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As Cindy turns the car sharply around the corner, the force presses me against the window. The speed demon can’t seem to slow down during curves. It is fortunate for me that she likes to drive. In the past three months, I am over the initial fun of stealing cars and quick getaways. We pass the Johnsons store and the row of fast food restaurants a third time before taking a sharp right on main street. The window feels cool as gravity plasters my cheek against it. We see no zombies and that means this time, we stop for gas. Avoiding the slow ass zombies is easy, but the hard part is getting the damn gas out of the pumps. What all movies fail to put in reality is that you must pay to pump. Without that stupid credit card swipe, you may as well lie down with bottles of ketchup and mustard as the zombies approach.
“It’s your turn.”
“Crap, I know.”
Slowing the car, she turns the wheel as the vehicle glides smoothly to a stop by the pumps. I look out of my side of the car, cranking my neck to ensure this half of the area shows no approaching doom. As I look to Cindy and receive her nod, I start chanting, “Go away, come again some other day.” It is the old school rhyme about rain I butcher to repeat just the seven words. Oddly, I find it comforting like when my little sis would bring her pillow everywhere when she was a toddler. Cindy says the chanting is our good luck charm with ten gas tank refills, the car trunk full of gas station snacks, and no attacks. At the fifth repeat of my rhyme, I grip the cold metal of my aluminum bat from its resting spot on floorboard and open my door. I scoot out of my seat and stand with my back against the small car I borrowed from Missouri. My hands feel good tightening its grip around the bat as my rhyme fills the quiet air. I stop, but only for a minute to listen for any sounds of shuffling feet. Cindy, for all her crazy driving and her ideas of life now, is standing very still and should be listening too.
“What are you waiting for kid?”
Turning around I let my eyes glair at her before I walk over to the curb. Glancing left, then right and now a three-sixty turn, my smile shows her we are good. Noticeably the older woman relaxes her shoulders as she pulls her ‘emergency only’ credit card and swipes it through the pump. I am not old enough to have multiple cards or even credit. All I lived off the first two months of the new world is my debit card that had a healthy college fund cushion. The second fill up, after rescuing Cindy a month ago, brought my first decline.
This mini-mart is an open layout, makes my chanting turn into giggles. A quick look and I see no movement. Another odd fact about real zombies, they always keep moving by shuffling their feet. I don’t know why that is since this is not a movie and I have no flashback scene to fill me in. The automatic door opens as I step close, which will allow any zombies to walk away if they shuffle in the right direction. A non-automatic door means anyone that died three months ago is now stuck inside. A cold chill comes across me as I remember experiences in storerooms as a warning to keep my ass in the open. The minimart is full of windows, leaving me with a clear view in and out of the store. Walking to a window on the right, I peek in to see no bodies. I skip over to the left side to confirm the same. My body turns for another three-sixty look to confirm the only movement is Cindy. No excuses, time to go in.