entrances. I kick the shards away from the perimeter before climbing inside.
I fire up the gas stove (so there’s gas but no electricity) and cook myself some eggs, while boiling water to accommodate the jar of instant coffee I find in one of the cabinets. I get Sunday’s newspaper from the rack by the hostess stand; take a seat at the counter. The coffee is scalding. I burn my tongue. The eggs are a bit runny. The caffeine helps curb my appetite.
I glance at the paper, but I’m not really reading. Just looking at the pictures and thinking: could this be global? Some sort of epidemic that I, as well as a few others, am fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to have immunity to?
The eggs make me sick.
I stand, dumping the remainder of my coffee on my breakfast before throwing the plate against the wall, telling everyone and no one at all that this place always had shitty service.
There’s cheap champagne in the walk-in cooler. I take two bottles to go.
I heave a cinderblock through the window at the Gas-N-Go next door. The alarm sounds. With it blasting in my ears, it’s harder to concentrate on firing up the computer systems to turn on the pumps, but I’ve been under worse pressure. Before gassing up, I take as much soda and chips and candy as I can carry.
Roderick’s phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out.
The counter has reached zero.
The gas tank tops off. I remove the nozzle.
I stand.
And wait.
The sky smells like rain.
I can make out of the sound of thunder quickly descending upon this place.
I step away from the car and into the street, squinting into the darkening horizon, the last of the daylight being chased away.
And I hear it. Clear as day. Not thunder.
Helicopters.
The ground shakes beneath my feet, stones and pebbles coming to life around me.
Okay. Maybe not helicopters.
Fire bursts from the sewer in the street like a caged and captured monster with plans to devour its pathetic captors after discovering newfound freedom. I stumble back, almost pissed at myself for still being surprised when something as outrageous as this happens today.
A pterodactyl could come crashing out of the sky tonight, scoop me up, and feed me to its hideous, slimy, pterodactyl babies and I’d only be able to argue, “Sure, pterodactyls, this makes perfect sense.”
Then the Yankee Kitchen explodes followed by the bank across the street.
I cut myself some slack and decide it’s okay to be surprised by this.
9
A PERFECTLY GOOD PLACE TO STOP FOREVER AND DIE
Driving away from explosions at seventy miles per hour is not as easy as Hollywood makes it look.
And if you’re asking, driving away from explosions at seventy miles per hour in a Lamborghini is about as deadly as having remained at that gas station while every building around me exploded into a brilliant display of orange and red and yellow shrapnel.
I cannot control the thing. It’s a miracle I’m not yet burning alive in a pile of twisted metal.
I steal glances in the rearview mirror. The sun is crashing into the earth behind me.
Mom.
Dad.
Valerie.
Eddy.
I dodge a dead giraffe and fishtail.
The entrance to the freeway is less than a mile ahead.
I can barely handle the wheel with the sweat on my palms.
A fireball of flaming brick and mortar lands in front of me.
I press down on the gas and scrape by, destroying the driver’s side of Mr. Waterman’s car. I see the entrance ramp and remember it curves around to the right. I’m too late to do anything about it, and I enter the freeway rolling instead of driving.
The 76 West is nearly abandoned. A Semi is overturned, and I can see an accident up ahead. Small fires have broken out from the wreckage that was once my hometown. Behind me, the horizon shines so bright I can still feel the heat from here as I walk—stumble—to the Honda sitting on the side of the road with its driver’s side door open, the driver just a few feet away
I fire up the gas stove (so there’s gas but no electricity) and cook myself some eggs, while boiling water to accommodate the jar of instant coffee I find in one of the cabinets. I get Sunday’s newspaper from the rack by the hostess stand; take a seat at the counter. The coffee is scalding. I burn my tongue. The eggs are a bit runny. The caffeine helps curb my appetite.
I glance at the paper, but I’m not really reading. Just looking at the pictures and thinking: could this be global? Some sort of epidemic that I, as well as a few others, am fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to have immunity to?
The eggs make me sick.
I stand, dumping the remainder of my coffee on my breakfast before throwing the plate against the wall, telling everyone and no one at all that this place always had shitty service.
There’s cheap champagne in the walk-in cooler. I take two bottles to go.
I heave a cinderblock through the window at the Gas-N-Go next door. The alarm sounds. With it blasting in my ears, it’s harder to concentrate on firing up the computer systems to turn on the pumps, but I’ve been under worse pressure. Before gassing up, I take as much soda and chips and candy as I can carry.
Roderick’s phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out.
The counter has reached zero.
The gas tank tops off. I remove the nozzle.
I stand.
And wait.
The sky smells like rain.
I can make out of the sound of thunder quickly descending upon this place.
I step away from the car and into the street, squinting into the darkening horizon, the last of the daylight being chased away.
And I hear it. Clear as day. Not thunder.
Helicopters.
The ground shakes beneath my feet, stones and pebbles coming to life around me.
Okay. Maybe not helicopters.
Fire bursts from the sewer in the street like a caged and captured monster with plans to devour its pathetic captors after discovering newfound freedom. I stumble back, almost pissed at myself for still being surprised when something as outrageous as this happens today.
A pterodactyl could come crashing out of the sky tonight, scoop me up, and feed me to its hideous, slimy, pterodactyl babies and I’d only be able to argue, “Sure, pterodactyls, this makes perfect sense.”
Then the Yankee Kitchen explodes followed by the bank across the street.
I cut myself some slack and decide it’s okay to be surprised by this.
9
A PERFECTLY GOOD PLACE TO STOP FOREVER AND DIE
Driving away from explosions at seventy miles per hour is not as easy as Hollywood makes it look.
And if you’re asking, driving away from explosions at seventy miles per hour in a Lamborghini is about as deadly as having remained at that gas station while every building around me exploded into a brilliant display of orange and red and yellow shrapnel.
I cannot control the thing. It’s a miracle I’m not yet burning alive in a pile of twisted metal.
I steal glances in the rearview mirror. The sun is crashing into the earth behind me.
Mom.
Dad.
Valerie.
Eddy.
I dodge a dead giraffe and fishtail.
The entrance to the freeway is less than a mile ahead.
I can barely handle the wheel with the sweat on my palms.
A fireball of flaming brick and mortar lands in front of me.
I press down on the gas and scrape by, destroying the driver’s side of Mr. Waterman’s car. I see the entrance ramp and remember it curves around to the right. I’m too late to do anything about it, and I enter the freeway rolling instead of driving.
The 76 West is nearly abandoned. A Semi is overturned, and I can see an accident up ahead. Small fires have broken out from the wreckage that was once my hometown. Behind me, the horizon shines so bright I can still feel the heat from here as I walk—stumble—to the Honda sitting on the side of the road with its driver’s side door open, the driver just a few feet away
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