“Jesus,” Clutch said, holding his forearm over his nose. “Smells like the sewer backed up.”
“Lovely,” I muttered. Add one more annoying trait of the apocalypse to an every-growing list.
Today, we at least had the benefit of dealing with fewer zeds at the gas station than we would have if the outbreak had hit during tourist season. Even so, there were still a half-dozen cars in the lot. Four zeds wandering nearby bee-lined for our truck the moment we approached. One was covered in dried mud, one was naked and chewed up, and all four were shriveled by months under the sun.
“How the hell do some of these guys end up naked?” I asked. Seeing a zed was bad enough. Seeing all of a zed was enough to make a stomach roil.
Clutch shrugged. “Caught on the shitter, maybe.”
They stumbled in our direction as though coming to greet us, and Clutch stepped on the gas, taking down two with his first hit. He put the truck into reverse and rammed into the third. The naked zed moved too slowly and was too far away to be a problem.
Clutch stopped near the underground gas tank cover.
I swung open the door and clobbered the female zed struggling to get up with two newly broken legs. Clutch was out of the truck with a tire iron and taking down the least rotted of the bunch, and I walked up to the crusty mud-covered zed and gagged.
Shit. Not mud. My eyes watered, and I swung extra hard to make sure I finished it off quickly and moved away.
When I turned to Clutch, he was just finishing off the naked zed that had finally reached us.
“Keep an eye out.” He got down on his knees and pulled out his knife.
I stood at his back, gripping the bat covered in layers of dark stains, and analyzed the wide one-story building. The gas station was covered in slate and had three glass doors, one to each section: the gas station in the middle, the liquor side to the left, and a small café to the right. The glass was shattered on the large door to the gas station. Two zeds lay dead in the shadow of the overhang.
“Damn,” I muttered. “Looks like we aren’t the first here.”
With some muscle, he pried the cover open and peered inside. “At least there’s plenty of gas.”
“How do you know it’s not diesel?” I asked.
“Smells like gas,” he replied, going for the hose. He dropped one end into the underground tank, and held out the other with a smirk. “Want to do the honors?”
I handed him the bat and grabbed the hose. “Sure.” I opened the gas cap, and then sucked hard at the hose.
I’d never siphoned gas before, but it looked to be a relatively easy thing to do.
Nothing happened.
I looked up.
He smirked. “Keep sucking.”
I scowled but did what he said. At first there was nothing, then came the fumes, then the liquid.
“Ack!” I coughed out in between spitting out gasoline and shoving the hose into the truck’s gas tank. Tears ran down my face. “That shit burns.” More coughing.
Clutch chuckled while he pulled out a five-gallon red gas can from the back of the truck. “That’s why I didn’t want to do it.”
I flipped him the bird before spitting again. At least I couldn’t smell the sewage anymore. “Next time, you siphon,” I muttered when I could speak again.
After we finished fueling and resealed the underground tank, Clutch backed the truck up to the building. When he jumped out, he looked at me. “Ready to do this?”
I blew out a lungful of air. “Yup.”
It was times like these when I especially missed the farm. We’d had enough weapons and ammunition to start a small war, over six months’ supply of food stockpiled, and had it secure as any place could be without being a high-security prison. We’d reached the point where we didn’t have to go into high-risk places like these to survive. I sighed. We had no choice now.
We either adapted or we’d die.