We are finally out of fuel just outside of Pontiac, Illinois. Henry, Maria, Bobby, and I have been practically starved to death this week, only finding the occasional stash of food inside of an abandoned car. Three times Henry had to shoot down runners that found us while we were searching for food. It took seven of his shells to lay all of the zombies to rest, pushing his total down to eleven shells. It turns out that Henry's truck didn't have as much gas in it as we thought it did. Now we have no choice but to see if there's anything worth foraging from local stores, unfortunately. Luckily for us Henry had a map in his small truck that showed that Pontiac is in the middle of Macon and Chicago. We have been following Route 66 and I-55 since we escaped our infested hometown. As I breathed in the crispy air of rural Illinois, I realized that there were houses on W North Street just off of Route 66. We could scavenge them for fuel, food, and water and be out of that ghost town, but I was scared because the last time that I saw a town it went up in flames with zombies streaming out of it. I thought that the government or some other country would swoop in and lend American citizens a hand, but now I wasn't so sure. I shivered at the high winds that were likely banking off of Lake Michigan and sucked up the cool air and spoke up to my fellow survivors. "You want to check out some of these houses?" I asked. Bobby nodded gravely, holding Maria close, so I took the lead, followed by Henry who was navigating the streets based off of his ancient map. Bobby and Maria brought up the rear, looking even more terrified then they should have been. Fortunately we didn't pass any rotting corpses of the sort or other types of things that you saw in zombie movies. Something behind me caught my eye and I saw a runner charging towards Bobby. I yelled for Henry to shoot but he had a delayed reaction and the runner tackled Bobby, sending both of them sprawling on the cracked asphalt. The runner was a frenzied, bloody old man with a green scarf and no shoes. He also sported a now non-groomed goatee. The runner took two bites out of Bobby, one on his neck and another on his forearm, before Henry blasted a solid 12-guage slug out of his shotgun. The sound echoed off of the walls of the houses. The runner slowly began to relax and finally stopped moving. Maria started screaming at us and no one in particular, spit flying out of her mouth and cursing everything around her, damning the zombie to hell, saying goddamn government, and other things that you cannot say on television, at least, not anymore. I felt a tear drop out of my eye, staring at Bobby. He looked like he would die from blood loss and eventually he stopped breathing. Henry looked sad because he didn't react quickly enough. I volunteered to look through one of the houses to find something that would help Bobby even though I knew that he was done for because we didn't have any modern technology or doctors. Worst of all, we barely had any ammo left and night was certain to fall soon, and I had a feeling that would all be done for. I didn't know too much about Bobby, but I knew that he was loyal and a good husband to his wife Maria. He also was a good customer as well but I hated that that was the only things that I would remember him by. I wanted to remember him as a good father to his son or daughter, but he never had the chance to have one.