Chapter 32 – Running on Fumes
Clear gasoline flowed up through the pump, splashing into the fuel can with a crisp, satisfying sound.
But the process was brutally taxing—especially after the nonstop fighting and high-speed bursts he'd already pushed through today.
Hanks' arms and shoulders throbbed with deep, dull pain.
Sweat beaded across his forehead and rolled down his temples.
Still, his pumping rhythm never faltered.
His ears were tuned like radar dishes, hunting for the slightest anomaly.
The first fuel can filled quickly.
He swapped in a second.
Kept pumping.
The second can filled as well, gasoline fumes thickening in the air.
He changed out for a third can—
and his muscles screamed in protest.
His breathing grew heavier, rougher.
"Officer! LEFT SIDE!"
Glenn's terrified shout cut through the street from across the road.
Hanks snapped his head up.
Through sweat-blurred vision, he saw them—
two walkers staggering from the carwash corner, having slipped around the abandoned vehicles.
Fifteen meters away.
Locked onto him.
Snarling.
Picking up speed.
Hanks' body was drained; his senses dulled.
He could barely rely on instinct alone.
And worse—
the walkers he had previously lured away with the metal can noise were losing interest.
A few were already drifting back toward the station…
And some had spotted him pumping fuel.
A deadly pincer formation was taking shape.
"Shit."
Hanks hissed under his breath.
His right hand moved to his P226—
But he didn't fire.
This was a gas station.
Open fuel tank.
Gas fumes everywhere.
One stray spark—
No firearms.
His eyes darted, assessing, calculating—
Then he saw it.
The bent, battered Phillips screwdriver at his feet.
No hesitation.
The moment the first walker lunged—
Hanks slid sharply to the right, narrowly dodging its rotting claws.
In the same fluid motion he scooped the screwdriver off the ground.
His body twisted, muscles tight as springs.
Using the momentum from his evasive slide, he channeled every last ounce of strength—
And hurled the screwdriver straight at the second walker's skull.
It flew like a thrown dagger.
A blur of metal spinning toward death.
WHOOSH—THWACK!
The screwdriver flew like a deadly shard of ice—
and buried itself cleanly into the second walker's eye socket.
The impact snapped its head back.
The corpse toppled violently onto the pavement.
Almost in the same heartbeat—
Hanks' pistol was already pressed beneath the chin of the first walker as it spun to attack again.
BANG!
The bullet tore upward through the jaw, blasting out the crown of its skull in a spray of black blood and rotten brain matter.
The walker collapsed instantly.
Clean.
Precise.
Instant kill.
But the gunshot…
was a hornet's nest kicked open.
More walkers shrieked and turned toward him, drawn from the station forecourt, the convenience store, even from the distant street.
"GLENN!"
Hanks shouted while retreating toward cover.
"The radio! Call Kenny—NOW!"
He could no longer afford to save ammo.
BANG! BANG!
Two more quick shots—
Two more walkers dropped.
A tiny pocket of space opened before him.
He sprinted back to the pump, yanked the hose from the third fuel can, and jammed it into a fourth.
He pumped furiously, forcing every last drop into the can before everything was lost.
"KENNY! KENNY, DO YOU COPY!?
This is Glenn—GET TO THE GAS STATION NOW! WE NEED EXTRACTION!"
Glenn's terrified voice echoed through the radio, thick with panic.
He barely finished the call before a walker lunged at him—
He swung the bat with practiced fear, cracking its jaw sideways.
His shout had given away his location.
Scattered walkers were closing in on him.
Hanks continued pumping with one arm while firing with the other.
BANG!
A walker rounding the pump island exploded backward, skull rupturing.
BANG!
A shot blew out the knee of another rushing from the convenience store, dropping it hard and buying precious seconds.
His aim remained deadly—
but his firing rate slowed,
his arm trembled,
his vision blurred with sweat.
The fuel in the fourth can crept higher…
But the walkers…
kept coming.
They spilled from every direction, their snarls forming a crushing semicircle around him.
The nearest were less than twenty meters away.
Hanks' back pressed against a rusted sedan door.
His lungs heaved like bellows.
His P226 burned hot in his hand—
and the magazine was down to its last few rounds.
Then—
VROOOOM—VROOOOOM!!!
A savage, familiar roar ripped through the air.
Kenny's freshly repaired pickup truck tore around the street corner like a rampaging beast.
Lee leaned out the passenger window, Glock in hand.
BANG BANG BANG!!!
A sloppy burst of gunfire—
but effective.
Three walkers in front of Hanks were torn open, collapsing in bloody heaps.
"GET IN!"
Kenny's shout boomed over the screaming engine as he racked a shotgun to add suppressive fire.
The truck drifted violently, tires screeching,
and slid sideways to a stop right beside Hanks.
Hanks didn't hesitate.
He summoned the last scrap of strength in his battered body—
Grabbed all ten filled fuel cans—
and heaved them into the truck bed one after another.
"GO!
We need to pick up Glenn from the back lot!"
Hanks barked, leaning out of the truck to fire downrange.
BANG! BANG!
Two more walkers dropped.
"HOLD ON!"
Kenny stomped the gas.
The pickup launched forward like an enraged bull, smashing through two walkers in its path and tearing across the street.
Glenn was already at the rendezvous point—
dragging the final two fuel cans and their backpacks, face pale and drenched in sweat.
Hanks leapt out, grabbed the supplies with him, and they both flung everything into the truck bed chaotically.
"GET IN!"
Hanks shoved Glenn up into the cab and vaulted in after him.
"DRIVE!"
Kenny spun the wheel and floored the accelerator.
The pickup roared, belching black smoke as it slammed through scattered walkers, speeding back toward the motel.
Behind them—
the gas station, the horde, the screams—
faded into the distance.
But not everyone was blind to their escape.
Far behind, atop a wrecked vehicle—
A tattooed, broad-shouldered man lowered his binoculars, eyes narrowing.
"That direction…
That's the motel, isn't it?"
"Yes, boss," said a wiry young man with a nose ring, grinning vilely.
"Heh… that's where we dragged those two sisters out. Their old man was tough as hell—I had to hit his skull like five times to crack it."
His grin twisted into madness.
"We found a fire axe in that wrecked car.
And I saw the same one at the motel.
It's gotta be them who killed our guys!"
The tattooed man lifted the binoculars again.
"Send someone to tail them.
I want to see what tricks they think they can pull."
"Yes, boss."