The Garage

It seemed all of them had known Jim was headed the wrong way. Looking back, Cindy realized that the path to the hospital was impossible; the wall of undead that had arisen from the smell of George's blood was stronger than all their weapons combined. None of them spoke of Jim's sudden burst of leadership, of his remarkable gunmanship in that desperate moment.

"What is that coin, Jim?" asked Yoko, who was now suddenly walking beside him, her thumbs dug under the straps of her sagging backpack. She seemed remarkably young in that moment, almost as if she were a regular teenage girl. It occurred to Cindy, then, that Yoko was in fact a young girl barely out of her teens. Her maturity and thoughtfulness had led Cindy to believe otherwise, but she realized she could not measure all young girls against her own days of youth long past.

"Oh, this?" he said, removing the coin from his pocket again. "When I first started working at the station, there was this fatal train wreck…years back, and the only survivor of that disaster was holding this very coin in her hand when the two trains struck, the fare meant for her young son. Luckily, her son had been stuck late at school that day. Over five hundred people died in that crash…everyone but her," he said, his eyes suddenly distant. "She handed it to me when I helped pull her out of the car. She said the coin had bought her son a second shot at life, and it could maybe do something amazing for me."

"Really?" said Yoko with a sudden awe. "That's—that's amazing, Jim."

Jim burst out laughing. "That sounds cool, huh? Nothing that interesting, though. It's just the first fare I ever collected," he said, still giggling. Yoko's brow furrowed, but then she too began to laugh. From behind them, Mark spoke up.

"Hey…quiet you two," he loudly whispered. "We know what those things respond to; even with Doc's arm wrapped up, it's a good idea to keep the noise down." Yoko only nodded her head in understanding, but when she looked back, Cindy could swear she saw a smile still on Yoko's young face. It suited her.

The gas station before them was typical: one story, one garage, and two rows of three pumps. Nothing fancy or elaborate, but then again, it was just a gas station. It wasn't a lot of space, so all five of them searched the confined area for zombies at once. They were done in a few moments, and they agreed to loot the small building for usable goods, and to set up another plan now that the hospital was a distant possibility. George was soon looking through the chemical cabinet, his face in deep thought. Mark was busy working on a makeshift barricade for the front door, and Yoko and Jim were scouring the rooms for usable goods. Cindy worked on the vending machines in the main office. She was skilled at it by now. A few swift jabs with the rusty crowbar, and the main padlock was off in seconds. From there, it was a matter of stacking and storing the still cool beverage cans.

Her head throbbed; days of sugar and snack foods were good for short bursts of energy, but in the long run, they made her body feel hollow and useless. God, what she'd give for a glass of clean, cool water. Sighing, she got up and passed the drinks around, and was thankful not to receive any complaints. She remembered Alyssa genuinely getting upset at being handed a non-diet cola, and the memory still peeved her. Despite that, Cindy wondered how that other group was faring, and couldn't help but worry some.

George was doing well, it seemed. He had found a few bottles, and was busily mixing chemicals back and forth, even humming while he did so. Cindy remembered him telling her last night that he had been a surgeon. She wondered when the last time he took a chemistry course was, and hoped he didn't end up blowing them all up in a freak mixture.

The sun was at its peak by the time they sat to rest. Yoko was fiddling with an ancient radio that seemed to only emit scratchy static, while Cindy went over the inventory in her backpack. Mark sat by the door, watching through the slits in the heavy barricade and squinting against the sunlight. George was mixing his chemicals in the garage after being banished from the office for the rancid odors emanating from his concoctions.

"Damn Doc, that smells like shit," whined Jim as he leafed through work orders in a dark leather binder. A flash of surprise came over his face.

"What is it, Jim," asked Cindy, coming over to stand across from him as set a can of cola in front of him. Jim looked up at her and grinned, spinning the binder so she too could look at it. The sheet was faded, barely legible, as if it were a carbon copy of some sort. Cindy squinted to see it better. Jim snatched it back before she could study it further.

"It's a work order…for the city tram," he began. "I can't believe I had forgotten about it," he added, shaking his head in disbelief. The others were starting to come over now. Yoko quickly snapped off the antique radio, George set down his jars, and Mark reluctantly stepped away from his guard post by the door.

"Of course, the city tram goes directly out of the city!" exclaimed Cindy, a bit surprised by her own sudden energy. She blushed under the staring eyes of the others. "Must be the sugar," she said meekly, sipping her can of soda and looking away absently. George caught her eye and winked, his own face covered with sweat and grime. She couldn't help but smile back.

"But this work order is for a repair," said Yoko. "And it's dated three days ago…with no sign of the request being completed," she finished, her voice sinking.

"No, not quite," said Jim, and the others all looked at him hopefully. "Look here; the car is only down to a few basic electrical problems," he added, his face in deep thought. "It seems if we just replace the fuse…it might work," he finished. The others let out their collective breath.

"But can you be sure of that?" asked George, looking over Jim's shoulder at the binder.

"Of course, doc," replied Jim. "I have worked in the subway system for quite awhile now, and the electrical systems are pretty much the same. Once we get it going, I'll have no problem driving it, either," he said.

"There are a few things bothering me here," began Mark. Everyone turned to look at him as he spoke. "We don't know the extent of repairs on the tram, where we can get the necessary parts, or if we can get it going at all," he said. Jim opened his mouth to speak, and Mark continued talking. "The tram station itself is a dead end area; we can hole up in there for a short while, but we could be eventually overrun. It's the trip to that station that worries me," he added. "Through the park and by city hall…the heart of the city."

"So what?" asked Jim, suddenly irritated at Mark's points. Mark turned to him with dark, accusing eyes. Jim shrank back, almost cowered, under that unrelenting stare.

"That means the highest concentration of people…or undead," he replied. Silence fell over the group. A voice spoke up from behind them.

"We can do it," George said, a surge of confidence in his voice. "I've mixed enough chemical bombs in the garage to blow up at least three dozen of those bastard undead," he added. There was no smile on his face now, no glimmer in his eyes. Only a morbid understanding that their only option was to kill or be killed. The hush returned, and no one spoke.

"Show me," Mark said finally.

---

They were lined up neatly across the work counter; ten bottles and jars of varying sizes filled with a grayish fluid. Despite the lack of electricity in the garage, the sun was at its highpoint, and light stabbed through the three panes of glass on the main door, so everything was visible in the dingy work area.

"How do they work?" asked Jim. "Do we need fuses?"

"No, that's the beauty of these," George answered. "A simple chemical compound of nitr-" he began to say, before Mark interrupted him.

"So you're saying we can just throw them, and they'll explode on impact?" asked Mark.

"Precisely," George replied. "No fuses to worry about," he said, picking one up. "I made them of varying sizes, figuring we might need bigger payloads."

"Good thinking; we don't know what lies ahead of us," said Mark, an appreciative look on his face. He smiled for the first time in a long time, hefting one of the larger bottles in his hand. The smile spread into a broad grin. "How big of a blast radius are we talking about, doc?"

"The larger bottles, a few yards," answered George. "The smaller ones, about three to four feet."

"Where did you learn this shit?" asked Jim, tossing one of the smaller bottles absentmindedly from hand to hand. He noticed the others beginning to slowly back away, and he stopped, that goofy grin on his face again as he set the bottle down.

"Ah…here and there; you know how it is," George said, slightly embarrassed. It was Cindy's turn to give him a secret wink, and he reddened before flashing her a sheepish smile.

"Let's pack it up and be ready to move within the hour," ordered Mark, as he turned to Jim. "See if you can find that fuse and parts in this shop, Jim. We don't want to have to backtrack here, not if we can avoid it." Jim nodded solemnly.

"Autobots…transform, and roll out!" cried Jim suddenly. His exclamation met with curious stares, Jim began his search for the necessary fuse, grumbling to himself about how modern art went unappreciated and especially that of the Saturday morning cartoon variety. The rest of them wordlessly began their own preparations; they knew the routine by now.

---

They were moving within two hours, burdened with the half dozen fuses they had salvaged from the auto shop. There was no surefire way to test their condition, so they decided to take them all. Each of the survivors carried one, and a bottle of George's explosive in hand. Mark, as usual, took the point, his shotgun at the ready. His weary eyes scanned the wide area before them, and Cindy wondered to herself how much longer he could stay awake on his feet like this. In the 36 hours since the viral outbreak, she hadn't seen him so much as nap. George told her he had seen similar symptoms in war survivors thrust into stressful situations; for Mark, this was his comfort zone to handle the horror of it all. The best thing they could do was watch his back and hope he could lead them to safety.

"I wonder if it's best to move during daylight," asked Yoko aloud to no one in particular, but it was somewhat obvious her question was directed at Mark.

"You said yourself those things didn't rely on vision," he grunted, stepping carefully over a scatter of rubble, his pointed shotgun canvassing the shadowy areas.

"That was an educated guess at best…I need to observe them more," said Yoko. Cindy looked at her, puzzled. What was going on inside Yoko's head?

"It's better that we can see them in the open, during daylight," said George, also looking at Yoko strangely. Cindy looked to him for his thoughts, but he kept his eyes focused on the young girl moving slowly over the debris.

"Yes, but…" Yoko brought her hand to her temple, as if she were in agony.

"Yoko, are you alright?" asked Cindy, stepping over to hold Yoko by her elbow.

"I'm—fine, Cindy…thank you," she said, her face still pained. "But I just thought of something," she said, straining for the words, gasping for breath.

"Maybe we should stop and rest," said Cindy, looking over to Mark. He didn't even turn.

"That's not an option; this area isn't safe," he said, a sternness in his voice. "We have to keep moving." He paused. "We're almost at the park," he added, finally looking back. Cindy opened her mouth to reason with him, but George spoke up.

"He's right," interrupted George. "Let's keep moving." Cindy flashed a look of anger at him; she thought she could count on at least him to be the one person on her side.

"Time…we're running out of time," murmured Yoko.

"What do you mean, Yokes?" asked Jim, coming over to help her walk.

"A viral contamination of this magnitude…the only safeguard, the only fail safe is…" her words drifted off.

"A nuclear strike," said George, sudden horror spreading across his face.

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