Resident Evil_ Extinction - Keith R. A. DeCandido [60]
Then she would look at the picture of Chris on the sun visor, and she kept on going.
As she passed by them—setting up cooking fires, stretching, what have you—every member of the convoy nodded to her. She wasn’t really sure how or when it had happened—she had been just another refugee that Carlos’s strike team had picked up—but as time went on, she became the group’s leader. She wasn’t really qualified—Carlos had more experience in that regard, but even he deferred to her after a while. L.J. had called it “natural-ass charisma,” which he mispronounced “ka-razz-muh,” and Claire figured that was as good an explanation as any.
She passed by the generator and waved to Kmart, who waved back with a screwdriver. The girl was puttering about on the thing, making sure everything was working right. When they had found her, she had kept herself alive by making use of the various pieces of survival equipment the store had in proper working order, and she had become a very skilled self-taught mechanic.
Next was the Enco tanker, where Chase MacAvoy stood on the tank roof, opening the hatch. As ever, Chase wore his cowboy hat; Claire was half convinced that the thing had become chemically bonded to his scalp.
Looking up at him, she said, “Permission to come aboard?”
Chase chuckled. “Permission granted.” He muttered, “Like you need it,” just loud enough for her to hear.
Claire grinned as she climbed the ladder to join him on the roof. It was important to her to maintain certain protocols and rituals. In many ways, it was all they had left.
“You check out the gas station yet?” she asked as she got to the top.
Pulling out a long measuring rod from the now-open hatch, Chase shook his head. “Bone dry.”
“How’s it look here?”
Wincing, Chase examined the tip of the rod. It had a smattering of fuel and a lot of rust flakes.
He looked up at her. “If you can run those trucks on rust, then we’re in great shape.”
“Fuck.” Claire also shook her head. “I’m starting to think we’re gonna need to drive down to Texas and dig for oil.”
Chase’s face actually went pale at that. “Let’s save that for last resorts, okay?”
“I was kidding, Chase,” Claire said, putting a hand on his shoulder. She didn’t know much about Chase’s past—they’d found him in Oklahoma—but she knew he was from somewhere in Texas originally. Obviously, something had happened to him there. “Anything you wanna talk about?”
“Not any time soon.” He put on a brave smile that was fake as all get-out and exaggerated his drawl. “I’ll be fine, little lady, don’t you worry none.”
She nodded and climbed back down the ladder. He needed therapy. They all did, but it looked like the zomboids got all the shrinks.
Over at the 8x8, Otto was doling out the evening meal: cans scavenged from all over, the labels having fallen off. With a smile and a wink, Otto would grab a can at random, shake it, and announce its contents with confidence. The fact that he was talking out of his ass was of less concern than the smiles he was able to elicit.
He had probably been a great teacher.
“Pork and beans,” he said to one customer, who walked. Then he grabbed another can, shook it, and handed it to Becky. “Peaches.”
Next up was Ida, a little girl of about eight. Otto shook another can and said solemnly, “Cat food.”
Ida’s face fell.
“Just kidding!” Otto said quickly. “Pork and beans.”
“Not peaches?” Ida asked, though her face had brightened.
“Maybe you can trade with Becky.”
Ida grabbed the can and ran toward Becky.
“Claire Redfield!” Otto said as she approached. He grabbed a can and weighed it first. “Soup.” Then he shook it. “Cream of mushroom.”
Rolling her eyes, Claire said, “Bullshit.” She grabbed the tab and pulled open the can.
Inside was cream of mushroom soup. She smelled it to be sure, and the wonderful fungal smell wafted to her nostrils.
“I’ll be damned. How’d you do that?”
Waggling his eyebrows, Otto said, “I have my skills.” Then he sighed. “Unfortunately,