the day, his name was Joseph Tenner. He thought of himself as simply Tenner. It possessed a certain Road Warrior charm about it.
Tenner gazed at the cloudy morning sky and took another breath. He walked around to the rear of the SUV, depressing a button on his key fob and getting an answering chirp. He opened the rear door and squinted at the station, thinking he should’ve worn his sunglasses. He reached in and took out twin leather holsters, which he leisurely slipped one arm into and then the other.
From the station came a hissing. Tenner paused in arming himself and placed one hand on an aluminum bat that he sometimes used. The hissing continued, from multiple points, but he didn’t see any targets. From the back of the vehicle, he extracted a Glock 18. The
Similar Books
