Zombie Short Story: The Road Trip - Part 1

     Jeb was sweating a bit as he loaded a box of preserves into his old Chevy truck.  Bushel baskets and wooden boxes filled with fresh cucumbers, pole beans, butter beans, onions, and even peaches made for a complete load.  It had been a lot for an old man to plant and a lot for him to harvest, but as he pushed the box of preserves across the bed of the truck he was proud.

A 1953 Chevrolet 3100 Pickup

     "Not bad for a retired farmer," he thought to himself.  But his thought was interrupted when the side door to the garage door jerked open and his wife stormed in.
     "Jebediah Ruben Simmons, you stubborn old mule," Myra Simmons said indignantly. "You need to listen to me!"
     "Woman," the old farmer replied. "I hear you."
     "You don't need to go into town.  You can stay right here on this farm."
     "Myra, if I don't go into town, people in town don't get to eat."
     "If you believe the news, you know the people in town are doing a pretty good job of eating each other."
     "You know that's just the worst video they can find.  There's good people in town, there's families,  there's refugees, and they need food."
     "Jeb," his wife said pointing at the classic Mustang sitting next to his truck.  "You know exactly what kind of people have come down here from Atlanta."
     "Darling, you know I can deal with any trouble that comes my way."
     "I don't know that and you don't know that.  You're too damn old for this stuff."
     "I'm going," Jeb replied.  "My grandfather told stories of using corncobs for toilet paper and I'm not fixing to start down that path.  We need stuff too."
     "It's too dangerous!"
     "It's not too dangerous," Jeb answered. "I'm only going up to Tifton!"
     "Good, then I'm coming with you!" Myra retorted before storming out.  Speechless, the old farmer knew he had been outmaneuvered.
     "Damn it," Jeb muttered as he pulled on his Bulldog cap.
     Next, he strapped on his revolver, hopped in his truck, took a deep breath, and hit the garage door opener.  The '53 Chevy started right up and he eased her slowly out of the garage.  Jeb remembered when his kids had "stolen" his old truck, fixed it up a bit, and had it painted.  The deep eggplant color still looked good.  It still had the original 216-cubic-inch straight six, but that was all Jeb needed.  The truck rejuvenation had been the best birthday gift ever and it meant a lot.  He hoped his daughter Betty and her kids were alright out there.
     As Myra came out looking as beautiful as ever.  She had a small cooler in one hand and carried her .30-30 Marlin in the other.  She opened the passenger door, slid the rifle into the gun rack, and slid up onto the bench seat.
     "What's for lunch," Jeb asked.
     "Two sandwiches, potato salad, two Coca-Colas, and two boxes of ammunition."
     "That sounds good to me."

[To hit the road with Jeb and Myra, read the next installment "The Road Trip - Part 2." If you'd like to read a previous Chronicle of Jeb, check out my short story "Something You Oughta Know."]