All around him were boxes of ammunition, MRE’s, and jugs of water. There were stacks of canned goods as well, “contributions” from groups of survivors that Milo and his band had come across. Your life for a can of fruit cocktail. The only thing they didn’t have much of inside the Humvee was gas, and Doc could only assume it was because Milo didn’t want to breathe the fumes. Doc had seen all the red gas cans, stacked up in the bed of one of the other pickup trucks. But the smell in the Humvee had its own overwhelming flavor. It was obvious to Doc that none of the men in the truck had cleaned themselves within the last month, and that rotten-onion rank of body odor and sweat had nearly caused Doc to retch. The rain soaking through the rags of clothing they wore had made them all smell like wet dogs. He looked around for something that he might use as a weapon, but there was nothing. And then, with dawning self-loathing, he realized he wouldn’t fight them, even if he did have a weapon.
