This Isn't the Zombie Apocalypse

25. We Make a Pit Stop

When I woke up the next morning, the sun was already out. Well, it should have been. Heavy gray clouds were hanging low over the land, and a gloomy feeling sunk into my bones.

It was the first time in quite a while—since this whole mess of trying to save Ana from a nameless person racing off to an unknown destination—that I woke up after the sun, Mr. Sol. Luna and all her night time partiers were out like a light, probably hammered after staying up so late and doing who knows what—who knows what being because they're all the way up there, out of reach. My dad would have said something like, "Crazy guardians doing their crazy thing."

Yesterday we had found several small, nearly invisible indications as to whether or not we were going the right way: some more rocks lined up together; a half-buried baseball cap that looked to be similar to the one Adam had worn, the uncovered bill pushed down to point in a general direction; tied together ponytails strung out over some strangely stomped on plants; grass deliberately yanked out in a specific way; and a shallowly dug trench that pointed the way.

Apparently, Calvin had an idea as the where the dubbed Adam would be heading. For your information, he wouldn't tell me, and I couldn't even begin to understand why. Hey, maybe that was the reason he wouldn't let me drive, and not because I was some snotty teenager he had just met; he knew the way, while I remained oblivious because I had no sense of direction whatsoever. Another tidbit of information: My parents never let me drive either, even in the town we lived, because I could barely navigate my way to school; I had gotten lost not once, but twice the few times I did drive, and Calvin could probably sense my poor driving skills. This was not mentioning the fact that I would break every single rule in the book, which Calvin would definitely not approve of, considering how he could barely even drive five miles per hour over the speed limit. At his rate, I sometimes questioned whether or not running would be the faster mode of transportation.

Basically, Calvin (and I) would have a heart attack if I got behind the wheel, and would promptly die once I began driving.

And I sort of wanted Calvin to live—not because I needed him or anything; that would be absurd—because I made a vow to myself to keep him and anyone else I could alive.

But not dogs. Dogs didn't count.

Nor did anyone or anything that planned on taking either of us out.

oOo

There was a gas station—Shell, or something else that was everywhere, though the sign was cracked and no longer flashing its bright neon colors.

Sure, we had passed by plenty of gas stations during this mini road trip—several other normal things, too, like stores, restaurants, motels, houses, and cars driving along, although those were few and far between—but this place had people.

And yes, Calvin and I had seen people. The cars didn't get up and go on their own.

But the thing was, we had not seen people who had locked down a gas station, protecting it, marking it as their own; we had not seen people who guarded their area with scowls and guns.

We stopped there.

Honestly, I could barely remember why we did so in the first place. Because we needed to clean out the car, and it had garbage bins? The interior of the car was a mess, like a bomb had exploded. Because it had extra food and water—supplies? We were running low, water bottles empty and snack wrappers strewn about. Because it had an actual restroom, and we could clean up? The side of the road wasn't anyone's choice of bathroom, and neither of us had bathed in days. I didn't know. We just did, and, now that I thought about it, stopping was a pretty dumb idea. We didn't know the people, and they were clearly aggressive—shoot first, ask questions later type of people.