Oliver drove the rusted pickup truck over the rough terrain.  He bounced and jerked over every bump, but his face remained calm, an affect of the pot he smoked before heading out.  The Diesel deal went bad again.  His contact brought three other men and they had tried to change the terms of the agreement: less fuel, less food.  Joke's on them.  He glanced back at the three bodies in the bed of the truck.  He'd stop at the butcher before heading home.  The fourth got left behind for the Buzzards because he stank of the greater Canilo.

Oliver had lost two good men himself.  Tom was in the passenger seat beside him, his head lulling from side to side.  The bullet wound in his side was tied tight with the torn sleeve of his own shirt.  Oliver was almost sure he could get him back to the clinic before he would succumb to the wound.  It didn't look like any organs had been hit.  Tom had screamed like a child when he pulled the bullet out to look inside the hole, shame it didn't go the whole way through.

He would've buried Holly and Jax if Tom hadn't been so critical.  They too were left for the scavengers.  Oliver couldn't bare the thought of eating his own friends, better strangers do it.  Still, the thought made his stomach turn.

Despite all the bad turns, it wasn't a total loss.  He got the fuel, the food, kept the chem and got the truck as a bonus.

The truck back fired as he slowed down, but Oliver didn't flinch.  The cloud in his head barely registered the loud clap.  As he entered the Mile High encampment, some of the sentries stared him down, but they were familiar faces and didn't cause a fuse when they recognized him.  First stop, the butcher.  Second stop, the clinic.