The screech of tires on abandoned asphalt cracked through the night with a white hot splendor. Two headlights split through the night, weaving around other vehicles long abandoned and left to decay. The 1987 Monte Carlo came barreling down the highway, once the queen of American speed and performance, now the desperate last resort of one Tuesday Bennett.
Tuesday chomped on the filter of her cigarette as she jerked to a stop. To the left, the right, center, blocked. She snuffed her smoke in the ash tray when another familiar smell hit her senses.
"Fuckin hell," she griped. A flick of her high beams proved her suspicions; a mighty gasoline tanker, turned on its side and its belly sliced by a pile of indiscernible wreckage.
She turned the radio low and a whine registered from her passenger seat.
"What now?" Tuesday implored. She was met with a slimy tongue across her face, more whimpers. A long sweeping tail waved back and forth with impatience, anticipation. Greta, Tuesday's only known living companion, was a force to be reckoned with. A mutt with some definite German shepherd lineage, trained to perfection, was her only slice of comfort in a world gone to shit. Where Tuesday's humanity and foolish emotions would muddy her thinking, Greta's pure animal instinct always led the way to survival. This time was no different.
A chorus of stifled choking and sloppy groans was heard rising from below the ledge. Guard rails served as temporary blockades, but it was only a matter of minutes, no, seconds, before the dead would pile over it, their aimless hunger driving them forward. Well, if they wanted carnage, they'd get some. Tuesday cranked the radio back up, Ride the Lightning blaring through the already blown speakers. A fully loaded AR-15 was in one hand, the steering wheel in the other. Greta leaped into the back seat at the sight of the gun, its barrel pointed in the direction of the snarling corpses.
She squealed her car in reverse, whipping the wheel around as far as it would go. A series of sharp cracks met with the skulls of the dead, roaming closer, drawn in by the noise. Tuesday carelessly sang along as she cruised back the way she came.
"Flash before my eyes, now it's time to die…."
The next morning rose cold and bright. These kinds of mornings were the ones that invigorated Tuesday. The notches in her dash board counted November. Shorter days meant there was more to be done, less time to waste. She opened her trunk and rummaged through her bounty. A can of spam for her and some Alpo for the dog would do nicely for breakfast. She had cigarette cartons, toiletries, blankets, an endless pharmacy, packed tight. The great thing about running solo was that she and Greta ate like kings. Not many people would guess that so much could fit in the trunk of this car, spacious and deep in all its G-body glory. She knew better. It was the vans, box trucks, shiny new SUVs that people went after. Not half rotten relics from the 80's.
Greta padded over to Tuesday and waited patiently for her vittles.
"Eat up, champ. We've got a long day ahead of us."
Tuesday pulled out her map and pondered the past day. Last night could have been a close call, as a matter of fact, it was just plain careless. At least that is what someone probably would have told her if anyone had bothered to stick around for more than a day or two. Hell, she had been told that numerous times. It didn't matter anymore. This was all a part of her game.
Today, this November 16th, had one very clear goal; Tuesday had to make it to the southern border of Virginia, idealistically, maybe even North Carolina if she was lucky. The interstate was impossible though. There had to be a back way available somehow.
Maps always tied her head in knots. She had used a GPS for years, her mind turned lazy by all the conveniences of American life. The adjustment of un plugging her life suited Tuesday well, however. This was the change she was waiting for. She flipped the license plate down in the back of her car to throw the last of her siphoned fuel in the tank and was reminded once again of how sorely she did miss her home. Winter was on its way, and driving south was the natural thing to do now, but Tuesday's home was and always would be Massachusetts. She had lived through 23 New England winters, angry and gray, and it was in her blood to survive them, as she would this.
Tuesday's train of thought was broken when Greta's bark was matched with the tell tale cries of a walker. She snagged a tire iron from the passenger seat and sprinted toward the dog, who was at odds with the intruder. A young boy, freshly deceased, hobbled toward Greta with his milky eyes fixated on the dog's neck. Poor kid, Tuesday thought. It was too bad it had to end this way for him. Greta was too fast for the walker, and she evaded him with the primal grace of a wolf on the hunt. Greta's barks and movements distracted the boy long enough for Tuesday to run up behind him and split his skull in two. He fell to the ground in an anticlimactic heap of flesh, his ruddied mess of brain matter melting into the morning frost.
There was a good chance he was alone, but that wasn't a chance Tuesday was willing to take. She turned the ignition and the car roared to life, Greta hopping into the passenger seat. They headed south again, unsure as always of what lay ahead.
Tuesday lit a cigarette and nodded at Greta. "Don't worry, girl. We'll find Everett. We'll find him."