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thirst. Not to mention the fact that I was never too fond of cold weather, and the thought of winter all year round for the rest of my life, did not appeal to me, not one bit.
    Besides, going north in our boat would mean that we couldn’t just float down stream; we would be going up stream against the current all the way, using more gas than we could possibly carry.
    Not to mention we would never be able to pass through the locks on the Mississippi River just north of St. Louis. Our only option was to go down south to a warmer climate; somewhere that had a lot of wild game seemed to me to be a much better idea.
    Now that the apocalypse was no longer a matter of conjecture, and the zombie virus didn't seem to affect animals, even the feral dogs were just carriers, at least for the moment anyway. So with that said, hunting and eating animals seemed like a viable answer for a food source if scavenging for food in abandon houses was not possible for some reason.
    I hoped my hypothesis on this issue was correct, and that eating the meat of wild animals didn't cause us to catch or spread the disease, because at this time nobody knew how long the incubation period was for the dormant infection, and eating anything that you weren't absolutely sure of was risky to say the least.
    Fortunately, we had enough food in the beginning that we could contemplate this matter at a later time. Although if we were to hunt animals for food, we weren't about to eat a feral dog first to test the theory.
    We lived close to the Mississippi River, and very close to one of its tributaries. Because of this location, I had purchased a small boat to cruise the waterways with my two sons, do some fishing, and generally enjoy the warm summer days. The boat was only a fifteen-foot bow rider with a forty-eight Evinrude outboard motor, but it served the purpose for which I bought it.
    I had named the boat Morphadite, because at the time I thought it was funny, and I still do, even in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. However, I never thought I’d be taking a boat as small as the Morphadite on such a monumental journey, but it was all we had, so it would have to do.
    When Armageddon came, there was little time to formulate a plan, most people headed for their local stores and started grabbing things off the shelves, and it didn't matter what. Panic was wide spread and most of the gunshots we were hearing were coming from the direction of a strip mall in our neighborhood, and I didn't want any part of it.
    We would stick to our rough-and-ready plan, and stay away from the stores and shopping malls, at least until things died down a little.
    Our boat's gas tanks were five gallons each and portable, I would usually take them out, drive to the gas station to fill them, and then bring them back to the boat, and put them in again.
    They fit under the back seats of the boat on either side of the battery, which sat in the middle. A gas line ran from the fuel tank to the motor, and when one tank is empty, you simply disconnect the fuel line from the empty tank, and attach it to the full tank, and off you go again.
    "Grab the siphon pump and bring it over here."
    Jacob looked around the garage.
    "I don't see it, where is it?"
    "I think it's over there behind that tool box," I said, pointing to an old gray partially rusted toolbox in the corner.
    Sliding the toolbox over and spotting the small plastic pump, Jacob announced, "I got it!"
    Gin picked up the almost empty gas can we used to fill our lawnmower and asked. "Do you want this one too?"
    "Yes, we're going to need all the gas we can take with us!" I answered.
    "Well this one doesn't have very much gas in it!" she said,
    "That's the next problem we’ll have to solve!" I said.
    "How are we going to do that?" she asked.
    "We're going to have to go outside and siphon some of the gasoline out of the van," I answered solemnly, thinking that taking a chance filling a gas can while standing around outside in the midst of a