Three days ago, Christopher had pointed his truck towards the inside of the United States and driven it until it stopped, which was here. He had no idea how far he had gotten nor had he noted the state markers as he passed them. His location didn’t matter; his would be an unmarked grave wherever his body fell. He left the keys in the ignition and removed the shotgun from the back rack.
His ambling route had taken him through many of the towns that had been abandoned over the last few decades. Every year cities were being reclassified by the census bureau to “Uninhabited.” Living cities were being stretched to capacity with hoards of people fleeing their homes without giving much in the way of explanation.
Strangely, Christopher’s hometown was still a living city in which he could no longer live.
He refueled enough times to be truly lost – only purchasing gas if there was a working station nearby when the truck ran out. Coughing its last gasp of fuel here, the truck came to a standstill. There was no working anything, only carapaces of beautiful homes, some with their front doors standing wide open. In the middle of the eerily quiet residential street, Christopher reviewed the neighborhood and selected a house that vaguely resembled the county library from his hometown. He went in, leaving the doors open in the hope that his blood would attract a few of the animals.
