“What the fuck happened here?” I asked aloud.
“No idea,” George replied. “But I imagine it’s nothing good.”
As I crept along the highway, I offered an uber-abridged version of my experience in Gonzales. Clare had already heard the sordid tale, but I hadn’t yet had time to share it with George and Casey.
“Well, I’m glad no one’s trying to shoot us,” George said.
“Yeah,” Casey agreed, “but it’s still messed up.”
“All those busted windows, the missing doors,” Clare added. “What could have done that? A couple of those hairy wildling things?”
“Maybe,” I hedged, though, having never witnessed the unusual beasts traveling in packs, I highly doubted it. “I’ve seen zombies bust through windows, but nothing quite like this. An enormous, ravenous horde must’ve passed through here.”
“Could be,” Clare agreed. “Then, whoever was left in town decided to pile up the wrecks to form barriers before slipping away to fortify their hideaways.” She sighed wearily. “Not that that’ll stop the dead. Just the living.”
“Makes sense,” Casey said, “but don’t you think it’s weird that they only closed off the interstate? There are other ways into town. I mean, we just came from the forest, and I haven’t seen any roadblocks on this stretch.”
Clare shrugged. “Maybe they ran outta time to secure everything.” She sighed wistfully. “And carry away their dead.”
“Well, whatever happened,” I said, creeping toward the heart of Hazlehurst, “there’s no way we’ll be taking I-55 North. Not from here anyway.”
The entrance and exit ramps were simply too jam-packed, and the embankment too steep to safely attempt. We’d need to find another way north.
“Knew it was a long shot,” George muttered.
“Think getting gas here might be a bust, too,” Casey added.
“No kidding,” I grumbled.
As we passed a series of looted stores, we spied the origin of the distant flames. The closest gas stations were both on fire. Only the buildings for now, but I assumed the flames would soon spread to the pumps, causing tremendous explosions. Numerous cars and bodies blocked the entrances, so even if the stations hadn’t been aflame, we still wouldn’t have been able to reach them easily.
Perhaps reading my mind, as she often did, Clare suggested we speed up. “Don’t wanna be here when those things blow.”
“Good point.” I stepped on the gas, scanning each side of the highway.
“I’m beginning to think there aren’t many survivors,” George said. “Wouldn’t they have tried to put out those fires?”
I couldn’t hazard a guess as to what had gone down in the small town of Hazlehurst. Small buildings were charred and in ruin, larger structures sported smashed windows and missing doors, and most of the parking lots were packed with abandoned automobiles and ravaged corpses, rendering them potential death traps.
Yes, all those possibly full gas tanks tempted me to turn off the highway and try swiping some fuel, but I feared getting wedged between two vehicles and being unable to reverse out of there.
As with the interstate, nothing in town moved. No humans. No animals. No zombies. Nothing.
“Yeah, this isn’t too creepy,” George muttered, channeling what all of us were likely thinking.
I frowned. “I’m starting to wonder if all the towns along 55 are like this.”
“Who knows,” Clare replied, her tone haunted and distant. “Maybe all the towns between here and Michigan are gonna look the same. Not just along the interstates.” She sighed sadly. “Unless you’re living in a cave somewhere, I doubt anyone’s escaped such a fate.”
Clare had made a valid point. Our former pit stop had become a devastating sight. No doubt all of our previous haunts had succumbed to the undead invasion.
“Anyway,” Clare continued, “George is right. Let’s not stop here.”
“Hey,” Casey interjected, “maybe those have some gas.”
I followed his gaze toward a Walgreens at the intersection of MS-28 and U.S. 51, on the opposite side of the road from the two ticking gas bombs. Vehicles filled the front lot of the trashed drugstore, but not so tightly that I feared getting us trapped. Along the side of the building, I spotted two hefty pickup trucks. One of them appeared to be crushed against a dumpster, and the other one seemed to be hung up on a modest statue, which had been erected in the grassy area between the parking lot and U.S. 51. Since it appeared that both vehicles were wrecked, not stopped due to lack of fuel, I thought there might be a chance the tanks still contained some gasoline.
Despite a couple halfhearted protests from Clare and George, I pulled into the lot, snaked between the haphazardly parked vehicles, and stopped as close to the two trucks as I could—with my gas tank and converted sewage tanks facing toward them.
After surveying the immediate area, I shut off the engine and turned to Clare. “I need to see if there’s any gas in those tanks.”
She said nothing, but her pinched brow said plenty. My wife obviously didn’t approve of the impromptu detour.
“It’ll be alright,” I assured her. “Nobody’s around. And if trouble comes, we can slip out the back exit.” I nodded toward the unimpeded turnoff from U.S. 51.
“That’s what you said back at the campsite.”
I winced.
“I’ll watch your back,” Casey piped up, holding his pistol aloft.
“And I’ll watch yours,” George said, picking up the Mossberg and checking the magazine tube for sufficient ammo.
With her jaws clenched in determination, Clare rose from her seat and set Azazel’s carrier in her place. “Me, too.”
I shook my head. “No, baby. Someone should stay here.”
Her expression faltered. “But I can help.”
Having taken Clare to the gun range on several occasions, I knew she could technically fire a pistol, rifle, and shotgun—just not as confidently as our two new pals. Also, while she would stubbornly deny it, I believed her mother’s recent death might’ve understandably rattled her too much to pull the trigger.
“I know, but someone has to stay inside.” I handed her a spare set of keys and kissed her cheek. “Just in case.”
Reluctantly,
