Kurt drove out to the edge of town looking for gas to pump. He arrived at the old Shell station, the yellow sign faded to light brown. The gas prices were long gone. He had seen them blown in different directions, some numbers across the street, others a few miles down the road. He operated the manual pump the other survivors had installed months ago only to find it was dry. He went to the other pump. Very little. The next one and all the others had the same result. He crossed the street to the next station. Also dry.
Kurt looks at his watch and stares back at the road. Dusk was coming fast and he didn't have enough gas to get back all the way. He looks around, hoping to remember another gas nearby. Then he kicks the dirt. Even if he found another gas station, there was no gaurantee it would have a better result than these two. He thought both of them still had plenty, but he was wrong there and if he found one, how long would he have to get back? He'd be doomed if it was dry also. He wasn't familiar with the houses in this side of town. They could be swarming with dead. Even if he did find one secure, which he didn't know if there were any, he lacked the supplies for a firefight through the night.
"Better off running," he tells himself, trying to convince himself he had only one bad choice to make. He would have to ride the back as far as he could, which he guessed was about five or ten of twenty miles. He had to stay on the highway, since it was the widest road with least abandoned cars. The rest of the way he'd have to run, abandoning everything but flashlights, assault rifle, and ammo. He had the two glocks on each side and the handaxe strapped to his ankle, although he didn't like to imagine the scenarios that would lead to him using it. He had another six clips for the glocks on his belt. He could carry the extra clips for the assault rifle, but decides it would be too much. If he would go through the 30 rounds for the first clip, he would rather ditch the rifle and make a run for the rest of the way.
The bike ran out of gas on University Street, two miles from his turn onto Starr Avenue. It would be two miles on University, then running along the side of the field (running through the field was out of the question as the tall grass made it possible for any of the dead to be right upon him without him knowing). On a clear day without weapons, he could cover it within a half hour. Now, however, it was dusk and the dead were starting to moan and stir. The sunlight wasn't in their way to dry out their eyes. They could see in the dark as Kurt had figured out a long time ago. It was cooler too, which was why they avoided open areas during the day. Now they were coming out. The only living person in the city, the motor attracted all of them. The smell of gasoline and Kurt's sweat aroused them. They have no brain-function except for their senses and a hunger, for which is their sole focus.
Kurt left his jacket and helmet and made his dash, rifle in hand pointing downward as he ran. Hints of movement start in the corner of his eye. One coming out of a building's broken window. Another crawling out from behind a long-abandoned jeep. He tries to reassure himself that if he keeps running, he can outrun them until he's home. But as the ones right around him are starting to come out, along the road he sees more. They'll still in the buildings, slowly leaving, approaching the curbs one-by-one, getting closer to the street.
The adrenaline has kicked in, but so did the weight of the guns. This isn't his early morning jog, it's at the end of a long day. Blood starts to set in his feet from not laying down all day. With each step, more weighs his feet down. The dead are at the curbs now. An entire town zeroing in on him with hunger.
"Just follow the striped line," Kurt mutters to himself. "Any of them get too close to the line, shoot them."
Ahead of him, one walked directly along the line, going straight for Kurt. His mouth opens, releasing a low growl. The spit and drool are green, oozing down.
"NO!" Kurt raised the rifle. He squeezed the trigger before he was finished aiming. What he would have hit with one shot, he fired five rounds into. None of them landed like he intended. He stops, focuses the sight, and shoots a direct hit into the center of the face. The dead falls. Kurt jumps over him.
If any of the dead weren't chasing him, the gunshots made certain they would.
To the sides of the street, the dead form lines and walls enclosing. "Focus, Kurt," he tells himself. "This is happening. You can still get out of it." His first sign of hope came from straight ahead. He sees the burnt-out stoplight at the intersection of the street. It seems it has forever to run on, but what he had ran was gone already. It's marker to his progress.
He looks behind him. He guesses a good 30 seconds until they reach him, but not a second more. He gets down to one knee and focuses on his aim. "One one thousand, two one thousand," he fires a shot, "four one thousand, five one thousand," he fires another one, clearing the street from left to right. "Seven one thousand," his aim improves. "Nine one thousand, ten one thousand." He uses the rapid fire through the rest of the clip. It takes two seconds to empty the rest of the clip. Instead of aiming for single shots in the skull, he paces to empty the clip taking out the kneecaps of the ones on the right as he'd be turning left, cutting across the bank parking lot.
He takes a look behind him and falls back. One of the dead is already upon him, hands out. Kurt tries to push him away with his rifle. The dead grabs it and Kurt pulls the strap off, running, leaving the rifle in the dead's hands. He had 20 seconds, not 30. Running much faster without the rifle, with the other guns still holstered. He wipes his forehead. Sweat pours down his face. Had he made the mistake by a second more, it would be one of them by now.
Around the corner, he realizes how lucky he is. To the right are a few houses, but mostly with fences. He can hear the dead rubbing against the fence. They went straight for him and therefore didn't realize going around the fence or ever realizing the fence might even be there. He'd have to run through the street alongside the rows of houses, which is where more of his luck came in. There were no cars for him to dodge, no cars to worry about a dead being around the corner of. He runs on, his mouth dry, his sweat pouring down, his guns ready.
* * * * *
Kurt makes it back to Garner and doesn't rest until the locks are set on his door. On the dining table next to his bedroom, as though laughing at him, is his sawed-off shotgun and World War One trench spade, either of which would have been ideal for his run. He laughs back. He collapses onto his bed. "Tomorrow, Kurt" he tells himself, "is the first day of the rest of your life." He thought about how careless he had been. If he hadn't let his tank get so low, he wouldn't have had to go farther out of town for the gas stations. If he had known either gas station was out of gas, he would have driven back home without a problem and take a whole day to walk to get gas without problems. The rest of the world led him to his problems, but almost killing himself tonight was entirely his fault.
