[The thick smell of drying earth filled his nose when Jake pushed open the truck door and slid down from the seat to standing. Dry earth and baked asphalt and heat, but all of that didn't do a lick to wipe away the memory of the stench of rotting flesh. His belly was doing an unpleasant kind of slow foxtrot with his lungs, cramped into knots and his fingers were curled tight into fists, white at the knuckles.
He looked along the road, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek at that shrug. Graham was untouched, looked fresh as a daisy, ready to deal with more folk that had gone and died and taken it into their heads to shuffle on over and bite. It was exactly the way you were supposed to be, and he, Jake, was sissying on the side of the road. Blood spilled copper over his tongue, he laved his lips with the tip.]
Stopped at a station a day back. [Which didn't mean nothing, he'd drove miles and miles trying to look down the lead, but Graham didn't need to know that. The truck's tank was big enough, Jake thought, that he'd be okay. His voice was all slow South, hesitant but steadier.]