Free The Undead World (Book 2): The Apocalypse Survivors by Peter Meredith Page B

wasn’t really a question, it was more of a statement concerning the present state of his luck which wasn’t good.
    “That’s what they say,” Scott put in. “There’s some who are skeptical so they’re doing a demonstration. It’s supposed to be in a few days. John and I, and a few others are hoping to go as representatives, but we’ll have to see.”
    The subject seemed to cast a pall over the group of men and Ram took a guess at what the issue was from the tenor of the man’s words. “You don’t have enough ammo or gas?”
    Scott gave a half shrug, lifting only his right shoulder as if a full shrug was simply too much work. “We do, but we really can’t spare that much, not when we’re at war.”
    “You can have mine,” Ram offered. “And the gas in the hummer. I just need my Beretta and enough fuel to make it into the city.” He certainly wasn’t going to need much else. If he came across a horde of zombies he’d shoot fourteen of them and then himself. And if the Blacks were in the mood to fight…he didn’t think he would. Not so close to death. Not with heaven or hell on the line. However, he would kill Cassie if he got the chance, and do so with a clear conscious.
    His offer pleased the men, who went right to work draining the Humvee of its excess gas and stripping it of anything that Ram wasn’t going to need: extra food and water, clothing, and medical supplies.
    While they did this, John offered him a beer. “It’s warm, but they say warm beer is better than no beer.” The old man drank his with relish, and among the many things he talked about as they sat in the darkening afternoon was of a way into the city. The Whites , as they called themselves, had turned a Volvo upside down on one of the bridges and by using the bumper of his hummer he could spin it like a revolving door. “Just make sure you spin it back," John reminded him.
    Ram decreed that he would and then pretended to give his warm beer another swig. The little of it he had drank made him so nauseous that he was forced into hurrying his goodbyes and as soon as he was out of sight of the tall tree and the little group of men, he pulled over and stood, bent at the waist until he vomited.
    Over and over he hurled until at last, dizzy and weak he went to his knees and knelt over the hot mess until he was sure he was done.
    “Damn,” he whispered to the pale man in the hummer's mirror. With the heavy clouds glooming the sky, his skin was already a shade of grey that portended things to come. Groaning, he felt his neck, however the adenoids hadn’t swollen yet, and neither had his fever progressed beyond mild . Mostly the virus was in his guts, turning them to knots, and in his muscles, making him feel kitten-weak.
    “A little further,” he added and then turned his attention to driving, making sure to keep his pace slow enough that his precious little fuel would last him to his destination. The bridge with the overturned Volvo was five miles to the south and when he saw it he gave a sad little laugh; he’d seen the Volvo earlier that day and had not suspected a thing.
    Now he came up to its edge with the hummer and gently turned it sideways. It scraped back, grinding loudly on pebbles and loose grit. When he had gone through the new lane he kept his word and backed the hummer around to use its power to swing the car back into place.
    T hen it was just him, a few hundred thousand zombies and the city, hiding its remaining human population. Like all major cities, Philadelphia was thought to be a veritable nests of zombies. Even John had filled him with tales of stiffs uncountable streaming down the streets like dead grey waves, killing and eating everything in their path.
    Yet, as Ram drove around the many obstructions in the streets he hardly saw upwards of a hundred and these were like their suburban neighbors and seemed content to mosey about as if in a fog. Though to be on the safe side he either steered well clear of them