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I woke Keith up just as I turned off I-30 onto Talco road. It had been steadily drizzling rain for the last fifty miles, and he had insisted that I take the wheel, saying the rain made him sleepy. He snorted when I nudged him with my elbow, then stretched, dopey and barely awake, and glanced around at the passing scenery.

"Where are we?" he asked groggily.

"Mt. Pleasant," I answered, noticing a silver Hyundai Accent passing going in the opposite direction. It didn't slow and neither did I. I had noticed more and more survivors out and about since we crossed into Texas.... and I hadn't seen any of those things in just as long.

"How far into Texas is that?" Keith yawned. "Anywhere close to halfway?"

"Barely any distance. Help me find a gas station."

"Oh hell," Keith groaned. "Are we out?"

"Quarter of a tank. But it's startin' to get dark."

"Yeah, better fill it...." he started, then stopped mid sentence and pointed ahead. "Exxon, to the right. Power's on."

"Well that was quick. Guess I shouldn't have bothered wakin' you up," I said as I made a right turn into the station. Then, feeling like taunting him, I added: "Go back to sleep, sunshine."

"Don't call me 'sunshine,' gaymo," Keith deadpanned, which made me laugh out loud for the first time in entirely too long.

The station was the small, standard "food mart" that made up the majority of modern gas stations. There were four covered gas pumps in the front; one of the closer ones had a bright red late-model Dodge Ram parked at it. There were no other vehicles, nor any people, visible. Though the big "EXXON" sign was turned off, there were lights on in the shop itself.

"Pull in alongside that other truck," Keith said. "Since the grid's good here, we just need to get inside and switch the pumps on."

"Finally, no more hand pump," I said as I parked the truck, making no effort to hide my relief. Our hand pump was a great tool, but the stress of one person trying to extract fuel from a station's underground tanks - while the other defended him from the undead - could really get to a guy after a while.

"Yeah, there's that at least," Keith agreed. "Let's get this over with."

We moved quickly, exiting our pickup with our pistols in hand, as always. I cleared the Ram first, fingers tight against the rubberized grips of my .357 as I pointed it under the truck, then swung open the passenger's door and checked the interior. There was 12 gauge pump-action on the passenger's seat, which I grabbed and slipped into the cab of our own vehicle. You can never have too many shotguns.

"Is that pump on?" Keith asked, pointing to the assembly the Ram was parked at.

I walked around the truck and noticed the pump handle was still resting inside the vehicle's fuel filler neck. Jiggling the pump handle produced no results.

"No," I called back. "I wonder where the hell the driver went."

I looked back around to notice Keith had already started towards the door of the convenience store, constantly glancing right and left, with his pistol at the low ready position. I started to follow, not quite as vigilant. I was halfway there when I saw him try the door, which was obviously locked.

"Break the glass," I called out.

When Keith started checking around him, apparently taking that to mean "look around for something heavy to throw through a window," I fired three closely-placed shots from my revolver without breaking my stride, shattering the door's lower glass. No alarm sounded. Keith jumped at the shots, then looked at the door, then me, frowning.

"Nice going, J.C.," he grumbled. "Real nice."

"Hey, you said 'let's get this over with,'" I said defensively. "Quickest means to an end, and all that."

"Whatever," Keith shrugged as he ducked through the lower part of the door. "I'll find the switch for the pumps. Get us some fucking pretzels."

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