This isn’t how Marcel envisioned seeing the West Coast for the first time. Palm trees passed by as the car zoomed through the highway, seagulls screeched, the sun kissed his face, the air was tinged with the smell of salt. Santa Cruz was nice.

It should have been exhilarating. It should have been exciting. Maybe Marcel could pretend this was just a glorified vacation. His best friend was driving, an old pop song was playing on the radio, it was sunny and warm.

And the roads were littered with stray walkers.

The outbreak first took the world by storm nearly three years ago. Society had collapsed in such a short time. It’s insane how quickly people turned on each other when given the chance. Stores were looted, laws became suggestions, and people just went insane.

Marcel had been living with his best friend at the time. They grabbed what they could and disappeared. They had lived in the city somewhere east — an awful place to be. Arsonists and thugs took advantage of the chaos and established their little territories.

Truthfully, he had no idea what had become of his family. Everything had happened so quickly. Deep down, he hoped they were alright.

Still, he knew better than to go looking for anyone. It was better to be a wanderer. Safer.

“Cali’s nice,” Marcel commented softly, trying hard not to think too much about it. His forehead was resting against the glass of the car. It was such a good thing they managed to find a working one with gas. An old Chevy Malibu. It chugged along just fine, getting them through what used to be a colorful and lively city. “Bit warm, though.”

The future was so unclear. The pair of them lived wild and free because any day could be their last. Traveling across the country had been hard, but they were alive. It helped that his best friend was so optimistic. They kept saying if they stayed alive long enough, a cure would be developed at some point.

It was hard to be grim when they were just so damn hopeful.