We've been travelling in the wrong direction for most of a day. The reason for our delay in heading toward our next stop, which we can afford since we left the Bunker much faster than anticipated, is that we got a call from Bill Friese of all people.
Bill is holed up in a rest area. He carries a satellite phone, and we were the nearest people he knew of when he got injured. He said a trio of zombies chased him into the rest area, and he broke his ankle kicking the door shut on their faces. He's safe, but in pain. He has the food and water he carries with him, so he won't starve or die of thirst if we get to him relatively soon.
We've got to be pretty close. All of the landmarks are exactly as Bill described them. From what we gather, we're not more than ten miles from his location. The problem may be getting to him. Since the last time we came through here, zombies have appeared. New breed zombies.
There aren't a ton of them, but enough to make this a tricky day for us. If the ones we've seen on the road are any indication, the rest area will be a pain in the ass to assault.
I'm not a fan of rest areas. Spending so much time on the road, I've been in many of them over the last year and a half. I've been trapped in one. They're damned convenient places to crash for a night, but zombies, even old-school stupid ones, seem to have some basic memory that they are places large numbers of people gather. It usually means trouble. I'm glad Bill was able to find a safe location. Just wish it wasn't a goddamn rest area. AGAIN.
I suppose we'll have to scope out the situation when we get there. We've got no definite plan of attack. I'm hoping Bill will be able to give us more information about the zombies surrounding the place when we get closer. I don't like flying blind.
Off to it, then.