The moaning and groaning intensified. He knew he was nearing the city. As he crested the last hill before the long flat road toward the city, he forced the clutch in, stopped, and shut off the truck. The air was hazy with the smoke of burning buildings and rank and smelled of dead and decomposing flesh. He pulled his black bandana over his nose and mouth, opened the door, climbed out, combat knife at the ready. He stood next to the open door, looking for the best way to approach the city, after all, working alone these days could be extremely dangerous. G------ biters, he thought.
He lowered his binoculars, spit, and climbed back inside his truck. He sat for a second then fired it up. He coasted toward the city, prepared for anything. He could tell that survivors had not been there for months. He drove past the elementary school. Windows were still boarded, and half the school lay in rubble. He grimaced at the thoughts that flooded his mind. He looked away, trying to hold back tears. He stopped in the middle of the intersection. The sign read: Welcome To Petaluma! Est. 1861. The population underneath the sign was covered in paint. He chuckled to himself and drove forward, using the front bumper as a bulldozer. Abandoned cars on the road moved like ice on a slick floor. He drove down main street, still unperturbed. He felt uneasy. Coming to a stop at Rancho Adobe Fire Station, the truck idled. That’s when he noticed the pack behind him. Six half eaten members of the undead dragged toward him. Their skin was wet, and seemed as if it was about to slide off their face. He slid his 1911 pistol to his conceal carry holster on his lower back, with his machete in hand he approached his attackers.
With one fluid motion, using his pent up aggression and hate, he made quick work of the two pack leaders. He drove his machete through the face of the third not realizing that his machete would get stuck. He dropped to a knee, ripped the 1911 from its holster and squeezed the trigger. Three seconds, three shots, three more bodies. He rose slowly, tears filling his eyes. He opened the back door of his truck, and laid the bloody machete next to the empty car seat. His tears intensified, and he filled with anger. He slammed the door, and climbed into the back. He mounted the fifty caliber machine gun onto its stand and waited. A lone tear ran down his face as he pulled the slide back, and placed the beginning of his five thousand round belt of ammunition into the slide. He hopped down, and hit the red button inside of his truck. An air horn blared from his truck. If this is it, so be it. Bring them to me, memories of his daughter flashed through his mind. Thats when it started. They poured toward him, slowly, but he knew that if they got a hold of him they would make soup out of him. He gritted his teeth. He slammed the slide forward. Rage filled his eyes, replacing the tears. With one fluid motion he yanked the trigger. Seven hundred and fifty rounds a minute flew forward. Bodies fell left and right. He cracked a smile at the smell of hot brass and gun powder. Not a second of hesitation, and two minutes later, hundred of bodies littered the ground. The ever so common silence filled the air once again. The gun smoked, slowly. Hot brass filled the bed of the truck. The airhorn had shut off sometime ago. He stood still, hands still firmly on the gun.
He removed the gun from its stand in the back of his truck. Replaced it in the tool box, atop the ample amounts of ammunition. He lowered his cowboy hat, opened the door to his truck and climbed in. He sat for a second, and yawned. It had been eight months since the outbreak, and a month and a half since he had seen any living breathing human. Moreover, it had been a month and a half since the night he lost his daughter, and wife. The flashback kept him awake, kept him running, kept him fighting. He drove south towards the boulevard. He stopped at the 7-11, and peaked in. It had a few bags of chips, a few cans of chew.
He thought about smashing the window, but he pulled the door back and stepped inside, hopped over the counter, grabbed the chew, and the chips. Yawned again, and opened the bag of chips. Ate one chip and when it crunched under his teeth he realized that it was at least eight months since the chips had been delivered. He rolled the bag of chips up and put them in the back seat. He smashed through a few cars on his way out, and stopped at the Valero station. He pulled a cypher from his truck and began siphoning diesel out.
He crossed the overpass and saw that the highway was inaccessible. A recent fire smoked from the charred remains of Henny Penny’s Diner. Accelerating, he did not think twice about the road ahead. He had to keep running. Nothing was going to stop him. He stopped at the auction yard. He knew they kept a backup generator. After so many cars had been tossed to the side by his bumper he was going to need to repair it. He pulled in the drive, pushed the clutch and shut off the engine. The truck rolled into a spot next to another oddly familiar truck. It was Ron Carly, the owner of the stock yards. Bloody hand prints covered the outside of the old Ford. His own blood was splattered on the back window. He knew Ron, they had gone to dinner less than a month before the outbreak. He didn’t investigate any more. He exited his truck, pulled a bat from behind his seat, rested the 1911 in his back holster, and quietly shut the door.
He walked around the shop, and found the generator and welder. He started to stroll back to his truck. Suddenly, he heard the door of his truck open. He dashed around the corner to see a man opening the door. He couldn’t tell if the intruder had any kind of weapon, but that didn’t matter. He dropped his bat and raised his pistol.
“Stop right there or I swear to God I won’t even let you turn into one of them,” he said.  The intruder stepped back from the truck, hands raised, eyes closed, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! Please! I am sorry! I just-” his eyes opened, “Chris?”
“Kevin?” Chris lowered his gun.
“Holy s*** bro. Been a little while huh? I tried to find you after the whole thing started, but the house, well its gone, then I heard you’d been with a large group headed to the coast to the potential survivors camp.”
Chris could tell Kevin was trying to avoid the subject, and that Kevin had lost people he cared about. It was in his eyes. The moaning from the not so far off intensified. “Come on,” Chris said, “let’s go”. The two climbed in, and left the auction yard, and Ron Carly as so many other walking dead had.
Kevin and Chris rode on. The survivors camp in Point Reyes filled their minds with hope. To end the awkward semi smiling silence Chris explained everything that had happened to Madi, Chris’s wife, and Emily, their six year old daughter. Chris choked up, but kept the urge to cry down. Kevin had run into the same issue. Kevin wasn’t married but he had a brother, Jake. They were close enough to be connected at the hip. Jake had died in Kevin’s arms, thirty three days before hand. Kevin choked up.
As they neared Point Reyes, biters began to appear, more and more. Chris’ truck roared forward. The hate, the fire in their eyes was always present now. They continued driving, into the night. Kevin slept while Chris drove on, however Kevin could not stay asleep. The nightmares were too present.
Somewhere past the middle of the night, Chris pulled off to the side of the road. They both shut their eyes, and tried to rest, hoping that the when the sun rose yet again, they would be able to continue their journey.
Just before daybreak, Chris awoke as an unknown source opened the truck door and threw him to the ground.
“Who are you! What are you doing! Do you hear me G------ it!” The man shoved an assault rifle in his face. Chris reached for his 1911, but he realized they had Kevin on the ground next to him. Assault rifle very present in his face as well. Chris opened his eyes and looked up. The man wore standard issue Marine camo pants, and a beige t-shirt. Chris explained how his friend Kevin and he are heading to Point Reyes for the civilian camp. The Marines lowered their weapons, and helped the men off the ground.
“Private Barron, this is my buddy, Private Hartford.” Hartford nodded as to say hello. “load up, do you have enough supplies?” Barron questioned, then cracked a smile, “We’ll take you to safety.” The four men loaded up, the Marines in their humvee and Chris and Kevin in the truck. They sped down the road approaching Point Reyes. Thats when they saw it. Fences and walls, lined with barbed wire, guards, and certainly explosives if need be. The gates had been opened. They waved them through. Chris and Kevin sat in silence and awe. They had finally made it to safety.