After a while, Alex straightened his shoulders and shouldered his rucksack, conscious that time was running out. He needed to get back home before something happened to Amy.
He stepped out of the alley and merged with the crowd of people flocking the street. They were all of one mind. To gather as many supplies as they could. At least, most of them. Some were more interested in looting riches and settling petty scores. That much was evident by the sound of screaming and breaking glass.
It amazed him that so many seemed unaware of the seriousness of the situation. Evidence of the outbreak was everywhere, though it had yet to hit them full force. Police vans rushed past with their wailing sirens. Ambulances tried to cope with the growing number of casualties and failed. Numerous car crashes blocked narrow roads, and the traffic was hell.
Alex quickened his step but paused when he spotted a clothing shop. He ducked inside and grabbed a few things. The harassed cashier rang up the items and accepted the handful of crumpled dollar bills Alex threw at him. He’d taken the time earlier to withdraw all his savings and carried a thick wad of cash around. He took care to hide it, aware that even now people would kill for so much money.
“What are you still doing here?” he asked the cashier.
The guy shrugged. “I need the job.”
“You know there are zombies out there, right?”
“That’s what I’ve got this for,” the cashier said, pulling a revolver out of the back of his pants.
Alex tried and failed to look impressed. He’d seen up close what the zombies could do, and one gun wouldn’t cut it. People needed to band together and hole up in fortified positions if they were to stand any chance at all. Not that the cashier would believe him, that much was clear from the guy’s attitude.
“Can I use your change room?” he asked instead.
“Sure, man. Whatever,” the cashier replied.
Alex rushed into the nearest cubicle and stripped off his uniform. Much as it had served him in the past, now it was a liability. He pulled on the jeans, t-shirt, and jacket he’d chosen, but kept his army belt and boots. They were too useful to ditch. Onto the belt, he hung his standard issue Beretta M9 in its holster plus a sheath carrying his combat knife. After folding up his uniform, he tucked it into his rucksack next to his other belongings and hoisted it onto his shoulder.
This time, he blended right into the crowd when he stepped onto the curb. To them, he was just another civilian out to grab what he could. Alex had a different goal in mind, though. He needed transport, and he needed it in a hurry.
Kansas City was still holding it together, but barely. Vehicles from the National Guard drove around, announcing that a safe zone had been set up just outside the city limits. They were encouraging people to go there, and Alex supposed it was the best option for most civilians unable to defend themselves. It wasn’t for him, however.
After jogging three blocks, the sign of a second-hand motorcycle dealership caught his eye. “Exactly what I need.”
He angled across the street, jumping to the side to avoid getting hit by a sedan. It raced past, and he caught sight of the frightened faces of a couple of kids in the backseat. In the distance, he heard the muffled pops of gunshots followed by wild screams. It had to be an outbreak. The city was going to the dogs, and he had better hurry.
Alex entered the dealership seconds later and was surprised to find the owner dawdling behind his desk. The poor guy didn’t appear to have a clue, even when Alex warned him worse was to come. “You should go home to your family. It’s getting crazy out there.”
“And miss out on a sale?” the guy scoffed. “This will all blow over soon, mark my words. They’ve dispatched the army, for crying out loud.”
Alex shook his head in disbelief, but he didn’t have time to argue. Not unless he wanted to be trapped inside the exposed shop with its three glass walls and a lone idiot for company. Instead, he rushed around the showroom and inspected the bikes on offer. Quickly, he made his choice.
“I want that one,” he said, pointing at a Suzuki V-Strom 1000 ABS. The bike had two saddlebags attached to the sides for storage, and the previous owner had equipped it with dirt tires. It was perfect for both on and off-road use, which was exactly what Alex wanted. He couldn’t afford to get stuck in the bumper to bumper traffic.
After a minute of fierce haggling, Alex paid with the last of his cash. The deal included a full tank of fuel plus two jerry cans extra which he tied onto the back seat. He also got to pick out a helmet, gloves, and a leather jacket for protection.
He transferred his belongings to the panniers: A canteen of water, a basic first-aid kit, a couple of MRE’s, extra ammunition, a toothbrush, and fresh socks and underwear. He had to ditch his uniform, however. No space. His M4A1 carbine went onto his back with the sling across his chest.
Satisfied, he climbed onto the bike and started the engine. It roared to life, and he revved it with an experimental twist of the wrist. “She’s got power, alright. Just what I need.”
He shot the owner a quick salute, ready to take off. “Thanks.”
“What about the paperwork and registration?” the owner cried, wringing his hands together.
“I’ll be back for it,” Alex said, the lie sliding off his tongue like silk.
“You can’t do that!”
“Watch me.”
Before the owner could stop him, Alex pointed the bike at the exit and zipped out of the building onto the
