Five miles an hour was the average speed Chris could drive to maneuver around the burned hulls of vehicles, the slain bodies of people laying about the narrowed Holcombe Boulevard and not to mention, the dead or undead. There was a dead woman that looks like she was shot by a machine gun as the brown coagulated bloody bullet holes made a straight perforated line horizontally across her torso.
His clammy right hand tightly clenched the steering wheel and his eyes were fixed on a new Houston, Texas that was something out of a horror movie. He turned the radio on and pushed the Seek button so the stations would constantly roll in hopes of catching someone broadcasting an emergency message.
Chris was so taken aback and in awe at the devastation he was witnessing that he failed to notice the rumbling exhaust pipes were attracting a crowd that was trailing behind the truck.
He heard a bumping sound coming from the back of the truck and turned to see a group of about 35-40 dead heads reaching over the tailgate. They were men, women and a couple of kids. Two boys. One was older, or taller and huskier than the other. Chris recollected the conversations between him and Sarah about having kids. Chris wanted a son that he could Xbox with and teach him fake wrestling moves; like body-slamming the kid on the bed. Sarah, of course, wanted a girl. A baby girl she could play house with and teach her how to french braid hair.
They talked about having kids, how bad the economy was, the rising crime rates and the rise of grocery and fuel prices. Chris and Sarah decided it was best to wait on having children until their college courses were done. Chris was trying to finish his training on selling Real Estate and Sarah was planning on becoming a Psychiatrist.
Chris found himself feeling melancholy with the memories of talking to Sarah and hearing her sweet, tender voice. Her embrace; her goofy blonde moments. He yearned for that feeling again. To be with her again.
*BOOM!*
Chris was so lost in day dreaming about Sarah that he hit an overturned Ford dually. He wasn’t wearing his seatbelt and the impact threw him into the dashboard; honking the horn which dispatched more meaties in the area. At five miles an hour, the impact wasn’t enough to deploy the airbags and he was able to quickly get his wits about him. He saw the trailing people scraping down the bed of the truck in the side view mirrors. He could see the gaps between the heads and shoulders of his attackers being filled with more people. He landed on his right side on the transmission hump and yanked the pistol from his waistband and frantically aimed it at every face he made eye contact with. Unfortunately, the eyes looking back at him were dried and withered.
The zombies crowded both sides of the truck and Chris looked up toward to the sunroof of the Chevy.
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