There, on the I-95 north, just west of the Lincoln Tunnel, the van sputtered to a stop and died—right smack in the middle of the highway. Fungus had clogged the fuel lines, or they’d run out of gas. Either way, they were fucked. “Bollocks,” Morland sighed, tossing his weapon onto his shoulder and moving to the back of the van to open the tailgate. Assuming their prior positions lugging the crate, the four of them took to the road, opting to head east through the Lincoln Tunnel, into the city. If all went well, they’d be able to walk through Hell’s Kitchen, cross the Queensboro Bridge and arrive at the Astoria Peninsula in about three and a half hours, but Miller was too realistic to hope for that. For one thing, they had no food. They’d filled their canteens with water at the cottage, but that wouldn’t last long and it was already dark. For another, if NYC Infected communes were living underground, they stood a real chance of running into one inside the tunnel. But with no other viable option, and being unable to radio for help—the batteries of their short-range radios were long dead, and besides, there was no help to be had—and having slim chances of finding another vehicle to boost, they trudged on: alert, exhausted, but steadily moving.
