It was exactly 3:09 pm, about 20 minutes since Dean raided the gas station. He came at a fork in the road whilst driving through the forest and turned left, eventually making it onto the freeway where he drove around 35 mph. He made sure to never go above 40 when it came to driving on the freeway, a rule he refused to break. [url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qSA6TWrk_mo]Music[/url] played from the truck's stereo, over time Dean collected a few CD's, some were mostly scratched, but only one or two were unable to function. The music calmed him and made him feel somewhat relaxed but to an extent, he couldn't help but feel tense no matter where he was. He lay his head back while watching the road, realizing he had been awake for what? 18 hours? Rest was important to Dean, his next priority would be to setup a safehouse he could stay at for the next few days, he had enough food to keep two people fed for a month if rationed. 2 weeks ago he had raided a supermarket, something he had only done twice before and only encountering 5 infected. When the thought came of where he would make his temporary home he preferred a cozy bed in the suburbs, the thought of it made him sleepy. He struggled to keep his eyes open for a moment. 

He drove on for about 10 minutes before seeing a figure in the distance, sitting on the freeway. His eyes widened and his heart jumped: he could see headlights. Dean came to a slow stop about 50 yards from a black hummer, it's engine was running and the driver door was open. He sat, observing the area around him before opening the glove box, pulling out a black bandana and pilots goggles. If someone was in the hummer, they were either injured, infected, or dead, wearing the bandana and goggles was only a precaution, but one Dean made sure to follow anytime he planned to make contact with the infected. He put on the goggles and bandana, tucking the bandana into his shirt before hopping out of the truck leaving his engine running. He reached in the back for his spear. Although he usually used them as projectiles, he had a particular spear crafted from oak and sharp to the tip along with a rope attached so he could hold it over his shoulder, he maintained it regularly, it was a fast, strong and efficient weapon, one he admired. 

Approaching the hummer slowly, a trail of blood could be seen from the drivers side leading to the front of the hummer, he couldn't see where it led as the vehicle obstructed his vision. He came up behind the vehicle and could hear a sound coming from the front, one he was all too familiar with. Dean walked slowly around the hummer in a defensive stance, his right hand gripping the top part of the spear and his left the bottom, along with a combat knife that had already been attached to his belt. To his dismay, he watched as an infected lay on its knees, eating away at a body. It was a weird feeling getting used to seeing something like this happen. After observing the creature he smacked the hood of the hummer with the bottom of the spear, immediately the creature turned, locking eyes, or, eye, with him. He had learned over the past year that after one of these creatures eats away at someone, they become enraged, faster and more bloodthirsty, but over time Dean developed a strategy for dealing with them in this state. 

He prepared himself as the infected sprinted towards him with it's arms out, he grunted before impaling it's chest with his spear, lodging it inside. Holding the spear inside the creature's chest with his left hand, he reached for his knife using the right, plunging the knife into the creatures skull before kicking it to the floor. The creature lay still as Dean walked up and impaled it once more with his spear. He fell to one knee, breathing heavily as he gripped the spear that remained in the body of the infected. He felt wide awake now and couldn't help but feel sick, which was strange. He had done this more than a hundred times. Than again, maybe that was it.

Standing up and pulling the spear from the creature, he walked over to the body. It appeared to be a middle aged man, bald, his clothes were ripped to pieces and covered in his own blood. Dean grimaced as he slung his spear over his shoulder and turned to inspect the hummer. A truckers hat lay bloodied on the drivers seat and a pair of glasses hung from the mirror. A wave of sadness overcame him as he noticed a small photograph of a girl lay on top of the bloody hat. He placed the photo in his pocket, and realized the window of the car was shattered along with a stain of blood. Country music played from the radio at a low, distorted volume. Opening the backseat, a green army bag lay on the seat. Dean pulled it out, set it on the floor and opened it, his eyes lit up behind the goggles, the bag contained a hunting rifle equipped with a scope, a 9mm, and about 2 boxes of ammunition for both weapons. Zipping the bag up, he carried it with him to the truck and placed it in the backseat, then removed the bandana and goggles, placing them back in the glove box and pulling out a glue stick and a composition book labeled "Dean Armstrong," 

He flipped through the book filled with his own writing and photo's of random people until reaching the most recent page. He pulled out the picture of the small girl from his pocket, and began to glue it into the page, when he noticed that his hands were covered in blood. This was certainly not the first time Dean had seen blood, especially on himself, but the sick feeling came back. He put the journal and glue to the side and placed his head on the steering wheel for a moment before falling out of the car to his knees and began to throw up. Standing up, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, reluctantly entered the truck, and began driving, slowly around the hummer and bodies. He felt tired, not because he hadn't slept, but because of the life he was now living. He drove onward to the suburbs of Chicago.