Rotting to the Core (Keep Your Crowbar Handy Book 2) by S.P. Durnin Page A

for a
month readying their bodies and, after gathering what supplies they
could, set out for the rumored “safe zone” west of the Rocky
Mountains.
    The trip had turned out to be a bit
problematic.
    “Alright, I'll agree we're a bit more
cautious than this group, whoever they are, seem to be.” Jake
watched the road. “You do see my point though, right? While the
Mimi has that hydrogen drive system, which is quiet, the Hummer
sounds like a truck-sized tiger with laryngitis. I wish Rae had
added a damn muffler when she'd been modifying it.”
    “If wishes were fishes...” Kat shrugged.
    Jake glanced away from the road and frowned.
“That's very off-putting, you know. Laurel says the exact same
thing when I ask her to help reload magazines. It's irritating as
hell.”
    “Duh.” Kat stretched out, making herself more
comfortable and rested her chin on one palm. “Who do you think she
stole the phrase from?”
    “Is that some kind of woman thing?” he
asked.
    Cho laughed. “I'm telling Laurel you said
that.”
    “I'd appreciate it if you didn't.”
    Kat smiled brightly. “What'll ya give
me?”
    Before Jake could launch into his trademark
“This is neither the time nor the place” spiel, a truck barreled
around the far corner of the high school.
    “What. The exact. Fuck.” Kat was staring at
it in obvious disapproval.
    Said truck was atrocious. First of all, the
front fenders were two different colors: one primer gray, one
canary yellow, letting an observer know it'd had some recent body
work done. Then (as if that weren't bad enough), it had no outside
fenders under the tailgate, allowing anyone to see its mud-coated
undercarriage behind the oversized “mud-boggin'” tires. Its rims
were mismatched, obviously taken from at least two different
vehicles, there was a poorly-done rebel flag painted on top of its
hood, and a cooler strapped to the roof of the cab.
    And it was equipped with hydraulic
shocks.
    As Jake and Kat watched, the front of the
Chevy began bouncing up off the surface of the road, even though
the truck was only moving at a slow walk. To make matters worse,
the driver began honking the truck's horn in time with each
bounce.
    “You've got to be shitting me.” Kat's mouth
narrowed into a thin line. “That's the most ridiculous thing I've
ever seen, even before the whole zombie thing started. Who gives
their ride hydraulics and off-road tires? I swear, some
people.”
    Blinking and quickly shaking his head, in the
hopes the image of the crap-tastic truck wouldn't be stuck in his
brain forever, Jake didn't trust himself to give a suitably
intelligent reply. Anything he would've said just then would have
simply reinforced Kat's opinion.
    The truck ceased its jumping and, thankfully,
whoever was inside stopped honking the horn then rolled to a stop
perhaps fifty yards away. The driver's door opened and, to Jake's
surprise, a woman jumped down from the running board.
    Jake's mouth hung open.
    Though possessing abysmal taste in
automobiles, the woman was a site to behold and could only be
described as a knockout. She stood perhaps 5' 9”, with a mane of
curly, black hair that wafted slightly about her shoulders in the
weak morning breeze. Faded jeans rode low on her hips over a pair
of well-used hiking boots, and the brief tube top was more of an
accessory than an actual shirt. Jake could almost see her nipples
through it from where he lay beneath the pines.
    Questionable fashion choices aside, she did
wear a police-issue duty holster on one hip and, reaching back into
the truck, pulled out a Remington 700 bolt action rifle. If George
Foster had been there, he would have nodded in approval. The weapon
had what looked to be a twenty-four inch barrel, a basic no-frills
sling, and sported a Leupold FX 4x33 scope. George and O'Connor had
spoken many times during their Columbus seclusion about weaponry
and had professed affection for the weapon. It could push a
160-grain projectile downrange at