"Alright, I'm an intelligent man," Alex said to himself as he surveyed the line of abandoned cars stretching into the distance. It was eerily calm- the cars seemed to be abandoned without exception. "Which of these is going to have useful supplies in it?" Hefting the hockey stick, he began a slow tiptoe through the wrecks. They seemed to have only been abandoned a few days, like the owners might return in an hour or two. But the broken glass and shell casings on the ground told a different story, as did the occasional brownish stain. 

He was hoping to find a gun, really. Alex's father had made sure to teach him how to shoot at a young age. But there really wasn't time to suss out each and every car, he didn't want to leave the two women more than a few minutes. Call it pragmatism, call it chivalry, call it wanting an audience. 

So which car might have a gun? No police cars in sight, this hadn't been an orderly evacuation. Maybe, he thought, I'll find a big ole pickup with a Confederate flag, a rack of rifles and a pistol in the glovebox. But no, that particular type of person was the type who would stay and defend their home, not get caught up in a panicked evacuation. 

There was too many cars. Alex shook his head. Not likely to find a gun here, and he wasn't going to get anywhere just off make or model. Might as well just crack one open at random and see what was available. Alex stopped at the nearest car. A minivan, a stylized soccer ball on the rear windshield. Soccer mom. He remembered him and his buddies being chauffeured back and forth from hockey practice as a kid. God, that must have been trying on the woman. Alex really hoped she was okay.

He reached out, tried the sliding door, found it unlocked. Well, something was going right today. He yanked open the door-

-the arms reached for him, and the teeth snapped at him. Alex took an involuntary step backwards. Before her throat was ripped out and her skin turned yellow, she had been attractive. Seven out of ten, maybe. Of course, death and undeath had ruined that. Not a MILF anymore, just another geek. Alex swallowed, clutched the stick, remembered what they had said on CNN as it climbed out of the van, groaning and snapping. Go for the head.

He timed his shoulder check just right, as the geek was setting one foot on the pavement. No balance. His shoulder rammed right into the thing's collarbone. No boards to catch it, just empty air. There was a certain satisfaction in watching the dead thing fly backwards, smash to the pavement, struggle to get up. It was slow and awkward. It needed time to regain its feet, and Alex wouldn't allow that. "Sorry, mama-san," he said as he brought down the stick like he was chopping wood, a huge over-the-shoulder blow. The skull split, like a cleaver had been taken to a melon. The groaning and snapping stopped, and the geek lay still. One down, ten million to go. 

No more wasting time. He looked inside the old minivan, musty with the smell of blood of death. Mamacita must have bled to death in here. Alex lit on the plastic Ralph's bag lying on the passenger seat and snatched it up. Two granola bars, a can of tuna, a half-empty bottle of water. And one unopened bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin. Well, better than nothing. Might as well git while the gittin' was good.

Snatching up the plastic bag and his newly blooded stick, he picked back down the slope to Las Pulgas Road and the Humvee. The thudding of his heart didn't let up as he saw the other vehicles that had joined the girls. Slow and easy, Alex. He raised up his stick over his head, slowed his step. "Don't shoot! I'm not one of them!" he called.

Somewhere, a car horn sounded.