Personal Narrative Essay: Hanging On The Road

Drew was right. The place was immaculate. Carefully laid out yellow caution tape marked the road-like routes the various vehicles used while loading and unloading. Painted lines provided boundaries for the various crates and boxes while unloaded. The place was neat as a pin.
At the end of the bay, we found double doors leading into a work area and a small office. Hanging on a hook inside the office door was a set of keys with a tag reading Pump Keys.
I turned to the group and handed the keys to Drew, who was being closely shadowed by Amber. "Drew, why don 't you take your boys and check out the gas pumps. Maybe you can fill up the truck."
He nodded and the three filed back the way we had come. Amber followed behind, axe at the ready.

"Unless zombies are afraid of plastic, I don 't think so," I told him. "How 's the truck?"
"Fueled up and ready to go."
Dean scratched his head. "There 's no power? How did you get the pump to work?"
A grinned and answered, "During hurricane Katrina, the emergency workers in the disaster areas ran out of fuel. They were forced to use small generators to hotwire gas pumps at local filling stations. After our company found that out, we equipped ourselves with hand pumps. We didn 't have the funds for generators, so we went the cheaper route."
"Good thinking!" I replied. "The factory seems empty. The workers probably left when they heard the news. My guess is they went to be with their families."
We searched the darkened offices, this time for anything of use. Many of the drawers in the desks and file cabinets were locked. Once again, we found nothing of use.
The break room was probably the best find. It was somewhat dark, the light coming through the door being its only illumination, but it had some comforts. A candy and two pop machines were off to one side. Chairs, tables, and a few small couches filled the center. It seemed like a good place to plan our next