try it out.”
* * *
As the morning light filtered in, I unhooked the battery and grabbed a tool. From the office, I peered out the window to make sure the coast was clear. It was. Carefully, I walked to the RV and reconnected the battery. If this failed, the idea of trudging on foot another day made me feel so weary I couldn’t move. I looked at Rosa, nodding for her to try the key. Though she didn’t drive, she understood. She sat in the driver’s seat and turned the ignition.
Somehow, the engine started. I rushed over and checked the fuel gauge: less than a quarter tank. A lot less. That was going to be a problem. We’d need to make finding fuel a priority, on top of finding food. We let the engine run, wasting gas but further charging the battery. Using the canister and hose, we checked all the other vehicles we could find on the lot and came up with another gallon and a half of gas, which we poured straight into the RV’s tank. Then it was time to check out the rest of the RV’s interior. What a lucky break. It was totally tricked out. Here we were in the ruins of civilization, and we would be driving an RV with leather seats, a refrigerator, stove, bed, even a bathroom. And it was clean. That was a relief after days of living in conditions that life behind the wall had taught us to fear. We didn’t talk about it, but I’m sure Rosa was as afraid as I was that we might be exposing ourselves to the disease. The RV was tidy, and a place we could reasonably keep clean by ourselves.
* * *
Rosa was interested in learning how to drive. I found that I reacquainted myself with driving pretty quickly, and so I taught her. It was easy, since the car was an automatic. And it didn’t hurt that there was a complete lack of other cars on the road. We had to navigate around potholes, frequent pileups, and abandoned cars, but that mostly just broke up the boredom of the drive. The freedom and exhilaration of driving was just about the most fun thing we had done in years.
All of the gas stations we checked were bone dry, so when we stopped to scavenge for food, we also looked for smaller stashes of gas. Given the state of the world, the desperate, aborted migrations that followed the disease, there were a lot of junked cars with spare gas cans in the trunk. We hoarded these and were able to fill up the tank. The small RV got decent gas mileage — about 24 miles per gallon — but even still, with 500 miles or so to go, we’d need more than 20 gallons. And that was assuming our destination was where we thought it was.
While scavenging, we also topped off the RV’s water tank and loaded up the refrigerator and cabinets with anything remotely edible that we could find. We checked stores and houses near the RV dealership and off the next few exits along 95. With water and food, and a brand-new moving shelter loaded with a full tank of gas, we felt great.
Before we hit the road in earnest, I decided to try out the toilet, but wanted to be sure it worked first. The toilet fed into a tank labeled Black Water. I found out, much to my dismay, that it was already partially full. We decided the rest of the world wouldn’t mind too much if we simply let the toilet drain out onto the road.
After all, we’d been doing our business outside since we began the trip. We doubted anyone would mind too much.
* * *
Having spent most of the day searching for supplies to fill the RV, we made little progress on the road, and the tension of the previous night made us tired early. As dusk settled in, we found a place to stop, on an overpass where we could see every approaching direction fairly well. We decided to get some sleep. Rosa went to the back while I locked up the RV and shut down the engine. I turned to go back to where the bed was located... and stopped. In the fading light, I saw Rosa slip out of her worn shirt and pants, standing in her underwear, her lean, olive-toned body reflecting
* * *
As the morning light filtered in, I unhooked the battery and grabbed a tool. From the office, I peered out the window to make sure the coast was clear. It was. Carefully, I walked to the RV and reconnected the battery. If this failed, the idea of trudging on foot another day made me feel so weary I couldn’t move. I looked at Rosa, nodding for her to try the key. Though she didn’t drive, she understood. She sat in the driver’s seat and turned the ignition.
Somehow, the engine started. I rushed over and checked the fuel gauge: less than a quarter tank. A lot less. That was going to be a problem. We’d need to make finding fuel a priority, on top of finding food. We let the engine run, wasting gas but further charging the battery. Using the canister and hose, we checked all the other vehicles we could find on the lot and came up with another gallon and a half of gas, which we poured straight into the RV’s tank. Then it was time to check out the rest of the RV’s interior. What a lucky break. It was totally tricked out. Here we were in the ruins of civilization, and we would be driving an RV with leather seats, a refrigerator, stove, bed, even a bathroom. And it was clean. That was a relief after days of living in conditions that life behind the wall had taught us to fear. We didn’t talk about it, but I’m sure Rosa was as afraid as I was that we might be exposing ourselves to the disease. The RV was tidy, and a place we could reasonably keep clean by ourselves.
* * *
Rosa was interested in learning how to drive. I found that I reacquainted myself with driving pretty quickly, and so I taught her. It was easy, since the car was an automatic. And it didn’t hurt that there was a complete lack of other cars on the road. We had to navigate around potholes, frequent pileups, and abandoned cars, but that mostly just broke up the boredom of the drive. The freedom and exhilaration of driving was just about the most fun thing we had done in years.
All of the gas stations we checked were bone dry, so when we stopped to scavenge for food, we also looked for smaller stashes of gas. Given the state of the world, the desperate, aborted migrations that followed the disease, there were a lot of junked cars with spare gas cans in the trunk. We hoarded these and were able to fill up the tank. The small RV got decent gas mileage — about 24 miles per gallon — but even still, with 500 miles or so to go, we’d need more than 20 gallons. And that was assuming our destination was where we thought it was.
While scavenging, we also topped off the RV’s water tank and loaded up the refrigerator and cabinets with anything remotely edible that we could find. We checked stores and houses near the RV dealership and off the next few exits along 95. With water and food, and a brand-new moving shelter loaded with a full tank of gas, we felt great.
Before we hit the road in earnest, I decided to try out the toilet, but wanted to be sure it worked first. The toilet fed into a tank labeled Black Water. I found out, much to my dismay, that it was already partially full. We decided the rest of the world wouldn’t mind too much if we simply let the toilet drain out onto the road.
After all, we’d been doing our business outside since we began the trip. We doubted anyone would mind too much.
* * *
Having spent most of the day searching for supplies to fill the RV, we made little progress on the road, and the tension of the previous night made us tired early. As dusk settled in, we found a place to stop, on an overpass where we could see every approaching direction fairly well. We decided to get some sleep. Rosa went to the back while I locked up the RV and shut down the engine. I turned to go back to where the bed was located... and stopped. In the fading light, I saw Rosa slip out of her worn shirt and pants, standing in her underwear, her lean, olive-toned body reflecting
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