Lyle Perez-Tinics - Existing Dead

The radio continued playing the press conference with Doctor Theodore Greenly. He was going on and on about pain. Kyle smiled. His smile quickly turned into a frown when he looked at the gas gauge. The needle was almost on empty. He had to find fuel soon. As he started worrying about gas Doctor Greenly said, “The streets are unsafe. If you can, please stay home with your family. Treasure them and protect them as best as you can.”

Chapter Three

Kyle continued driving through the main road, heading further into the desert. Another mile or so ahead was the next town. Static overpowered the interview with Doctor Greenly as Kyle drove toward the nearest gasoline station. After searching for another radio station, with no result, he turned off the receiver. Kyle tried to bury all of his emotions; he was in the middle of a war zone and if he wanted to survive he needed to think clearly. The needle on the gas gauge was now hovering over the E. Kyle glanced down when the empty light flashed on.

This area had been Kyle’s home for the past four years. He knew where all of the fill-up stations were in the region. Just over the hill in front of him was a Shell gasoline station. He cleared the mount and began going down with the Shell station in his view.

He slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched as he swerved to avoid a collision with the two wrecked cars in the middle of the road. Kyle’s heart raced as he cleared the wreckage. He stared back through his rearview mirror and composed himself. The Shell station was getting closer, as all of the traffic lights were off. Kyle didn’t feel the need to drive cautiously through the intersections. Besides Mary and Eddie, he hadn’t seen another living person in days.

The Burger King that Eddie and Kyle would spend their father-and-son time flew by like the memory of a past life. He tried to think about just getting to the gas station and filling up, but the recollections of better days continued to dance within his head. The Shell station was a block away to his left. He sped through the last intersection and didn’t bother to use a turn signal when he pulled into the four pump gas station.

Kyle parked behind a silver colored Honda that still had the nozzle attached to the car. It was the only available pump. The other two were occupied by an early 1980’s green Chevy Luv and a red Ford Mustang. He turned the truck off and looked at the deserted lot. He wondered what happened that made everyone leave their cars half way through filling up. The store’s doors were to his right and wide open, snacks and shelving in view. His stomach grumbled in hunger.

“I gotta be quick,” he muttered to himself, then grabbed the Winchester by the pistol grip. He pulled eight shells out of the robot backpack and loaded them. Each shell clicked as it was loaded into the barrel. He looked at the bag again, and the emptiness returned. Quickly, he shook it off and pumped the shotgun. Stepping out of the truck, gun at the ready, he looked at the gas pump. All of the lights were off.

“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath, realizing how dense he was, “of course it’s off.”

Kyle turned and walked cautiously toward the little market. He took one step inside and looked left to right, making sure no one else was there. Racks of chips remained untouched on the shelves. The coolers were off, but there was no telling how long they’d been that way. He pressed his head against one of them; it felt cool against his face. A beer stared back at him from behind the glass at perfect eye level. His throat craved the taste of alcohol. He opened the glass door and grabbed the first available beer. Chugging it down, he savored each drop.

A gasoline can had to be somewhere in the area; every gasoline station had them for sale, or at least one to lend to the poor sap who ran out of gas. Kyle searched the store for the gasoline can. After a few moments of searching, he found the five-gallon jug sitting behind the front desk. He grabbed it by the handle and began walking back to the truck whistling a tune that he couldn’t remember the name of. If he wanted to get gas, he would have to siphon it from the cars already there. He looked in the bed of his truck for the hose he used at construction sites. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to siphon gas.

The hose was cut three feet long, the perfect length to get as much gas out of a tank as possible. He walked to the silver Honda directly in front of him with the hose and gas container. He detached the still-connected nozzle and set it on the ground. A small amount of gas began seeping out of the nozzle.

Kyle put the hose into the gas tank and began sucking on it like a straw. It took a few attempts, but he managed to get a good flow going. He accidentally got some gasoline in his mouth, so he needed something to wash the taste out. Water would do the trick, maybe even another beer. He took the hose out of the tank when the can was full and hauled it over to his truck. A funnel was already in place, and he began pouring the gas into his tank. Five gallons wasn’t going to get him anywhere; he needed more. He took the can back to the Honda to siphon more fuel. The gas flow began to slow as the Honda’s tank ran low. He walked back to the market while the gas slowly filled the can.

When he stepped through the door, he realized that he had forgotten the Winchester. Kyle quickly un-holstered the Glock and pointed it forward. The refreshments were to his left. He walked toward the water and took out a bottle. He opened it and swished the water around his mouth then spat it out on the ground. His stomach growled again. He grabbed a little basket and began filling it with chips and other snacks. He started walking back to the Honda. Half way back, he heard a click and someone say, “Where the hell do you think you’re going with those?”

Kyle shook his head, thinking that the voice was in his head. He slowly turned and standing at the doorway was a teenager no more than sixteen. The teen wore the uniform of a gas station attendant, but he did look a little too young to be working. His face was filthy like he hadn’t washed it in weeks and a bizarre look crossed his face as if thinking that this was the first person he’s seen alive in days. His hair fell parted to the side, wavy and messy. He held a small handgun firmly with both hands.

“You didn’t pay for that stuff or for that beer you drank,” the teenager said.

Where the hell did he come from? was the first thought out of Kyle’s head. He stared at the boy for a moment, dumbfounded, and said, “Really?” That felt like the most logical response to the situation.

The teen began to sway left to right, almost as if he had to use the restroom. “Yes, really,” he spat back with fury and authority.

“You do know that the world has ended and we’re surrounded by the dead, right?”

“That doesn’t give you the right to steal from my store.”

Kyle was already tired going back and forth with the kid. That’s what he was, just a kid. He was probably scared and had no idea what else to do but to stay there and protect the store from looters.

“Listen,” Kyle said in a calm voice. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to just take stuff. How about I go back inside and you can check me out?”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, no longer in control of the situation.

The teen walked backwards into the store, not taking his gaze away from Kyle. He made his way behind the counter as Kyle walked into the store with the basket. He placed it on the counter as the boy began writing things down on a notepad.

“So what’s your name kid?” Kyle asked.

“Victor,” he replied.

“Hey, ah … Victor, I’m Kyle. Do you know what happened here? I’m guessing you were the one who was working when everything happened. Why did people just leave without their cars?”