Andrew crouched behind the cannibalized husk of what was once a Volvo 240 station wagon. One of many dead vehicles outside of Marty's Grocery, the old vehicle was left completely stripped. The hunk of metal framing was his one salvation, blocking unwanted view and concealing his presence from the shambling troupe of rotting corpses between him and a possible meal.
The dead wandered aimlessly, their uncoordinated steps scoffing against cracked asphalt. Their flesh was a deteriorated grey, their past ethnicity masked by time and rot. Soft gasps and groans escaped their forms.
"God, I hate these assholes. They weren't here earlier. Are you even sure there is any food left in there?" David whispered from Andrew's left flank. He was a tall man of Native American heritage. His salvation army jacket stretched to encompass his broad form, the butt of his pistol was made visible at the waist of his ragged blue jeans.
"We can only hope. Last time I was here I had left a few shelves untouched. Didn't have the room in my backpack." Andrew replied distantly, the lion share of his attention focused on the movements of shambling horde before them. "There are only six of them out front."
"And probably a fuck ton inside." David scoffed, arming himself with his pistol.
Andrew brandished his own firearm, it was a browning 9mm, a sweet piece that he was given on his 17th birthday by his father. It had saved his life more than a few times. Ejecting the clip, Andrew counted the bullets.
"I've got seven rounds left. You?" Andrew said, gently sliding the clip back into its housing.
"Only three. What do you want to do, Andy?"
Andrew gave the undead another glance before saying, " The back is already boarded up, so that's a no go.This is a tough sell. One of us can distract them while the other sneaks in. We'd meet back up with the others afterwards. Or, we can try and fight our way in. We use our guns only if things get too hot."
David took a moment to reflect on his options. "What do you think?"
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