The simplest things are missed the most. Even the ones that used to be the most infuriating things in the world quickly become moments to reminisce about.
I walked past a diner on the way out of the city. Whenever
I felt down, or upset, my father would take me to a diner like that one. The
1950’s style silver window frames now tarnished from the lack of attention of
the past few months. The windows beginning to gain a brown dust, the cloth
curtains slowly molding.
I was almost tempted to walk in – to reminisce – but
the closer I got to the windows, the more I could see through the dust clouding
my view. At first it seemed quiet, like all the people just evaporated. But
just a few steps from the door I noticed subtle movement behind the
advertisement for “Specialty Pancake Saturdays.”
Looking closer, a dark mass stumbled startlingly
fast, slamming into the door in front of me. It rebounded back into the
shifting dust motes – thank god for Plexiglas. Grabbing a bench -- that used to
be for patrons waiting to be seated – I wedged it underneath the door handle
keeping it from opening any more than an inch or two. The mass I saw before was
the shifting hulk of an extremely overweight man – that was probably taking advantage
of the “specialty pancakes” – gnawing and drooling at the Plexiglas – I wonder
if he is hungrier because of his disposition to food?
Locking away the memories with my father, sheltering
them from the disturbing scene I just witnessed, I walk away continuing down the
road. There are fewer of the diseased this far from the city, but the fewer
prey makes them all that more ravenous.
I have to move faster to stay ahead of the creatures,
but this leaves me less time to plan my next move. A few close encounters of
the diseased kind later and I change my mind about being too high profile: time
to steal a car.
The greatest problem in Hollywood’s post-apocalyptic
worlds is the lack of fuel. It’s oddly one of the few things that Hollywood got
right. Lines of cars headed out of the city, fuel tanks empty. Gas station’s
storage tanks also empty.
While searching through the gridlock, looking for
even the smallest amount of fuel to siphon some unnatural movement catches my
eye. After finding the source of the movement, I almost feel ashamed I hadn’t
thought of it before. Hollywood’s conditioning obviously having taken hold of
my mind, as I was envisioning hanging out a Humvee window blasting heads and
running down the infected. Unfortunately horrible gas mileage and lack of high
caliber weapons keeps this fantasy from being a reality. The movements I saw
were the streamers from a child’s bike outside of bike shop. Shattering all of
my preconceptions about a post-apocalyptic world, I decide to get an old
fashioned bicycle.
Crossing into the strip mall on the other side of
the road, I move closely to the bike shop. I cautiously peek through the window
making sure of what is inside, keeping in mind my experience from earlier.
Fantastic. No infected and the door is unlocked. Now
I don’t have to attract attention by breaking a window. After stepping inside,
I lock the door—don’t want to be interrupted by a flesh eating monster while I bicycle
shop. The carpet of the store gives off puffs of dust as I walk towards the
cross country bike rack, my footprints left behind look like they were made in
thin, grey snow.
My first thought was to pull one of the high-end
carbon fiber several thousand dollar bikes down and ride away. Why not? No one
is going to come looking for a missing bike. Carbon fiber is light, true, but
it is also brittle. Maybe not like balsa wood brittle but slam it just a little
too roughly and it will snap. In a world where you might have to ditch
something and come back for it latter you can’t have something that will break
easy. Instead I went for much more rugged, aluminum framed bicycle that looked
like it could take a little punishment.
Quickly grabbing some inner tube patches, fresh inner
tubes, and a travel bike pump I headed for the back door. A small gathering of
feeders were pressing against the display windows at the front of the store
watching me shop for a bike.
Hopping on and peddling away from the several
shuffling pursuers I couldn’t help but feel like I had made a good choice. I
was quieter than a car, faster than being on foot and could cover more distance.
Not to mention I didn’t have to worry about fuel considering the engine is me.
There are still a few hours before the sun goes down—let’s
see how far I can get!
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