The rain was ending, and I clearly saw four gloomy figures on the territory of the gas station. One of them was a woman in a long white dress. She stood with her head resting on the gas station. Three more were near the motorcycle lying on its side. I knew for sure that they were infected: they seemed to be sleeping standing up, and I didn’t want to wake them up at all. The head ached a little. The morning came out painfully saturated, fatigue made itself felt.
Anyway, if I go to the gas station, I have to deal with these four ghouls, and that was the last thing I wanted in the world. It was clear that sooner or later I would have to face the infected and have to kill them, but I so wanted to postpone this unpleasant moment for later. I started making up excuses for not going to the gas station and thinking about the best place to get gas. The arguments "against" were very logical, in my opinion. What if the gas station is closed? After all, the speakers are turned on from the control booth, in which the armored glass, the lattice on the window and the reliable door are clearly not made of cardboard. In addition, I had no idea how gas stations are generally arranged and work. My knowledge in this area was limited to inserting a gun into the tank hatch and paying for gasoline at the checkout. And the devil knows how many more infected there are,
After looking around and making sure that there was no threat, I settled in a chair more comfortably and began to think about what other safe ways there were to get hold of gasoline. It seemed the most obvious to drain it from other cars, but for this, at least, a hose was needed, which would not be a fact that would help, because modern cars, as far as I knew, had a mesh installed in the tank chute. Although I didn't know for sure. The next idea, much more viable, in my opinion, was the opening of garages in some garage cooperative. Theoretically, in garages, people could store gasoline even in barrels, and, by definition, there should not be many infected there. I already liked the idea! I remembered how I passed one garage cooperative on the western outskirts of the city.
Looking around, I saw a country road leading in the right direction. The road was empty, and only the lone Fred truck, which had driven into a ditch, with its doors wide open, was looking at me forlornly from the bushes, resembling a spaniel in its appearance. Starting the car, I directed it in the direction of the western outskirts of the city.
On the way, I met another infected. He trudged along the country road in the same direction as me. It was an ordinary village man, dressed in a vest, wide trousers and high rubber boots. “A kind of tractor driver,” I thought. The fact that he was "one of these" was clear from his gait, and the fact that the boot on his right leg was half gone, but this did not bother the peasant, and he continued to walk, dragging his leg. I pulled up to the left side of the road and stepped on the gas a little, hoping to quickly go around it. When the peasant was about twenty meters away, he heard me and turned around, leaning his head on his shoulder. Bloody saliva ran from his mouth. Without thinking twice, he stepped in my direction, mouth and eyes wide open. I braked sharply, and the zombie, not expecting this, fell right in front of the car to the ground. I gave gas and, moving it, drove on.
