In the garage, a wine-red Raptor pickup was covered in dust, having apparently not been washed for a long time.
But with its domineering size, six meters in length, two meters in width and height, and thirty-five-inch tires, the pickup still exuded a sense of wildness.
The obvious modifications, such as the welded metal bars at the front and the wire mesh on the windows, added a wasteland style to the vehicle.
"The only issue is that it guzzles fuel quite a bit, but for now, we're not exactly short on gas..."
Jack sighed lightly as he examined the truck.
The virus outbreak had come so suddenly, so many dead, so few survivors. Although seven months had passed, gasoline was surprisingly easy to find throughout the city.
Fuel can go 'bad' over time, but that mostly just harms the engine; in a post-apocalyptic world, one can't afford to be so particular.
Homemade gasoline incendiary bombs had always been an effective weapon for them.
