asked, eyes searching.
“The power’s on
at the gas station. Look at the sign.”
She was right.
A vintage Union 76, giant orange ball sign was rotating away as if everything
was normal. I made a decision without consciously thinking about it and
stepped on the accelerator. As we approached I noted the empty and abandoned
vehicles at the pumps, several of them with gas nozzles still inserted in the
vehicles’ fuel tanks. I also noted the half dozen or so infected that turned
at our approach and started shambling towards us. They were all male, and
moving slower than the females I’d seen, but that didn’t make them one bit less
dangerous.
They met me in
the road, fifty yards shy of the gas station and I used the truck to dispatch
the largest concentration in one crushing, grinding and bloody impact. Two
remained on their feet and turned to follow us as I whipped into the station’s
parking lot. A green handled fuel nozzle, green for diesel, was visible
sticking out of the tank of an abandoned VW Jetta. No opportunity like the
present.
“I’m getting out
to get that nozzle out of the car,” I said to Rachel, pointing at the VW.
“When I have it clear, push the car out of the way so I can top off our fuel
tanks. I don’t know when we’ll be able to find fuel again.”
We screeched to
a halt behind the VW and I eased us forward until our front bumper crunched
into the car. Throwing the transmission in park, I took a quick look around
and jumped out of the truck, pistol in hand. Rachel slid behind the wheel and
dropped the big truck’s transmission into drive, ready to push. Grabbing the
nozzle from the VW I stepped back and she hit the gas. The Ford’s tires
grabbed the concrete of the gas station driveway and with a protesting squeal
of rubber and crumpling metal the VW moved forward.
The pump was
still activated from the VW owner’s presumably interrupted fueling, so as soon
as I inserted the nozzle into the Ford’s fuel tank and squeezed the lever fuel
started flowing. Rachel rolled her window down.
“Two coming up
behind you,” she warned, sounding as calm as if she was talking to me about the
weather.
These two were
the survivors from the group I’d bashed in the street and were now only about
ten yards away, both of them making that wet, snarling, gurgling sound that set
my hair on end. I stepped away from the pumps, raised the pistol and dropped
both of them with two quick head shots. Glancing around I counted at least
twenty more infected converging on the noise of the truck and gun shots, the
closest more than two hundred yards out. Fortunately, I still didn’t see any
fast moving females.
“Stay with the
truck,” I shouted to Rachel, and ran across the concrete apron to the
convenience mart doors.
I stopped at the
closed glass door and peered in. Everything looked so normal. The lights were
on, the shelves were stocked and there wasn’t any sign of disturbance. Running
out of time I yanked the door open and stepped in, pistol at the ready, whistling
loudly to draw out any infected. I gave it five seconds and when there was no
answering snarl I lunged for the counter and grabbed a fistful of plastic
shopping bags.
Shoving the
pistol in my waistband I ran to the glass door fronted coolers and filled
several bags with bottles of cold water. Next I filled bags with candy bars,
protein bars, canned food and anything else that looked like it was edible and
would travel well. Arms loaded I dashed for the door, praying I wouldn’t meet an
infected in such a defenseless position. Just before I pushed out the door I
glanced at the counter and stopped short when I saw the road atlas display.
Reversing course, I was juggling heavy shopping bags to reach for an atlas when
Rachel started honking the truck’s horn.
I looked out the
front door and saw a female infected staring back at me. She pushed on the
door which fortunately only
“The power’s on
at the gas station. Look at the sign.”
She was right.
A vintage Union 76, giant orange ball sign was rotating away as if everything
was normal. I made a decision without consciously thinking about it and
stepped on the accelerator. As we approached I noted the empty and abandoned
vehicles at the pumps, several of them with gas nozzles still inserted in the
vehicles’ fuel tanks. I also noted the half dozen or so infected that turned
at our approach and started shambling towards us. They were all male, and
moving slower than the females I’d seen, but that didn’t make them one bit less
dangerous.
They met me in
the road, fifty yards shy of the gas station and I used the truck to dispatch
the largest concentration in one crushing, grinding and bloody impact. Two
remained on their feet and turned to follow us as I whipped into the station’s
parking lot. A green handled fuel nozzle, green for diesel, was visible
sticking out of the tank of an abandoned VW Jetta. No opportunity like the
present.
“I’m getting out
to get that nozzle out of the car,” I said to Rachel, pointing at the VW.
“When I have it clear, push the car out of the way so I can top off our fuel
tanks. I don’t know when we’ll be able to find fuel again.”
We screeched to
a halt behind the VW and I eased us forward until our front bumper crunched
into the car. Throwing the transmission in park, I took a quick look around
and jumped out of the truck, pistol in hand. Rachel slid behind the wheel and
dropped the big truck’s transmission into drive, ready to push. Grabbing the
nozzle from the VW I stepped back and she hit the gas. The Ford’s tires
grabbed the concrete of the gas station driveway and with a protesting squeal
of rubber and crumpling metal the VW moved forward.
The pump was
still activated from the VW owner’s presumably interrupted fueling, so as soon
as I inserted the nozzle into the Ford’s fuel tank and squeezed the lever fuel
started flowing. Rachel rolled her window down.
“Two coming up
behind you,” she warned, sounding as calm as if she was talking to me about the
weather.
These two were
the survivors from the group I’d bashed in the street and were now only about
ten yards away, both of them making that wet, snarling, gurgling sound that set
my hair on end. I stepped away from the pumps, raised the pistol and dropped
both of them with two quick head shots. Glancing around I counted at least
twenty more infected converging on the noise of the truck and gun shots, the
closest more than two hundred yards out. Fortunately, I still didn’t see any
fast moving females.
“Stay with the
truck,” I shouted to Rachel, and ran across the concrete apron to the
convenience mart doors.
I stopped at the
closed glass door and peered in. Everything looked so normal. The lights were
on, the shelves were stocked and there wasn’t any sign of disturbance. Running
out of time I yanked the door open and stepped in, pistol at the ready, whistling
loudly to draw out any infected. I gave it five seconds and when there was no
answering snarl I lunged for the counter and grabbed a fistful of plastic
shopping bags.
Shoving the
pistol in my waistband I ran to the glass door fronted coolers and filled
several bags with bottles of cold water. Next I filled bags with candy bars,
protein bars, canned food and anything else that looked like it was edible and
would travel well. Arms loaded I dashed for the door, praying I wouldn’t meet an
infected in such a defenseless position. Just before I pushed out the door I
glanced at the counter and stopped short when I saw the road atlas display.
Reversing course, I was juggling heavy shopping bags to reach for an atlas when
Rachel started honking the truck’s horn.
I looked out the
front door and saw a female infected staring back at me. She pushed on the
door which fortunately only
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