We continue on the unfamiliar road. Chuck's rifle is still aimed at my head. My body is still covered with the zombie's blood. His eyes are locked on my missing leg. I clear my throat.
"Do you know where we are?" I ask. "I'm not familiar with this road and we need to get back on Highway-22 before we run out of gas."
"Are we low?" he asks.
"Yes, look," I tap on the gauge.
"How'd you lose your leg?" he asks.
"I was bit," I say. He backs away. "We amputated it before the virus spread. Now will you stop staring?" He lets go of the door handle.
"Sorry," he says, looking away.
"And can you put that gun down?"
He obeys, but mumbles something back. We're quiet for a few minutes. I can tell this road is new to him too, by the way his gray eyes are staring. I don't ask about it again.
"Stop!" he shouts.
Panicked, I obey. The brakes squeal. Ahead of us is a rusty bridge, old and rickety from what looks like the better half of a century of neglect. A sign half-eaten by a tree says 'Weight Limit 5 Tons.'
"How much does this truck weigh?" he asks.
"I don't know. We found it on the side of the road."
"How much is a ton?" he asks.
"Are you serious?" I ask.
Suddenly, we see them. A gang of zombies surround our vehicle with their hungry yellow eyes. The truck still shakes and spits out exhaust, waiting for me to make my move.
"How much ammo do you have?" I ask.
"None," the teenager answers.
"What?"
"That was my last bullet. My dad was afraid I'd waste them."
I take my foot off of the brake. I tiptoe the gas pedal. The truck inches forward. We hold our breaths. We hear the bridge cry as soon as our tires touch it.
The zombies watch us, knowing not to follow. One of the animated corpses turns away and stumbles in the opposite direction. The others join. I focus on the monsters to keep my mind off of the danger below. Then we hear it.
Several snaps come from the wooden boards under us. The back of the bridge dips first. Chuck opens the truck door and pulls me out of my seatbelt. Dangling on a bent piece of bridge, he holds us up as the truck comes tumbling down. It makes a mess in the shallow river below.
We both manage to wiggle our way up the ruined bits of bridge on the other side. We lay in the grassy gravel, looking at fluffy clouds above us. We breathe heavily and continue to sweat from our efforts. For a moment, we don't think about moving forward, we are just happy to be where we are.
He takes off his belt. It's made for someone much wider than him. He poked his own hole in it to make it fit. He uses the belt to strap me to his back. "Is this okay?" he asks. "I have no other choice. Am I too heavy?" I ask. "I have no other choice," he answers.