Gas, Guns and Suburban Zombies
Ding, ding, ding.
The empty gas light blinked over and over. Was my alarm clock trying to jerk me out of a nightmare?
I stepped on the gas. Nothing.
“Let’s get to a gas station,” Chad huffed. His bandaged arm was seeping blood onto the car seat. I flinched – some part of me still cared about upholstery. Ridiculous. “You see anything?”
I gazed up at the rows of zombies lumbering on the off ramp to Oak Park – above their heads a BP sign flashed a neon blue. They were the slow, fat suburban deadheads, but there was no opening to dash through.
In the rear-view, an open lane stretched back down the highway towards Chicago. “We could siphon,” I mumbled. I’d have to run for miles to get enough space to siphon anything and Chad… I looked over – his eyes were closed, his breathing was ragged.
“You still got that revolver?” I asked.
Chad looked up and winced. “Lee, you’re not going out there.”
“Chad, I can-”
“No, you-” Chad coughed.
“What choice do we have?” I cried out, surprising us both.