FSE

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Not long after the sun rose, Felice and I were up and about, getting ourselves ready to hit the road. We went to the spot where we hid the jugs of water, and I got on my knees to start sifting through the loose dirt for one of the containers. Felice stood by the curb, holding point while I retrieved the precious liquid. Covering over the rest of our stash, I made my way out of the woods again and patted his rump playfully. "Let's get movin', sweetheart," I chided, winking coyly. He giggled under his breath, which I was just barely able to catch with my ears perked in his direction.

The two of us kept clearing vehicles as we paced down the highway. We didn't find very much; a couple pieces of rotten fruit in one car that stank up the whole vehicle. Another one had some blankets covering a box stuffed full of photos. It was a depressing sight, because we found the family depicted in these photos dragged out of the car and to the side of the road, each of them holding a bullet hole in the back of their heads. The youngest couldn't have been more than eight years old.

I pulled Felice's shoulder, begging him to not to look at it, not to think about it. It looked like he was about to start breaking. He was probably thinking the same thing I was, and those thoughts were too painful to harbor.

Half-heartedly, we kept searching, which netted the discovery of more and more bodies of people callously murdered on the street. Eventually, we found a really sweet blade. It was a full 7 inch long, broad-bladed Bowie knife with serrations near the hilt. Still in its sheath, I held it out to my husband. "Put it on your belt," I gently pressed. Sniffling, he did so, snapping the straps over his leather belt before wiping his snout on his sleeve.

We didn't find much else of use, save for an Astros baseball cap. Felice, though not much of a baseball fan, later told me he took the black hat because the incomplete red star reminded him vaguely of a late friend close to his heart, whom I later named our child after so that Fel would never forget how much joy his friend had brought him, and not focus on the pain brought by his loss.

Moving on to an empty road, we were again faced with that lonely feeling you get when you feel as if you're the only two living human beings on the face of the earth.

"You ever wonder if Storm and Kali made it?" Fel asked softly. I almost didn't hear him due to the outside air soaking up so much sound.

"I doubt they wouldn't, even with the baby slowing them down. The worst that can happen is Kali will go into labor." I shrugged mildly, and it seemed as if my husband had done the same.

"Well," he started, "the last I checked, she was only two months along, I think..." I was quick to remind him that was nearly half a year ago.

Soon, the two of us came to a block in the highway. Large barriers crowded the sides of the road all the way to trees, and on the road itself, stood three or four cars angled in a way as to prevent anyone coming through without smashing their way in. None of them had any markings of any sort, which was what bothered me. Not to mention, they were clean-- well, compared to the vehicles back in the graveyard.

I tapped Felice's shoulder and motioned towards the woods. Switching over to what little I knew German I knew, I softly whispered in his ear that we needed to go around and figure out who made this road block. He nodded as if he understood, and we took off from the beaten and paved path to do a little investigating.

It seemed as though this was not the end of the barricade, but simply the strong point. Every fence, no matter what it's made of, no matter how strong, always has a weakpoint. The creators may try painting it to look stronger, but a weak link is still weak. The forest's job was to act as camouflage. This fence, starting at the barricade, quickly become nothing but steel fence posts and aluminum chain links topped in barbed wire. I had Felice pass me his multitool. Opening up the pliers/cutters, I started cutting us a hole in the fence. Rolling it away and then passing my husband back his tool, we ducked through and left the little back door we made wide open.

Turned out, we were dealing with something much larger than anything we'd come across in our six months alone together. I lifted up my M16, which had the handle sights removed and an ACOG scope mounted on the picatinny rails. I decided to peek through and take a good long look at just what we had to go up against.

There were a set of maybe a dozen OD-green tents, with a few RV trailers and mobile homes here and there. Two coyotes, probably brothers, were on top of separate trailers, each holding scoped hunting rifles of sorts. Sentries, you could say. They looked like regular civilians, even though one was wearing a woodland MARPAT boonie hat with a few .308 cartridges. There were people of all ages and sizes and species walking back and forth throughout the camp. Some fetching water, others cooking something on grills, a few going out to the road to hang laundry in the sun. Anything that could be done and should be done, they were doing it like good little worker ants.

A few of them had various uniform pants on. It wasn't hard to identify their leader, though. This tiger-- and trust me, I hate tigers with a passion-- had on a Sheriff's uniform, and it appeared as if he was trying to break apart an altercation between two of the members of the group. Then, I moved on to spot something that bothered me. There were six people in a line, two of them females of different species. One of the males was a pure human with gorgeous red hair and a scar visible down his right pec. Each of these people were naked down to their nickers, and had all sorts of bruises and scuff marks. One of the men, an otter, had his palms together, prayer style, visibly begging for his life. Their captors turned to each other and start laughing. Their sick cackles echoed through the woods.

One of them lifted an AK and smacked the ostelid in the face with the butt of the rifle. Both of them shouldered their rifles and were preparing to fire. At that moment, I decided I could take no more. I picked the one that had performed the beat down, held my breath, steadied my paws, and squeezed off a round. The gunshot may have been loud, but with these trees letting the sound bounce everywhere and everywhere, no one could truly pinpoint the direction. The psychotic jack-rabbit had a smooth, clean hole through the back of his head and collapsed to the forest floor in a pile of bone bits and blood. The other man got down on one knee, darting his head around, trying to figure out where it came from. I quickly ended him too.

Soon, the sentries were panicking. I could see them, but they couldn't see me. Felice was by my side with his own rifle, identical to my own, and began picking off targets. "You're going to get us killed if we don't move, you know that, right?" he whisper-yelled. I nodded mildly and stood. The two of us went trudging through the forest, doing our best to avoid twigs and leaves. "What if those people had done something to hurt them?" my husband prodded.

"No one deserves to die like that," I said, before the two of us settled into a spot. "No one deserves to be stripped naked, beaten and shot like a rabid dog." I took aim again and held my rifle up, supporting my elbow on my knee. Felice did the same, sighing.

"You're all in or you're all out, I guess," he muttered. I darted around, looking for their leader. It looked as if he had disappeared-- until I found a trailer door closing. I started firing on the trailer, quickly emptying the magazine. Felice jumped in to provide covering fire while I reloaded. I motioned for him to move on. Staying in my place, I kept firing until my magazine was half empty, from which point I switched back to semi and started moving between targets, putting a deadly accurate 5.56 millimeter round in each head I saw.

People all around the camp were panicking, and no one could figure out where we were. My husband was still clearly supporting me, as bodies continued to fall where I had not fired.

Eventually, the screams began to cease. All that were left were two teenagers, one of them a doe and the other a St-Bernard, and the hostages. Felice and I surfaced from the woods and approached them, our pistols out. Both of them were shaking, and neither could be older than fifteen.

Then, out of nowhere, the door to the trailer I had shot to hell swung open, and the leader I thought I had killed came trudging out, his M9 drawn and a paw over his shoulder. He started firing. Felice turned to fire back, and one of the teens took that opportunity to turn on my husband, drawing a sub-compact Glock. I immediately whipped around and put a round in his head, and without thinking, the girl's head too. Crimson red sprayed the trees behind them, and Felice's eyes widened in panic. He instantly went rushing to the body of the doe I had fired on and was frantically brushing the hair out of her face. Felice then glared back at me and screamed, "What the FUCK is WRONG with you!?" I gave him an expression of bewilderment, and he yelled, "YOU SHOT A KID! She's like, twelve! She was unarmed!"

I holstered my smoking revolver and gave off an air of my lacking sympathy. "Check her back pocket. She just didn't reach for it in time." My uncanny skills of observation proved correct; the girl was carrying a pistol identical to Felice's. At that, my husband started growling.

"She didn't draw," he snarled at me.

"That's because I didn't give her the chance to, Felice." Kneeling down next to him, I continued my justification. "I've seen younger kids coming at me with AKs. This girl was no innocent here, we both know that. Besides," I said, standing up. "Children don't belong in this world."

At that, I clearly had angered my significant other, who was at this point beginning to tear up. "Since when do you get all heartless? How can you SAY that!? Did the last six months mean NOTHING to you?"

"He didn't belong here either, Fel. He was a liability, and it was better for him to die quickly the way he did than to grow up seeing just what kind of people we are... Or worse, to become one of those freaks." I turned my back on my husband, facing the naked hostages, still bound in ropes and blindfolded. I drew out my knife, flicked it open, and cut their bindings. Each of them pulled down the strips of cloth blinding them to see my disfigured face. The women nearly jumped back, they were so startled. I pointed to the trailers, telling them, "Find yourself some clothes, or your gear if you can. Count your stars, 'cuz y'all sure are lucky as hell." I reached into my uniform jacket's left chest pocket for a cigar, and my Zippo as well.

Standing up from the bodies of the two teens, Felice wiped his eyes, snarling. "Our son was NOT a liability, you sick bastard!" He came swinging at me, baring his monstrous teeth. I was quick to grab both of his wrists and drag him into a snake-tight, strangling hug.

"Felice," I whispered in his ear as he kept struggling. "Felice, stop it!" When he did stop, he started to break down, sobbing on my chest. He had managed to rip open my jacket, and his salty tears began staining into my coat. "I know. I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry." Petting his mane back, doing my best to soothe his instabilities, I kept cooing to him. "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."

He started pounding on my chest with hardly much force, still sniffling and letting the tears flow. The six people we had just rescued, well... They had gathered their gear and were now staring at us, and I could feel their eyes burning into the back of my skull while I focused on my lover.

Eventually, Felice composed himself and the two of us were up again. My husband and I now stood before the other six. One of them, a black quarter horse with a white stripe down the bridge of his muzzle, stood in front of the rest. He wielded a broad-bladed, red-handled machete splattered with dry blood. Over his shoulders he wore a long, sleeveless duster that displayed a worn symbol that I recognized as the original "Betsy Ross" American flag.

The enormous horse, who stood roughly 6'5" and was strapping with muscles, was dripping with sweat. He held out his right hand, while his left sheathed the machete and sat on his holster, in which sat a pistol I couldn't identify at this angle. "That there, partner," he chided, "was the bravest damn thing I think I've ever seen someone do."

I pointed to my husband, chuckling. "He did half the work." Felice clicked his tongue, grabbing a cigarette out of the pack he kept in his pocket. He lit up and blew a couple puffs of smoke. "I actually wanna see what this 'sheriff' was carrying." Approaching the dead body of my would-be assassin, I knelt down and picked up a large-caliber handgun, which I had mistaken for a Baretta at first. Looked like a Desert Eagle, chambered in .50 AE. "Hey, babe," I said, looking back. "Do you have any Action Express? I know I don't..."

Felice shrugged meekly. "I dunno, luv. If I were you, I'd go searching the trailer if you haven't already shredded it." I nodded, sighing mildly and taking a drag on my cigar. "We'd better get movin' though, nigh improbable SOMETHING heard those shots." I nodded again, and was out of sight.

The trailer was indeed a mess. Wallpaper, porcelain dishes, various bits and shreds of cloth all playfully decorated the inside of the mobile home. I soon located a foot locker with a bullet hole that managed to square up with the lock exactly. Looking behind myself, I saw where it came in from and whistled. "Damn," I chuckled. "The fuck are the odds of that?" I pulled the lock off with ease and popped open the trunk. Fishing through, I found several magazines for the beautiful, nickel-plated handgun, all of them loaded. .50 Action Express being a powerful round indeed, I knew this sort of weapon would come in handy. I kept digging, and what I found next almost made me burst out laughing.

Inside this box was a little plastic baggie full of pills, most likely oxycontin. I pulled it open and tasted one. "Definitely. Someone likes to party..." I then pocketed the bag and, on my way out, spotted something that interested me-- a hat on one of the counters, all black, decorated with an Airborne tab. I grabbed that as well, and decided I'd put it on if I ever switched out of this nasty uniform and into my civvies.

Exiting and closing the frail, tattered door behind myself, Felice stood at the bottom of the trailer's few stairs. "Find everythin' okay, sweets?" he asked with a smirk.

"You bet," I nodded. I held out the handgun to him along with the magazines. "Your kill, your gun."

"Naaaaaah," he teased. "You almost ate one today. Besides, you gave me this beautiful knife, what use have I for a gun?" I shrugged and pulled down my backpack. I shoved my revolver, "Vera", in an open slot and holstered my new piece, while switching speed-loaders in my utility pouches with spare magazines. For now, this Eagle would take the place of a weapon that I had carried for over two years on my hip. Now, I would carry a weapon with the name "Stella" carved into the slide. Not that it was a bad weapon.

When I had gotten to the bottom of the trailer and onto the cool forest earth, I sat down on the last step, Felice taking a seat next to me. I decided to pull off my boots, just to empty the dirt and rocks out of them. "We'll get moving soon, folks. I'd like to get fully acquainted as well..." The horse who had shaken my paw earlier nodded.

"Well," he called to me in a husky voice. "I'm Mack. This here," he continued, pointing to the short, stocky American bulldog to his left. "Is Bruce." 'Bruce' nodded modestly, his paws crossed in front of him, a fire-axe being clutched by one of his deft hands near the head. Mack then pointed off to his right at one of the females-- a calico tabby-- and introduced her as "Bridgett." I nodded, smiled, and she did the same.

Next was Lucy, who was a mutt of sorts but looked like a St-Bernard in coat pattern. Then, Ricky the redhead, and finally Derick the river otter (who was a rather small but spritely fellow). Felice looked rather uncomfortable amongst the group, and kept close by, clutching me around the shoulder. I could even feel one of his claws digging in through my jacket.

I stood up, dragging my husband along with me, and Mack smiled. "We were a larger group, but the rest of us got killed when we tried to get over the road block. You made a smart move going around, and a lucky one for us." I shrugged meekly, and he patted my free shoulder. "We'll just have to... move on, I guess." Both my husband and I remained silent. Mack then pointed at my face, and with a questioning expression, began, "How did you, uh--" Felice butted in, his face all askew.

"Can't ya leave him alone? Ain't he done enough for ye, now ya gotta go askin' him personal shit? Back off ya damn pansy!" The Crestie was clearly not pleased in the least sense with our entire ordeal, and Mack trying to press for an explanation only angered him further.

Shaking my head, I put a hand between the two. Fel was clearly ready to go, and Mack was a bit taken aback. "Fel, please, it's fine. I don't mind telling him."

"Ya shouldn't have to! It's none his damn biz'nis, seein' how you saving him here not him savin' you!" It wasn't hard to tell that my Irishness had started rubbing off on his usual Cockney accent, because his English was starting to sound more like Gaelic pidgin than London street-talk.

My hand had moved from the air between the two to Felice's chest. "Baby, you need to control yourself!" I was now standing directly in front of him, both paws on his shoulders. "These people are NOT the enemy! Calm DOWN!" He pulled away, huffing and puffing. "Fucking hell," I muttered. Felice had stormed off into an empty trailer, slamming the door behind himself.

"Look," I said to Mack. "We've gotta get going soon. My car is about fifteen miles down the road. She's outta gas, but I can't just leave her there. I think if we siphon off some from the RVs, we'd be able to get her up and running. Not to mention, with one of the RVs, we could get the rest of you guys on the road, separate from Felice so he doesn't go biting one of you..." Mack seemed in agreement, putting his hands on his hips.

"What's his issue anyways? Was just trying to make conversation..." His sigh was gentle, barely audible.

I responded, "Well, he and I have been through a lot, and often times he gets sensitive about what people say to me, as if I'm the one who needs protection..." I rolled my eyes, leaning against the RV I had just come out of, finishing off my cigar.

Mack quirked an eyebrow. "A marriage like that doesn't last long before it falls to pieces, really." At that, I stood up, fully erect, with my fists balling.

"You had better watch what you say next. I can say shit about my husband, you can't, got that?" The horse nodded, and I went up to the cab of the RV. "Help me out here, I'm gonna pop the hood, need you to tell me if the oil's doin' good, can you do that?" The horse was quick to get in front of the RV. "Good man, good man..."

I reached under the steering wheel to let the hood catch go. Mack was quick to lift up the grate and prop it up with a metal rod. He only took a few seconds before clicking his tongue. "Oil's great. Engine's a little dusty, but we can't have everything nice, can we?"

"Nah," I mumbled, glaring in my husband's general direction before getting up out of the seat. "Guess we can't."

I shifted to the back of the RV and decided to peek in the mini-fridge. No foul smells, lucky enough. What I found, in fact, was something I had been dying to see for months. "Hahah!" I came prancing out of the trailer carrying a six pack of "La Coca de Mexico." Mack chuckled lightly, shaking his head.

"That stuff'll kill you quicker than roamers will, you know that, right?"

"Bah," I replied, sticking my tongue at him. "My 'wife' tells me that all the time, like he's worried I'm gonna have another heart attack or something from a sugar rush! I'd just take an antacid for the phosphorus anyways!"

Mack quirked a brow, leaning on a picnic table. "Where'd the first heart attack come from?"

I pulled down my open uniform jacket to expose the beautiful, tree-like scar on my right pec. "Lightning, Afghanistan back in 2013."

"Who were you with? I was in the 101st."

Shrugging, I said, "I suppose everyone's 101st, 82nd or 1st Cav at some point in the Army. I was in the 101st Combat Air Brigade, me and my first date slash CO. Then he went off to Ranger School, I went off to Special Forces, and we met again in the 5th Special. Still got to stay in Campbell, which was lucky enough. Then I decided to go for 160th for some closer action in the sky. Ain't no Apaches, but hey, it was a fucking cakewalk compared to trying to learn how to use TADS."

"True that, brotha!" He shouted, chuckling along. I popped off a cap with my belt buckle and shoved it in my pocket before taking a long, well-deserved gulp of glorious Mexican Coca-Cola. "Shit, gimme one of those!" I popped him off a top and handed it over. After taking a sip, he glanced at the bottle and said, "Damn! That IS sweeter!" I nodded, playfully giggling.

"Now don't you ever say Mexicans don't know how to make some good Coke, white or brown." He then started losing himself in laughter, and which point I proudly took another sip.

It was at that point that Fel came out of his little hiding place. "We going soon? And are you REALLY drinking that shit? Where the fuck did you find that, anyways, in the battery compartment? I swear to god, you'll look anywhere for that stuff..."

"Actually," I replied, nice and haughty, "I found it in a refrigerator."

"I'm surprised you didn't find it next to a lawn mower..." After that, I had had enough of his silliness.

"Alright," I shouted, "Time to go." Felice rolled his eyes and walked right back into the camper. I followed after him, getting up in the driver's seat. The rest of the group came along as well, Mack carrying a jerry can full of gas and his pack and the rest carrying just their gear.

Getting the damn thing started was pain enough, but when the old RV finally was started, the engine gave out an annoying whine before letting me chug it forward out of the dirt where it had been sitting idle for-- most likely-- the last month.

We then began going back up the road my husband and I had just travelled along, all the way to this point. But before that, Ricky and Bruce got out of the trailer to push the barricades out of the way for when we came back down the road to move on to the next town.

I had noticed, when changing gears, the CB radio sitting just under the Winnebago's cassette player-- yes, it's that old. This would prove to be a big help, what with the CB I had in my own car. I glanced back at Felice, nodding him over. "Listen," I whispered lightly, "We can even stay in separate vehicles from them if you want, just keep in contact over the radio. Honestly, it'd be safer if we traveled with two anyways, in case we get in a bit of a rough spot, am I right?"

The crestie, now in his mid-30s, curled his lips before bobbing his head. "Yeh... Guess dat'd work..." He still was clearly not pleased with traveling with anyone else other than myself. Stubborn little dog...

Based on what I could hear, I assumed Felice had gone to sit back down at the table. Mack was clearly finished putting up with Felice's animosity and was trying to press for the hairless dog to lighten up some. Sitting across from him (which was the smarter thing to do in this case), I could catch the sound of the horse fishing around in his pocket for something. "Joint?" he offered humbly. Explains the smell...

"No, thank you," my lover replied in the smuggest, most venomous way he could. He huffed and puffed, gazing out the window at the passing scenery.

We approached the vehicle graveyard, and I applied the brakes. "Fel, will you show Mack and Bridgett where the water is? We're gonna wanna take that with us." My husband grumbled, getting up from his seat with more frustrated drivel.

"Aight, dis way. It's just off in the woods..." His voice trailed off, and I was left alone in the camper with Derick and Lucy.

There was a deafening silence, before Lucy finally spoke up with a benevolent voice, reminiscent of an old friend, but lacking a Russian twang and instead carrying a certain east Texas drawl. "You, uh... you two been together long?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "You could say that. Been about ten years." Both the otter and the pretty canine gave considerable nods, which I could see plainly in the rear-view mirror.

"And, um... the kid? What was his name?" she asked innocently. I could tell she was most likely still a bit soft. Couldn't have that. Would have to whip it out of her.

"Luka," I chided. "His name was Luka."

"Well, uh," she tried. "What hap--"

I interrupted, holding my right paw up where she could see it. "That's none of your damn business."

She was instantly humbled, looking down and dropping her ears. "Pardon me, sir. I was outta place." I told her not to worry about it, but her expression remained.

It was a good five minutes before Felice and the others had returned carrying as much water as they could. "So," I called as they passed me. "Y'all friends yet?" Felice's smug expression still remained.

"Don't know what you're talking about." I hopped up out of the driver seat, throwing the keys to Mack, who caught them superbly from four feet up. He thanked me and took the wheel. Felice kept holding on to the water he had brought back, while the others had set their jugs in the rear of the camper. "Move it on, please. These seats are gonna give me birth defects if I sit here any longer." I rolled my eyes, along with the rest of the group. Mack kept doing his best to turn over the Winnebago's engine, but that same whine was coming back, even as the engine finally sputtered to life.

"Damn," he muttered. "You know what that is?" he questioned, glancing at me through the mirror.

I nodded, putting a hand on my hip. "Yeah," I breathed. "There's most likely a leak in the air valve. I think we could maybe MacGyver it and it should be fine until we can find a new one. Probably just gut one from a mail truck if we find one." Mack nodded and got us rolling. I took a stand by my husband, relieving him of the jugs and setting them on the table. The two of us were facing the rear of the camper, looking out the back windshield. I had my arm wrapped around his waist, my claws barely touching the inside of his left hip on an exposed piece of flesh were the shirt and his belt had a roughly two inch gap (I kept trying to tell him to get new shirts). I kissed his shoulder before moving up to the front of the cab.

Popping open the glove netted me several music casettes, most of them being jazz tapes of various genres. I found a unique one-- Glenn Miller's 100th Anniversary Collection-- and slid it in. Mack did me a favor by pressing "play" and grinning. "Glad to find another jazz fan."

"Yeah, well," I shrugged, "You'd be surprised how many Germans love American jazz. I developed a taste while I was stationed for it, and it's one of the best things I've done so far." The first song to come on, magically, was "In The Mood". I rolled my eyes, chuckling, and glancing back at my lover.

"Come on, babe," I cooed, smirking gently. "You can't be pouty forever. Our song's on!" Lucy and Derick glanced at me questioningly. "It was the first song that played at our wedding reception. We had a courthouse wedding, sure, but can't go without a party on your big day, right?" Lucy blushed, nudging Derick.

"Ain't a bad song at all," she whispered in his ear. The two of them were holding hands rather indiscreetly.

Wonderful, I thought to myself. More relationships and a couple assholes who probably wanna try bringing a baby in this retarded world. Isn't that love?

Felice couldn't lie. Or, at least, his hips couldn't. He was certainly starting to swing, and it only took a little more coaxing to get him to join me in the stupidity of dancing in a narrow, moving vehicle. It only took one bump to get us nearly falling over each other, at which point the both of us had decided enough was enough. "That's enough of that nonsense," he chuckled. Another pothole in the road threw the both of us against one wall, with Felice's nose being inches from my lips. I tenderly kissed his muzzle before glaring at Mack.

"Damn, you almost missed one," I snarked facetiously. The enormous quarter horse grumbled. Finally, we came to a stop parallel to where I had left my car. "Thanks, Macky. I'll be on channel four on the CB." Throwing up a peace sign, I called out a "Bye y'all" and was out of the camper and down the side of the road. Felice followed not soon after.

Now, the specifications of my booby traps are a little complicated to try explaining in one simple paragraph or so, so to shorten, essentially, I had to go underneath the car to disconnect the entire network of tripwires that were looped in between axles, wire loops, and other assortments of parts. The issue was, I had to pull them one at a time from the center charge so that I could lead them slowly to each door window they went through. I got the two doors clear and was able to open the passenger door. I then had to disconnect the pressure plates under the windshields that would detonate the charges should anything shatter and spray even the slightest sliver of glass onto them. The next step was to clear the engine, which required me to go back under, disconnect another wire leading under the engine block, and guide it back to the top of the hood slower than a snail, which took a good two minutes. Too quickly, and I would've set off the trap. I then went back in, popped the hood, and disarmed the claymore that would blow if the engine ever started.

"I think you might've overdone it just a tiny bit, darling," my beautiful husband smirked, and I rolled my eyes.

"Well, she's ready. Hop on in." He did just that, and I got in the driver's seat and started the Shelby's engine. The whole block roared to life and I could see entire flocks of birds fleeing the trees above us. We rolled on up to the pavement and came side to side with the RV. I honked once, and Mack tooted back twice in reply. Felice got the radio flicked on and started for me, and I picked up the microphone. "Shelby to Winny, come in Winny, over."

The pause was brief, but we got a response in Mack's husky but soothing country drawl. "Winnebago to Shelby, we read ya. Beautiful ride ya got, very jealous. Which way are we going?"

I turned and coughed a few times into the crook of my elbow before saying, "We're gonna get back on I-10 West. We're trying to get to Rosenberg before noo. I've got a place we can stop in College Station and rest up some, resupply and hit the road. Our goal at this point is El Paso. The population's significantly lower than Houston, and there's Fort Bliss, and the dead can't handle the heat-- fries their brains worse than here. Our best bet is to gather as much nonperishable food as we can on the way, since farming's shit there except in the mountains. We can probably get ourselves into Bliss if it isn't overrun, and we'll be fine from there."

"Sounds like a plan, sir," was Mack's response. I nodded, changing gears and pressing the gas, going straight for the opposite side of the highway.

And from there, we had miles upon miles of empty road to wander.