Amie scowled, flipping her notebook shut with a quiet "whap" and glancing through the filthy back window at her driver. She wanted to bang on the roof and yell at him, but it wasn't his fault, sort of. You wouldn't think there would be so many bumps on a paved road, but then again you wouldn't expect to see a lot of the wreckage cluttering every corner of what used to be a thriving city. She glanced at Hopper, who was attempting to solve a Rubik's Cube. His hands were nearly a blur as he twisted and rotated every side of it as fast as possible, eyes glazed over as he worked out patterns. He was trying to boost his thinking and reflexes by getting skilled with a proper brainteaser, but so far his "record" was a little under 15 minutes, and honestly it looked mostly like guesswork and luck. At least it kept him occupied. It was certainly a better use of time in a truck ride than writing a journal entry.
The truck was a green 2001 Chevy Silverado that looked like it had been put in a blender for a few minutes. Paint had been scraped off the front and sides, revealing bare metal. One end of the front bumper was taped to the truck. The only functioning electrical equipment were the radio, tail lights, and one headlight. Even the chassis and suspension were in poor shape, slowly succumbing to rust, though it hadn't kept Beagle from cruising at 25 mph. Still, the Silverado featured a V6 engine and AWD, so it was nothing to complain about. It had enough cab space for a driver and passenger, along with room between them for all of their packs (though Amie kept her medic bag and journal on her person at all times), along with a fold-out canopy, a fire starter on a lanyard, and a handful of other gear.
It had a few stocked weapons as well; a .45 Colt 1911 (two magazines included), a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver (plus a 50-count box of ammunition from a gun safe), and a 30-cal M1 Carbine, used primarily for guard duty and hunting if the opportunity arose. Including Gauge's shotgun, they had just enough ammunition for four, unless Amie was along for the ride; she absolutely refused to carry a firearm. Gauge already had a weapon of choice, and Hopper had the Carbine, so Beagle got to carry both handguns. He glanced at his passenger, who nodded and rolled the window down. He half-climbed out of the truck and turned to face the rest of his team.
"We're coming up on A5," he yelled over the howling wind. "Seen anything so far?"
The duo shook their heads in unison.
"Nothing yet, Gauge, but we're keeping an eye out," Amie called back, brushing the hair out of her face and squinting. She cracked a smile.
"You do that, Crosses" Gauge responded, sliding back into the cab and rolling the window back up. Amie sighed and tried to find a comfortable sitting position (not an easy task with Beagle's proficiency in finding potholes). She thought for a minute about getting the journal out and trying again, but she almost snapped her pencil point the first time around, and she didn't want to sharpen it with a scalpel.
Blood. It was everywhere. Her clothes, her boots, her hands. The medic bag was a mess. Everything was a mess. Her hand trembled as she stared at the body in front of her. There was no other way. She was the only one who could do it. But there was no time to sterilize the wound or stop the bleeding. There would be more blood. With teeth gritted and tear streaming down her face, she reached for the scalpel.
"Crosses?"
Amie jumped as Hopper tapped her shoulder.
"You okay? You went pale and just started staring off into nowhere."
She nodded slowly. He offered her a hand and pulled her to her feet. Amie shook her head and stepped off the stuck, now parked against a crumbling sidewalk. They had arrived at A5.
