You know, sometimes you just can't fathom the reality of things until you see them with your own eyes, and now I've come to fully understand that.
I've been on the road most of the time since I last checked in with Maggie, and for the life of me I couldn't understand how it devolved to this state so quickly.
I mean, I know how it happened, but knowing and understanding are two completely different things entirely.
Most of the survivors I've found were either raiders who sought to kill me for my belongings, cannibals who saw me as a walking meal ticket, or were so indifferent to me that they just glanced my way once from afar before they disappeared.
The latter category was extremely rare.
It's disheartening, to say the least. I mean, I know from my meta-knowledge that not a lot of people survived the initial outbreak, and more of those that did survive ended up dying in the following months.
The ones who didn't were the settlements and people that were shown in the series and its offshoots, but I hadn't fully come to understand how few were left alive—at least here in America.
I'd also come across recently turned walkers, those that hadn't had the time to start decaying yet.
That was a ride.
I would feel a twinge of guilt every time I put one down, and I'd ask myself: If I had set out earlier, could I have saved them?
I know it sounds stupid, but I just can't seem to shake this notion out of my head. I guess I'm not as desensitized as I thought I was. Surprisingly, that made me feel a bit of joy in these wretched times, because it seems I still cared enough to put in more effort in doing my job.
I did come across a couple of small settlements that I tried to talk to, maybe invite them into my group or at least add them to the alliance. Unfortunately, they were completely closed off.
From the distrustful and hateful looks I've gotten, I would wager that they've been burned way too many times and completely lost trust in outsiders. I understood that, but it didn't make it any less shitty.
I didn't know if things would escalate if I tried to convince them, so I just left and continued on my way.
My mood was low, so I did the only thing that could cheer me up: scavenging.
I went looting from house to house, building to building. It was hit or miss most of the time; sometimes I'd find a can or two of food, a couple of bottles of water, some bits of medical supplies and some kitchen condiments.
Other times, I would hit the jackpot, I'd find crates of canned goods and water, medical supplies aplenty, booze and candy.
I've stored away all kinds of stuff inside my inventory. Any electrical appliances I found, I stored away: TV screens, laptops, computer units, game consoles, comic books, novels, and some decent spare clothes for all kinds of weather. I've even found some hazmat suits tucked away in a random house along the road—I've no idea what they were doing there.
One of my crazier finds was a house in a residential neighborhood that was chock-full of different illegal substances and a couple of duffle bags full of wads of old-world money.
I stored every ounce of the substances I could find; they could be used as bartering chips later. I left the cash because it was completely useless now.
Another was a room i found in a villa that had all kinds of medieval armors and armaments. I stored all that away as well—never know when I might need them.
I also found some pretty sweet rides laying around that I took my time dismantling and storing inside my inventory: a black 1969 Dodge Charger, a silver-gray 1970 Plymouth Hemi 'Cuda, a hot-rod red 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS 454, and a 1967 Mustang Shelby GT500.
Suffice to say, I was thoroughly cheered up.
After stashing the last dismantled muscle car into my inventory, I leaned back against the fender of my truck and wiped a streak of grease off my forehead.
The sun was dipping low behind the broken tree line, casting long dark shadows across the cracked asphalt of the deserted street. I pulled a canteen from my inventory that I filled beforehand with cold water, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swig.
My throat was dry from breathing in dust all afternoon.
I needed to find a decent spot to hole up for the night before total darkness set in.
Sleeping out in the open cab was fine when the world was still alive; nowadays, it's just asking for an ambush by a roaming herd or some trigger-happy scavengers. In short, it was a death sentence.
I hopped back into the driver's seat, turned the key, and let the heavy diesel engine roar to life. I clicked the headlights on—the bright light pierced through the gathering gloom—and rolled forward down the road.
I needed to find a place secure, preferably outside of town.
About two miles out, I spotted a boarded-up two-story duplex. It looked empty, quiet, and defenseless. Perfect.
I slowed the truck down, dimmed the lights, and pulled right up to the front of the building. I cut the engine and sat in the dark for a full minute, listening for anything that I would need to take care of.
No groans, no shuffling footsteps—just the wind rattling something loose somewhere far away.
I grabbed my rifle, checked the safety, and stepped out into the chilly night air. Time to clear a room, eat, and get some shut-eye.
Tomorrow, I'd push deeper north and see what else this dead country was hiding, see if I could find other survivors that hopefully would be more willing to talk because I'd hate for this trip to be fruitless.
(To be continued...)