Mark got out of his 1976 Dodge Charger, and scanned the area around, strangely enough the car's beastly engine haven't lured any walker yet. Funny thing though, to call it 'his' car, but he was convinced it [i]was[/i] the minute he started the car back in Denver. Because In a world like this, it doesn't matter what the paper says, if you are riding a car-- it is yours. That is just how the world works now. 

Mark had left Denver after giving up on sitting around and waiting for his wife to show up, she was either dead, which he needed to accept and move on. Or. The Dreadful possibility. The possibility that she would still be alive. Mark couldn't just move on yet, so he thought that if she was alive she'd head over to her sister in Utah. Mark found the Charger just outside the limits of Denver, it was filled with fuel, enough to get him halfway to Utah. On the way he'd run into some survivors that were desperate for some food, he exchanged some of his crackers for a bit of fuel enough to get him here. Salt Lake City. Or at least on the outskirts of the city. The car totally ran out of fuel, he had to continue on foot.

Closing the door slowly as to not make any more noise, Mark grabbed his Wrench from the back seat, the window was open, and he tugged it in his side. He reached for his pocket and opened the small plastic bottle. "Empty, I was carrying a damn empty bottle". He'd forgot he ran out of drinking water, he threw away the bottle in rage and let out a spit. It was a bit cold so he could manage his thirst for a few more hours. Mark shook his head and regained his calmness, he looked behind him-- The highway he came from, and ahead of him-- a sign that said "Welcome to Salt Lake City". There was a strong smell of rotting flesh. Another dead city. 

Mark walked past the sign, he thought to grab some water before doing anything else.