[center][h3]March 11, 2018 - Harvard, Massachusetts.   30 Minutes south of Ft. Devens.[/h3][/center]
[center]39 Degrees.  Partly Cloudy[/center]
[center][IMG]http://i65.tinypic.com/28bea0p.jpg[/IMG][/center]

One of life’s simple pleasures, according to the American Dream handbook, is a peaceful Sunday drive on an open stretch of country road, where the chill of the morning air meets the warm and delicate kiss of the rising sun.  With puffs of cumulus bumbling along a gradient canvas, carefree and unencumbered by trivialities.  Accompanying on this journey: a spouse, two children, and a dog.  Over bridges and underpasses, carefree passengers simply follow the road, no less encumbered than the bumbling cumulus, giving in to the paths laid out before them.

It seemed, to Isaac, that many important details eluded the American Dream handbook.  Nowhere did the handbook mention that the spring wind would carry upon its lofty back the choking scent of an M35 series cargo truck’s diesel exhaust.  It didn’t account for the bumps, thuds, and jerks as the truck shifted gears or ran over a body.  Or that Isaac’s company, instead of a one-spouse and two-kid family, was an unruly bunch of Eastern Front Bandits, whose appearance was fresh out of a 1980s biker gang movie.  

Isaac could feel their eyes upon him from time to time as he leaned back against the wooden rails.  He knew the look.  At best, untrusting.  At the worst, cold and bloodthirsty.  Six other men accompanied Isaac in the cargo area of the truck.  Isaac hadn’t the opportunity or the desire to learn their names.  He considered it a waste of time.  In the months since the virus, the idea of identity became insignificant.  So had permanence, for that matter.  Routine had fallen by the wayside.  So Isaac thought of temporary names for his companions.  Forgettable names, such as Skullface, Nosering, Patriot, Sticks, Gaston, and Shades.

“Hey,” Sticks called out to Skullface, whose appearance was rather intimidating regardless of the skull-printed bandana tied around the lower half of his face.  “Bill, pssst.  Bill!”  Sticks continued to call out.

...Apparently Skullface’s name was Bill.  Isaac liked Skullface better.

“Shut up.”  Skullface barked, jabbing Sticks’ knee with the butt of his shotgun.  After Sticks hissed and winced, Skullface leaned in, “Whatta ya want?”

“What do you think they want to do with Frankie?”  Sticks said while rubbing his knee and motioning toward the end of a rope hanging out of the truck.  More importantly, he motioned to what was dragging at the end of the rope: a bloody, twitching, groaning husk of a human woman.

“Beats me,” Skullface sighed.  “Study her.  Fuck her.  Put a collar on her and make her beg.  I dunno.  But who the hell cares?  They want Franks, we bring Franks.  So long as they pay us, I don’t give a shit what they do to ‘em.”

“I bet the new guy wants to fuck her,” mused Nosering, motioning to Isaac.  “Hey, new guy.  Want us to pull over so you can take a turn?”

“Already had my turn…” Isaac muttered through his mask.

Nosering smirked.  “Did she like it?”

“Don’t know,”  Isaac replied coldly.  “Ask your buddy, Jacobs, next time you see him.”

Silence.  A cold, bitter, windy silence.  The truck jerked hard as the driver shifted gears.  Tension among the group was palpable.  Defensively, Isaac’s free hand moved to his knife.  But much to Isaac’s surprise, Nosering erupted into a hearty laugh.  The rest of the car followed.

“Jacobs scores even when he’s dead.”  Chuckled Nosering.

“Ten bucks says I score twice as many when I’m a Frank.”  Boasted Gaston, with a hearty laugh.

A heavy knock came from the inside of the truck.  A man by the name of Morgan, the only man whose name Isaac chose to remember, yelled out at the group.  “Cut the crap and look sharp.  We’re here to do business, look and act like it.  Rendezvous in five.”

Morgan’s commanding influence was noteworthy.  The laughs were immediately stifled and the entire group shifted their focus to their weapons, triple checking their ammo.  Skullface motioned to some boxes next to Isaac.  “Scott, Smith, you two are guarding the crates.  Tim and I are going with Morgan.  New guy, watch our backs.  Don’t fall asleep.”

Isaac nodded wordlessly at Skullface.

The road became bumpier as it was littered with bodies downed by the surviving locals.  Isaac was thrown out of his seat and was quickly saved by Shades, who pulled him close and muttered, “Jacobs was my best friend.  I don’t know who the fuck you are, but I won’t forget that your ugly face was the last thing he saw.”

He shoved Isaac back toward his seat, causing his helmeted head to collide with the wooden rail.  Dazed briefly, Isaac gazed up at the sun, just peeking out beyond a slow-drifting cumulus cloud.  As the rays warmed him against the bitter wind, Isaac drew in a deep breath.  The handbook was right about one thing: there was nothing like the kiss of sunlight to brighten up a Sunday morning drive.