Safari - 02 by Keith C. Blackmore

the bay. He made another turn and proceeded slowly until he stopped alongside his old apartment, which was on the bottom floor of a two-story house. The building didn’t look any better than when he had lived there. Sky-blue paint colored the house, and a satiny green lined the trim. The front door going into his place was wide open, only kept in place by a small dune of snow. He could see directly inside so didn’t feel a need to enter. Pleasant memories formed in his mind, of apartment parties raging out of hand and cheap, all-night poker matches where the pots never got any higher than ten dollars. He even remembered a time when he’d held Tammy’s head up by her ponytail while she puked into a garbage can outside of the apartment.
    Gus’s attention centered on the nearby shed. The lock was busted. A snowmobile had been stowed there at one point in time, owned by Chris Russell, his landlord.
    Putting the truck in gear, he inched the truck ahead and turned it around until its rear faced the shed doors. Gus got out with his shotgun, looking down the street for any zombies, and went to the shed. He widened the crack of the doors and peeked into the gloom.
    The snow machine was still there.
    Gus wasn’t much for snowmobiles, as he had never been able to afford to maintain one. But things were different. In fact, a machine like the one before him was just what he needed. It was a Yamaha, a large red monster built for racing. A high fiberglass windshield provided protection for the driver, and saddle bags hung from a heavily padded backrest that gave support for an extra passenger. A set of red handlebar muffs were fastened to the handlebars, to keep the driver’s hands warm while steering the machine. He stood there for a moment, simply admiring the vehicle for what it was. A moment later he spotted two planks that would allow him to drive the machine right up into the rear of the truck, so transporting it back to the house wouldn’t be a problem.
    He liked the idea, but felt a moment’s disappointment when he couldn’t find the keys. Russell’s apartment was just above his own, and Gus remembered a key rack hanging just inside the doorway. Glancing around, he crossed the yard and climbed the steps to the second-story apartment. He hesitated at the closed door before trying the knob. The door opened with a tug and a frosty crack.
    Stepping into the entry area and kitchen of Russell’s place, Gus saw that no one had been living there for a long time. Hanging on a peg beside the stove was a set of keys. It was almost too good to be true. A smile spread across his face as he took the keys. Something bad was going to happen. Had to. The morning was going too well. He left the apartment and closed the door behind. Returning to the snowmobile, he inserted the key and pushed the electric start button. He hoped the motor would start. Battery longevity in all machines had been greatly improved up over the years, engineered to start under the most extreme conditions or after years of inactivity. Fuel quality had also been improved upon, and gas was laced with a chemical additive that maintained octane levels for extraordinarily long periods. Still, despite advancements in engine and fuel technology, some engines refused to start.
    Like a monster waking, it rumbled to life.
    With cold fingers, he threw the shed doors the rest of the way open and got the planks in place to drive the machine up into the bed of the pickup. He mounted the snowmobile, squeezed the throttle, and eased it up the makeshift ramp. A near-perfect fit.
    He got down from the back of the truck and stowed the planks beside the snowmobile. He took another glance inside the shed and spotted a gas container. He grabbed it and gave it a shake. Not much, but some gas sloshed, so he tossed it into the back of the truck with the snowmobile.
    Gus took one last look around, didn’t see anything else he needed, and walked back into the street. Daylight seemed to have