7/24 8:30

Dave finally explained his plan. Like everything else to do with him, it’s cockeyed. “What I need is a distraction. Aint many of ‘em out here this far from the city center. They all was drawn like maggots to roadkill by the burning and sirens and general hubbub during the last fighting down there. All’s that’s here is the stragglers. Staked it out once afore, and most have broken legs or got stuck on fences or something elsewise to keep ‘em around.”

“We can clear them out real easy. Most of ‘em won’t even see us, if we’re good and fast-- but it’ll take two. I aint what I once was, what with this padding I got now,” he adds, his ‘padding’ pressing against the handlebars, “but I can work an axe handle well enough.”

We turn a bend, slow, and finally hop off. Dave looked over his shoulder and informed me that “the most important thing is to not get surrounded. Never, ever get surrounded.”

By the end of the conversation, we’d made it to where we lay now. We’re on the very far edge of a small rise, across a field from a gas station and drug store. There are a fair number of moaners out their, standing listlessly. They look lost, just staring at the clouds or the tall grass waving in the wind.

He pats his obedient mutt’s head, while she tries to fall asleep. That dog’s taken to this horrific world like chimps to jungle gyms. Dave says we’ll scope out the place, then move in. When I ask him what for, his eyes gleam and he answers, “that store. That store’s got the stuff. We’ll stake the place out for a time, then head in.” Worrisome, that my only ally will risk my life for Oxycoton.

--
7/24 10:09am

This is one of the first moments in the entire past few weeks I haven’t been worried, on edge, hungry, or hunted. As I lay in the tall grass, Dave glancing through binocs and muttering quietly to himself, I can’t help but think about Rob. Been putting it off long enough.

He’s is in my dreams sometimes, like a haunting ghost. Shouldn’t feel bad, but some part does. Shit. How couldn’t I? He was my friend. Good roommate. Always cleaned his dishes, never partied. Bit of a slow poke, but does that mean what happened to him is A-OK? Since when does being slow to come round to an idea mean you deserve to die?

I couldn't help him. Sure as hell can't help him now. Nothing to be done about it. He's probably cinders and ash now. If not, then I guess he's gone just the same. Saw him scratched. You don't always turn, but it doesn't matter. He was set to die one way or another.

Feel like I should say something nice about him, like you're supposed to do at a funeral. So, I'll write this: He was a nice guy, a great roommate, and a good friend. But he was slow.

I'll learn his lesson. Don't go slow. Don't slow down. Not for anything.

Dave just tapped me on the shoulder. It’s go time.