"This is so stupid," Aaron van Zandt said to himself as he pedaled past the mint-green, bullet-pocked sign reading "Welcome to Tacoma." He glanced down, reassured that the Smith and Wesson Model 686 was still holstered on his side. Like six rounds would make all the difference. "This is such a stupid idea," he repeated, feeling the acoustic guitar in the hard-shelled case thump with each revolution of the old Schwinn's grating chain. A revolver, a bike, and a guitar- his net worth right now. He missed having an actual motor vehicle, but he had been forced out of his old Toyota Tundra at gunpoint down in Sacramento, the pickup pressed into service for the Safe Haven there. At least the bicycle was quiet, didn't need fuel or batteries, increasingly hard to find these days.<br/><br/>Pedaling through the outskirts, he kept out a wary eye. If it came down to fight or flight, he'd take flight any day. His wiry, malnourished frame wasn't much good for a prolonged battle. Aaron figured he was a few meals and a few night's sleep shy of being much use in a fight. But he couldn't stop now. He was on a mission.<br/><br/>Aaron ran through the names in his mind. Adam Huntley, bass. Waldemar Kopacz, keyboards. And, of course, Stevie Sutton, the face of the band. Lead guitar, lead vocals. Aaron smiled just thinking of her, Stevie's vivacious energy, the glue that held them all together. If anyone survived, Stevie did.<br/><br/>Poor Tim.<br/><br/>The buildings were getting a little more close-set now, Aaron realized as he kept peddling along this county road, disused even before everything went to hell. More likely to see the dead. Or people. Christ, he didn't want to run into a Shrieker again, like he did back in Des Moines. Barely got out of that one.<br/><br/>His plan was simple, the same old thing he had done in dozens of towns, all across the country. Avoid the dead. Seek out the living. If they were friendly, ask about the band. The Severance Package, the only thing that had meant anything to him. Ask if anyone knew about Stevie, or Adam, or Waldemar. They were celebrities, maybe someone at least heard a rumor. If not, as had happened so often in the last two years, play a few songs on the guitar in trade for a few scraps of food, maybe a couple bullets or some other supplies. And then ride off.<br/><br/>It was simple, but it had worked once, eight months ago. It had led him to where Tim had been buried after being crushed under the weight of a Hulk outside El Reno, Oklahoma. He had paid his respects, moved on. Still three more names to find. Still a mission.<br/><br/>And so the man with the guitar continued through the suburbs into the city, hoping to find answers.