Gas Veins

Updated on January 24, 2018

A Fresh Start

 The faded white background of a highway-side billboard reflects dully a blotted-out sun. Canvas clings to the whiteness in the wind, buffeted against the billboard. "Terra Farms: Giving Your Family The Best".

 Old cars fill the lanes of the four-wide super highway, rusting, collecting dust, verdigris, and sun spots. Dry and quiet, like the remains of a battlefield after the storm. Exactly as it happened.

 I come to this city from the woods several hours away. I bring a jerry can, a jimmy for door locks, sometimes a crowbar. I really don't enjoy it, after all. The cities are the worst of it.

 I used to get distracted. I would be at work and Jennifer from marketing would walk past the horizontal slatted window next to my door, then I'd get up and fix myself another coffee and just be in the same room as her. The funny thing about an apocalypse is, you find you put your best foot forward. Or you're going to end up like the bodies.

 The cities are full of bodies. Imagine all the people you heard live in cities. They're all dead. Rotting in there. In rooms, restaurants, in their cars. I have some pretty unpleasant stories involving cars.

 I finish making my coffee. "Oh, did you see Julia's cake? It's her birthday, you know." Julia is another that walks past the window. I feign interest. We chat more and more often. One day she's at my apartment in the city, naked under the sheets, asking about my life. I don't tell her about my two kids and wife just across the state line, but she senses that she shouldn't ask more.

 We all jerk off in our car somedays. Some times, the arousal takes hold and we can't stop ourselves wanting to do something wanton. I went to the garage and did just that.

© 2018 Connor Sperm


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