The first option made his eyes widen.
[ PASSENGER ATTRIBUTE EXCHANGE UNLOCKED ]
[ COST: 10 SURVIVAL POINTS -> 1 PASSENGER ATTRIBUTE POINT ]
[ CURRENT PASSENGER: CAROLINE JANE ]
[ ATTRIBUTES: ]
Strength: 5
Agility: 9
Perception: 12
Stamina: 6
Arts: 1
[ NOTE: BASELINE FOR ADULT HUMAN FEMALE IS '4' IN ALL CATEGORIES. ]
[ CAROLINE JANE'S SPECIAL ATTRIBUTE IS [PERCEPTION]. ]
[ PERCEPTION: SENSE UNKNOWN DANGER IN ADVANCE. RANGE INCREASES WITH POINT VALUE. ]
[ ACTIVATION REQUIREMENT: ALLOCATE 1 SPECIAL ATTRIBUTE POINT TO THIS PASSENGER. ]
Van stared at her long, curled eyelashes, momentarily thrown. She looked polished, refined. Yet her Arts score was a 1.
He shook his head and kept scrolling.
The market was full of junk: truck fuel, exterior repairs, tire upgrades. The prices were outrageous.
One survival point bought exactly one liter of fuel. The system used Imperial units, not metric.
Exterior repair was worse. Ten points per square meter.
A single basic tire with run-flat capability--meaning it could drive while flat, not prevent a flat--cost fifty points.
"A complete rip-off," Van muttered.
Finally, there was another locked option, its icon a solid block of pixelated static. He couldn't even guess what it was.
With nothing he could afford, Van pulled his blanket tighter, frustration simmering.
The rustle of wind through dry brush, the skittering of desert creatures--these were the last things he heard before sleep took him.
"Van. Wake up." A hand shook his shoulder gently.
Van opened his eyes to see Jane's worried face inches from his.
"Look. Firelight," she whispered, pointing into the distance.
The horizon glowed a dull, angry red. Thick black smoke coiled into the night sky against the backdrop of flames.
Van started the truck. With the headlights off, he guided it slowly toward higher ground.
Jane propped her rifle on her shoulder, peering through the scope. "Night, plus smoke. I can't see. Higher."
He drove to the crest of the nearest tall dune. Jane climbed onto the roof, the scope pressed to her eye.
A moment later, she handed the rifle down, her expression grim. "It's a checkpoint. A long one, with fencing. There's a fight inside."
She helped him adjust the rifle's position. "I think... I think there are Rotters in there."
Through the scope, Van saw it. A checkpoint blocked the highway, trapping a snarl of nearly a hundred civilian vehicles. Tiny figures ran crazily into the open desert. Inside the checkpoint perimeter, muzzle flashes bloomed. Tracer rounds from a heavy machine gun stitched red lines through the darkness.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Against the firelight, a massive, seething tide of dark shapes moved. They moved fast. Too fast. Leaping, scrambling, a black wave pushing against the fences.
"Those cars... they must be from Heli," Jane said softly, watching the crimson sky. "People who fled last night, or this morning."
Van lowered the rifle. He understood the scenario.
Some of the refugees fleeing Heli had been bitten. Judging by the Apache and A-10 attacks on the town, the authorities wanted Heli erased. A total blackout.
Maybe there were too many people at the checkpoint. Maybe news crews were there. Whatever the reason, they hadn't been massacred on the spot.
Then the infection had taken hold. And all hell had broken loose.
Jane, who had taken the rifle back, gasped. "Someone's breaking out! A vehicle! And a military truck just smashed through the wire!"
They scrambled back into the Chevy. Van drove down the far side of the dune, putting the dune between them and the distant chaos.
"Panicked people run blind," Van said, killing the engine. "They could lead the horde right to us."
They waited. Hiding.
A few pickup trucks roared past not far away, headlights slashing the dark. Van and Jane ducked below the windows, silent and still.
Jane didn't suggest helping anyone now. She sat with her head bowed, hands over her ears, motionless.
The Express's upgraded mirrored armor was perfect camouflage in the dark desert. None of the fleeing trucks spotted them.
VROOM.
The sound of an engine, close and getting closer, sent a cold jolt down Van's spine. It came from above them.
BANG-CRUNCH-THUMP!
A battered, boxy old truck sailed over the crest of their dune and crashed down in front of them. It landed on its roof, rolled twice, and slammed back onto its wheels with a shriek of tortured metal.
The driver was a girl, alone in the cab. Van saw her shake her dazed head, then frantically twist the ignition key.
Urrrn-urn-urn-urn... The starter motor whined uselessly. The girl's face, pale in the dashboard glow, was wet with tears.
Don't look over here. Don't look over here. Just start, Van mentally chanted.
No such luck.
The girl, looking in terror back up the dune she'd just launched from, saw the reflection of her own wrecked truck in a giant, dark mirror. Then she saw the mirror-like side of the Chevrolet Express.
Her eyes went wide. She scrambled out through the window, sprinted to the side of Van's truck, and started pounding on the glass.
"Hello! Is anyone in there? Let me in! Please!" Her voice was a harsh, desperate whisper.
She yanked at the door handle. It was locked from the inside. She cursed, fumbled in the back of her overalls, and pulled out a long wrench, hefting it to swing at the window.
Hiding was no longer an option.
Van moved. The driver's side window whirred down just enough for the barrel of his rifle to emerge, aimed directly at her face.
The girl froze, the wrench held high.
"Please," she sobbed, the wrench trembling. "Let me in. They're coming!"
Jane looked at Van, her eyes pleading. She'd hardened her heart against the faceless people in the fleeing trucks. But this girl was right here.
Van inhaled sharply. A decision. "Cover her with the revolver!" he ordered Jane.
He hit the unlock button.
He threw open the passenger door, reached out, and hauled the girl inside with one brutal yank. He shoved her into the back seat, his knife now at her throat. "Not. A. Sound."
She was a redneck girl. Shoulder-length, curly ginger hair framed a face dusted with freckles. Oversized black-framed glasses, the arms wrapped with duct tape and a rubber band, sat crooked on her nose. Her clothes--a baggy, grease-stained t-shirt and denim overalls--reeked of oil and sweat.
She shook violently. Jane clamped a hand over her mouth, holding back her whimpers.
Jane's other hand held the revolver steady. "We won't hurt you," Jane whispered, calm and firm. "But you must be silent. Understand? Nod if you understand."
The girl nodded frantically. Jane slowly removed her hand.
"Were Rotters chasing you?" Jane asked, her voice low. "How far back?"
The girl's eyes were huge with terror. "S-so many. Less... less than a mile."
Van and Jane exchanged a look. They both knew how fast the infected moved. Less than a mile meant...
THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD!
Heavy impacts hammered the roof of the Express. Dozens of them. The upgraded armor held, the metal groaning but not buckling.
Shapes--dozens of them--tumbled down the slope of the dune, raining onto the truck's roof and thudding into the sand all around them.