Personal Narrative: A Walk On The Road

As promised, everyone, or almost everyone was in their cars and ready by eight. We slowly made our way back to the freeway, one car at a time. Everyone had to be in formation before the convoy could move, which added to the time it was already taking us before we even started gaining any ground.
The more we traveled down the highway the more people we began to see, all in exodus from the West. Most were hopeless travelers, often the most valuable thing they carried with them was their lives. They weren’t afforded the comforts of even our sad convoy. Their eyes boggled as we passed, our trailers loaded with gas and food, yet we were driving into the fight.
With every city we passed by we could see the buildings become more and more run down.
There was evidence of mass riots and looting. Of course, all of that was well over, those that remained were holed up or walking East. Those who didn’t survive often lined the streets, hands gripping the air where a gun had once been held, but now was stolen too. The bodies always told different stories, left for our imaginations as we drove past. But after a while the dead would just blend in with the scenery, they would simply become just things to look at out the window on the road trip, like trees or shredded tires.
Finally the radio came to life, “Attention, everyone pull off at the next exit in one mile. Same drill as yesterday, we will hit the road at eight tomorrow morning. Welcome to Iowa.” The last bit seemed almost bored, but who could blame them, it was a ten hour drive, and it was Iowa.
We got off the road to see the lead cars pulling into a big open field. It stretched so far and wide that our convoy looked tiny in comparison. In the center was an old oak tree, which appeared as though it could cover over half of us in shade. Its branches went up and split off forever, its millions of leaves were just barely turning orange. Our convoy centered around it, making one large ring to form a