The man drifted. In the void, faces long dead returned to him, looming from the shadows like grinning night ghouls, teeth sharp, eyes twinkling with sadistic glee. Some reached out, and he pulled away with uncharacteristic fright, certain that if they touched him, he would become a specter himself, cursed to be forever trapped in the twilight world betwixt the land of the living and the land of the dead. He walked now through the slanted passageways of a haunted house that resembled his childhood home, but somehow wasn't. Now, he shuffled through the streets of his hometown. Doors stood open. Lawns overgrown. Corpses littering the sidewalk. He looked fearfully left and right at the dark, shuddered houses lining the street. They were in there, he knew, watching through rotted curtains, seeing him, envying him, hating him, their loathing thick in the air. His heart raced and he told himself not to run, to pretend they weren't there, for if he did start to run, they would come out of hiding and take him - ten, fifteen, a thousand, shambling with outstretched arms and decomposing faces like zombies in an old B movie.

Shortly, the scene changed, and he was walking up the center lane of a desolate highway surrounded by a blasted moonscape strewn with boulders, trash, and the wreckage of a world passed on. A bare, gibbous moon kept baleful watch over the wasteland, its ghastly silver light casting black and threatening shadows that squirmed in the corner of the man's vision; if he turned his back on them, they would separate from the ground and come for him with gaping eyes and yawning mouths. There were other pilgrims on the road, their hideous faces revealed in the cemetery glow: A woman he may once have loved, a man with whom he was friends, a little girl with ribbons in her hair that looked just like him...save for her ripped flesh, coal irises, and twisted fangs. The man stared straight ahead in an attempt to ignore them, tears leaking from his eyes; they whispered, however, dark secrets from beyond that grave that he could hear if he stepped just a little closer, strained a little harder, secrets that no living being was meant to now, secrets that would drag him to the rim of madness and past the veil of death.

Without warning, something clasped his hand, and the icy chill of the undead blew through his soul like a raw November wind. He didn't want to look...couldn't look...but was powerless as his neck muscles creaked and his head turned.

His daughter grinned coldly up at him. Hi, Daddy, she piped soullessly. I got lonely so I came back. Do we have any fruit snacks?

As she lay dying in the grip of fever in a roadside inn deep in the woods of Vermont, emaciated with starvation and delirious with flu, she asked for fairy princess fruit snacks, her favorite treat.

But they didn't have any.

Horror blasted like a bomb in his chest, and he wrenched away, coming awake with a wheeze and sitting bolt upright, his head throbbing sickly. For a second, her voice lingered in the chambers of his soul and he jerked his head left and right, expecting to see her wayward spirit standing there, watching, seething, hating him for letting her die. Instead, he saw only thistle astir in the cool evening breeze. The sky above was soft shades of purple and orange, and early rising stars glinted like diamonds. Panting, he fought to catch his breath, a hot stitch flaring in his side. He lifted one hand to his swimming head, and winced at the pain coursing through his body from seemingly every nerve center: His shoulder throbbed dully, his knee panged, his temples pounded, and his right ankle blared. He licked his chapped lips and furrowed his brows in contemplation. Where was he? He scanned his surroundings again, hissing at the stiffness in his neck; ahead, the rugged, rock littered terrain swept back to the horizon. To his right, open desert dotted by gnarled Joshua Trees and headed by those same blasted mountains that seemed to always follow you like the eyes of an old painting. At his left, a steep, sandy hillside climbed up to a ridgeline topped by a metal guardrail broken in one place, the steel twisted and jutting out over the precipice like the outstretched arms of Christ Himself.

Befuddled, the man rubbed the side of his head and tried to remember what happened; dense fog swirled in his mind, blocking out memories. Which was just as well; they were never any good anyway.

His breathing was normal now, and he turned to look over his shoulder. His face dropped when he saw his car. Six feet away, maybe ten, it sat on its roof, the ass end sticking up unto heaven and the front crumpled like a soda can. Debris scattered the ground: Metal, broken glass, shards of plastic, his shotgun, a pulverized black mass that turned out to be his radio, and a million other things, his life and possessions entire.

"Goddamn it," he sighed and slumped his shoulders. Perfect...just perfect. Anger welled up within him, and he slammed one bootheel against the ground. Twisting around, he got onto his knees and tried to stand, but a hot jet of pain rushed up his leg. He cried out and sank to the ground, his breathing coming in great big gulps again. This wasn't good. He was hurt, without wheels, totally exposed to the elements...and night was falling fast.

Taking a deep breath and steeling himself for what was to come, he got to his hands and knees and scuttled toward the car, each movement sending bolts of agony into his brain. He clenched his teeth and issued a low, warbling groan, then collapsed to his stomach when he reached the overturned vehicle. His lungs sucked air and his ankle pulsated like a dying heart, sending ripples of excruciation into his nauseous stomach. He swallowed hard, reached out, and grabbed the door handle, then, with a cry, he pulled himself to a sitting position and sat back against the frame, legs before him in a V. He took a series of deep breaths and let them out in shaky puffs; slimy sweat ran down his face in warm rivulets and his ankle beat in the time with his heart. The sun was fully down now, the western sky blazing with rapidly fading color and more stars appearing every minute. A needling chill crept into the air, and the easterly breeze cooled steadily until the perspiration dried on his skin and goosebumps raked his arms. Nighttime temperatures in the Mojave routinely dipped into the thirties - with a fire and his sleeping bag, he could handle it easily, but bared the way he was, he'd freeze inside of three hours.

He needed to search for his things.

Which meant moving.

"Goddamn it," he repeated and ran his fingers through his hair. He had no other choice - it was getting dark and he needed to act now.

Reaching behind him, he gripped the handle again, drew a fortifying breath, and turned, pain enveloping him in its hateful embrace. He gritted his teeth and lowered himself carefully to his stomach. He was at eye level with the open driver side window now. Balling his fists, he braced his forearms against the ground, got his knees under him, and slithered forward like a serpent. The pain was exquisite, but he ignored it.

Half in the shadow filled car now, he shifted through the detritus on the roof, now the floor, his fingers questing and brushing miscellania before closing around the grip of the Woodsman. He held it close to his face and checked the breech. Two rounds left.

He tossed the gun behind him, and it discharged, making him jump.

One round.

Writhing, he pulled himself fully into the car and crawled into the back. His bedroll sat next to an overly large canteen of water as if placed just so by a caring God. He grabbed the latter and shook; the contents sloshed, and only now did he realize how thirsty he was. He shakily unscrewed the cap and took a big, greedy gulp, some of the liquid dribbling down the corners of his mouth. He forced himself to stop lest he drink it all, returned the cap, and swiped the back of one gloved hand across his lips. Grabbing the sleeping bag, he wiggled back out and tossed it into the dirt. The last of the light drained from the sky and a biting wind danced across the plains, whistling an eerie tune as it threaded through the foothills. He needed to build a fire. He patted his hip pocket and felt the telltale outline of the tarnished silver Zippo. He looked around for something to burn, but there was only thistle, which, at best, would produce tangy, eye-stinging smoke.

Rolling his eyes long-sufferingly, he crawled back into the car and felt around.

There wasn't much.

In the back, he found the faded rucksack containing his clothes and the few personal possessions he salvaged from his home in Michigan. Fabric wouldn't burn long, but he didn't have much of a choice.

Back outside, he upended the bag into the dirt and rescued one item: A slim leather bound photo album that he slipped into his jacket. He ripped some thistle from the ground, shoved it underneath the pile, and touched the Zippo to it. After a few attempts, it caught, and dense smoke billowed into the air. A few moments later, the clothes went up, and he sat back against the car, his chest heaving and pain radiating through him. He glanced at the Woodsman, picked it up, and sat it in his lap. He felt for the revolver on his hip, found it, and nodded to himself.

His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it; foraging for food meant going back into the car, and he didn't have the energy. Instead, he laid his hands on the ground, pushed himself up straighter, and issued a pained gasp. He bent his right knee, grabbed the denim covering his leg, picked his leg up with a hiss, and dragged his foot onto his left knee in a rough 4-shape. His head pulsed with hot misery and he took a long moment to catch his breath before leaning over, pulling his boot off (slow to minimize the pain), then his sock. His ankle was purple and swollen; he prodded it with his fingertip and grimaced. Sprained, he thought, but not broken. That was good. A sprain would heal, but if it was broken, he was dead.

Gritting his teeth, he pulled his sock and boot back on, stretched his legs out in front of him, and leaned his head back against the door. Goosebumps ran up and down his arms and a keen shiver cut through him. He could stand the cold, but it would probably be wise to sleep in the car tonight - the last shit he needed right now was a roaring case of pneumonia to go along with his wounded foot.

He drew a deep breath and gazed into the fire, which burned low and feeble. It threw off very little warmth, its light petering out by degrees and the night closing in until it was out and darkness swaddled the man. The moon was bright enough to see by, its luminescence bathing the world in a silvery shine. The man's stomach growled and he wished he took some food from the car.

Just to be absolutely sure, he patted his pockets on the off chance he forgot a packet of crackers or a strip of cured beef (both of which were plentiful among the caravans he traded with), but the cupboards were bare. Damn. Something brushed his leg, and he looked down: A scorpion watched him warily, its tail poised ready to strike. Hm. Another gift from God. At this rate, he'd have his family back in no time.

He laughed...then he lifted his hand as if in a hale greeting and dropped it as hard as he could on the scorpion, smashing it into the dust. In its final moment, it whipped its tail and sank its barbed stinger into the soft webbing between his thumb and forefinger; his face made nary a tic. He pulled it out, ripped the tail off, and threw it away. He held the body in both hands and cracked it down the center like a crab. Squinting to see, he found the venom gland, plucked it out, and dropped it into the dirt. He checked the area around the sting; the skin was an angry shade of pink and ached mutedly, which told him the venom wasn't very potent.

Dodged a bullet there.

Grinning sardonically, he brought on half of the bug to his lips and sucked its insides into his mouth. They were warm and coppery on his tongue, the bitter taste pinching the back of his throat and coating the insides of his cheeks. He preferred them cooked, but right now it was ala carte. Or whatever the fancy fucking word for raw was. In his time on the road, he'd eaten a lot of things, many of them sans the benefit of being properly prepared. His favorite was buffalo heart (they covered the prairie like grass now, the way they did two hundred years ago). His least favorite was tarantula: If you didn't roast it, the insides were runny. Plus there was hardly any meat on them, and what there was had all the flavor of cardboard. Rabbit was good, but it didn't have enough fat to sustain you on its own. See, with meat, there has to be a perfect balance between fat and protein. Too much protein, and you wind up wth protein sickness, which is fatal. He'd seen it more times than he could count.

Scorpions, though not as good as rabbit even when cooked, are balanced enough that you can eat as many as you can catch.

He ate the second half, then tossed the remains onto the heap of charred clothes. The moon arched steadily over the desert, and for a time, the man watched it with mild interest. Long ago, as a boy, he dreamed of one day going to space - flying in shuttles, walking on distant planets, being the first man to discover alien life...and the first to kick its ass. Like all boys, however, he grew up and realized that space sucked - girls was where it was at. He met one, gave up notions of missions to Mars, and settled down with her. Sometimes, when they were dating, they'd spread a blanket out on the ground and look up at the very same moon upon which he gazed now, the same moon looked upon by Galileo and Keats; it had always been there, steadfast and unchanging through it all. Boggles the mind when you think of it.

The man looked away. He was a dreamer once, but no more. The dreamer died on the side of a no name road in Vermont four years ago.

He let out a sad sigh and turned to his right, intent on getting to his stomach and crawling into the car, but stopped. Something slunk through the shadows, low to the ground. The man's heart skipped. He knew what it was even before it emerged. A coyote, its sleek frame covered in matted fur and its lips peeled back over its sharp teeth in a bellicose sneer.

Where there was one, there were bound to be others, and here they came, three more materializing from the darkness like nightmare apparitions. All were thin to the point of emaciation, their ribs sticking prominently out and their elongated faces crisscrossed with scars from battles past. One was missing an eye, its socket puckered and oozing puss, and another's right ear hung by fraying threads of sinew. The man's stomach clenched and his heart pounded furiously against his ribs. Everyone, no matter how tough, has that One Thing that strikes insufferable fear into their soul...for him it was vicious dogs. His mouth went dry and his eyes widened, every muscle in his body locking like air brakes on an icy road. The first coyote lowered its head and growled deep in the back of its throat. It came forward, and the others, emboldened, started closing in as well, their low, rumbling snarls worming into the man's brain.

In a flash, he came alive with a sharp intake of breath. He reached for the revolver, and sensing danger, one of the coyotes sprang at him, its forepaws out in front of it. The man swung the gun around and squeezed off a shot without aiming. The round crashed into the coyote's face and knocked it back with a reflexive yelp. The one on his right snarled and flew at him as the other two came on from the front. He fired again, the bullet grazing the side of another's head - it cried out and danced back, is tangling feet kicking up puffs of dust. He started to turn to the right just as the dog there clamped its powerful jaws closed around his forearm, its fangs shredding leather and puncturing flesh. Adrenaline shot through him and he felt no pain, only pressure, his fear gone now and replaced by the dumb, blind, bursting will to live. The other threw itself at him, its teeth snapping. He fired and its face dissolved. He pulled the trigger again, and the one he grazed was flung back, landing in a heap.

The one on his arm bit harder and furiously shook its head, its razor-like fangs raking muscles and tendon. The man cried instinctively out, and his hand opened on reflex, the gun clattering to the ground. He grabbed its face in his free hand and desperately searched for its eyes with his thumbs. Perhaps anticipating ths, the coyote shook its head faster and pushed itself against him, its paws coming to rest on his leg. Its claws sank into the top of his thigh and pain rushed to his head. He screamed and his balance upset; he toppled over, landing in the dust like a fallen oak. The coyote scrambled on top of him, its fevered, furry weight pinning him to the ground, and growled as it lunged for his throat.

Mindless in his panic, the man threw up his bloody forearm and blocked, the dog's face stopping inches from his own. Its rank, fetid breath broke hotly against his face and burning saliva dripped from its fangs. Its claws ripped clumsily at his chest as it sought purchase, like a doe slipping on ice, and the man capitalized by summoning all his might and shoving while simultaneously rolling to one side. The dog skidded away, but surged forward again before the man could sit up, hitting him like a train and knocking him to the right; the side of his head collided with the car and white agony exploded in his skull.

Okay.

Now he was mad.

His rage came suddenly, like it always did, a nuclear blast turning night to day and consuming the very earth and heavens. The dog bit his shoulder, and with a primal scream, he balled his fist and brought it around in a deadly arc; it collided with the demon's snout and knocked it aside. The man rolled to his knees, every ache, pain, and torment in his body burned away in his fury, and slipped a knife from a sheath on his belt. The coyote faced him warily, its head lowered and its ears flattened against its head. It issued a low, threatening growl. The man locked their gazes and wrapped his fingers tight around the handle; his chest heaved, his eyes flashed, and the corners of his mouth twitched up in a doglike sneer of his own. The coyote jumped at him, and he slashed the knife hard against its face; it yelped and drew back, then circled him, murder in its glowing yellow orbs. The man spun slowly with it, panting, throbbing, seething. He was vaguely aware of his blood falling like rain on the dirt and of his ankle pounding in tune with his heart, but he ignored those things; killing the carrion-eating motherfucker in front of him was all that mattered. There was no world, no longer any highway, no past, no future, nowhere else but here and now, him and the dog warily casing him like a flesh eating burglar. It jerked forward, and the man slashed air. It barked, and he tossed the knife mockingly from one hand to the other, unaware that he was doing so. "Come on," he taunted, his voice ragged and shallow, "come on, you piece of shit."

The coyote slunk toward him, its body tensing. The man gripped the knife and held up his free arm, elbow bent, forearm across his chest. The dog paused as if having second thoughts, but its hunger decided for it; it sprang at him, frenzied and irrational, and baring his teeth, the man brought the knife up.

The dog's throat crashed into his forearm and the blade sank satisfyingly into its soft underbelly, its eyes widening in shock. The man grinned, and twisted, taking savage glee in the way the creature whimpered. It wrenched back, but the man caught it around the throat with one hand and squeezed. Blood gushed around the knife and drenched his hand, urging him on. He twisted, thrusted, and pulled; its guts fell out in a steaming pile and landed in his lap. The dog whipped its head back and forth as if in denial of its defeat, and tried to escape, but the man held fast, throttling it.

Soon, the hellish light in its eyes drained away, and the fight went out of it. It gave one final body-wide shudder, then fell limp. The man redoubled his grip, wanting to make damn sure it was dead and in hell before letting go. A minute passed, two, then, with a distasteful chuff, he flung it away and fell back against the car. He trembled as the adrenaline leaked away, and a million red, pulsating points of pain crowded his consciousness. He fought to regulate his runaway breath and swiped his hand across his sweat sheened forehead. In the ghostly light of the moon, four dark shapes lay on their sides like the scattered after effects of a giant, celestial child's temper tantrum; the man flicked his eyes from one to the other, searching for movement but seeing none. Next, he rolled his sleeve up and checked the wound on his forearm: Six oozing puncture marks marred his flesh in a rough semi-circle. He examined them with his fingertips; shallow, non life-threatening. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a blue banana, and wrapped it around the area to staunch the bleeding, pulling it tight with his teeth.

Done, he swallowed hard and shifted; something pressed down on his lap and his heart sputtered. He looked down and let out a sigh of relief. Just coyote guts.

His stomach rumbled.

Hesitating only briefly, he dug his hands into the steaming pile and came back with a liver, slick and wet in his grasp. The liver filters toxins, and eating it raw is a good way to get sick. He tossed it into the night and went for the spleen instead; it gushed when he bit down, and the wild, coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth. He tore a chunk off with his teeth and chewed; the consistency reminded him of his great-grandmother's Jello molds and he way it felt sliding down the back of his throat made him shiver. He ate every last bit, though. When he was done, pangs quivered through his stomach like the waving of a white flag. I'm full, no more, please.

Being satiated increased his body temperature, but he was still cold, and every breeze made him shiver. He lowered himself to his stomach, grabbed his sleeping bag, and crawled into the car. Inside, he rolled up the window, closing out the wind, and kicked out of his boots; his movements were slow, stiff, and sent flaring pain into his brain. He pulled the bag up around his chest, zipped it, and rolled onto his side.

Of all the miseries in the world, sleep was the worst, because in sleep, he dreamed, and every dream was a nightmare, even the good ones...especially the good ones. Most nights, he lay awake for hours before dropping off; now, however, he was asleep in minutes.

And this time, he did not dream.

The man spent three days at the wreck before leaving. He should have waited two or three more days to fully heal, but he ran out of water at the end of day two - even though he drank sparingly - and without water, he would be dead in days.

Staying in one place more than a single night was strange to him, and it left him feeling restless and vulnerable. He passed the majority of the daylight hours in the car, hidden from view. That first morning, he woke to find a tarantula on his chest, its hairy legs splayed and its black eyes fixed on him in fear. He killed it and ate it raw for breakfast. Afterwards, he dragged himself into the arid day and killed time skinning one of the coyotes. Its meat would taste good roasted on a spit, and its pelt would provide an additional layer of warmth for the long night ahead. Moving was hard and when he tried to stand, his ankle gave out and spilled him to the desert floor. Holding onto the car for support, he walked on his knees to the trunk and opened it, all of the contents cascading out and littering the ground. Sifting through, he found a first aid kit and, sitting against the driver door, he dressed his wounds as best he could, splashing alcohol onto the festering bites and dry swallowing a handful of aspirin. He left his boots off to keep pressure from his ankle, and sat in the blazing sun until he couldn't stand it anymore and retreated into the car.

He came back out in the cool purple afterglow of evening. The road above stood empty, a hushed pall hanging over the wastelands like the somber silence of a funeral train. Sitting there, his gaze drifted to the Joshua Trees fanning across the hardpan, thirsty scrub brush covering the ground between them. He needed a fire for warmth and cooking, and Joshua Trees made damn good kindling. He had a machete...he just didn't know if his ankle would support him.

He retrieved the machete from the car, jammed the blade against the ground, and used it to help him stand. Vertigo crashed over him like a wave and he swayed back and forth, legs shaky, in danger of falling. He kept his balance, though, and favoring his good foot, he limped toward the grove, his body slightly bent at the waist and his free arm dangling at his side. Each step was grueling and by the time he leaned against the trunk of the nearest tree, he was panting and coated in piss warm sweat.

Gripping the handle, he hacked at the thin branches, then threw them into a pile. He did this to three before shoving the big knife into his belt like a sword. He collected the wood and returned to the car, shambling and leaking tears of pain. When he was at the car, he fell to his knees and took a long moment to let the shakes pass.

An hour later, darkness fell, its advance held at bay by a feeble ring of flickering firelight. The man carefully wrapped thin strips of coyote meat around a knotted stick and held it over the crackling flames. When it was done, he ate it like shishkabob; it was stringy and gamey but good nonetheless. He ate ravenously at first, rending and tearing with his teeth like an animal, then gradually slowed until he was stuffed. He cooked a little more and wrapped it in a shirt for tomorrow - it would last until then, but not much longer unless he turned it into jerky, which was a time consuming process he didn't plan on sticking around for.

After dinner, he stared into the fire. He wanted to leave in the morning, but he didn't think he was well enough. He knew he was in no condition to scale the hillside up to the highway. When he did leave, he'd have to follow it until the terrain leveled out again. Going in any other direction, deeper into the barrens, was out of the question - there was nothing for miles, and he'd wind up more lost than Moses. He meditated on the question of trying to hike out at dawn, and finally decided to wait. He had enough water to see him through at least tomorrow night if he rationed it; once he was out, he'd have to go whether he was ready or not.

Later, he wiggled through the driver side window, rolled it up, and lay on his back; his arm throbbed hotly and every time he shifted positions, his ankle panged, but overall, he felt okay; maybe he could make it out tomorrow after all.

He woke at the first grayish hint of dawn from a nightmare that echoed through the corridors of his mind long after he shimmied back out the window and built a makework fire. He couldn't remember much of it in any detail, only that he was back in Vermont during the early days of the Collapse, cold, tired, scared, and watching his little girl slowly fade by the harsh white light of a Coleman lantern. They were travelling north with a migrant caravan on I-91 toward Stovington, Maine, where the government had established an aid camp when she took sick; they'd been on the road for over a month in the dreary November cold, and though he did his best to keep her dry and warm, she caught influenza. They had to stop, and the others kept on without them, lost souls with shadow faces and downcast eyes, all their worldly possessions crammed into sacks and suitcases. None offered help or comfort, and the man guessed he couldn't blame them - many had their own little boys and girls to worry about.

Why didn't he kill himself after she died? Staring into the fire, he wondered that for the millionth time, and like each past recollection, he failed to come up with an answer. Maybe he was too much of a coward to kill himself. Maybe he was punishing himself. He cast a look around - the steep, rocky hillside, the rustling scrub brush, the twisted Joshua Trees like fingers clawing from shallow graves, the rocks littered across the cracked and seering hardpan, the blazing sun filling the piercing blue sky. Sweat trickled down his forehead, from under his arms, and down the cleft of his ass; the skin of his face stung lightly with sunburn; and his dry lips ached. If he was punishing himself, he was doing a damn good job of it.

Mid-afternoon, he ate the rest of the coyote meat and washed it down with a single gulp of warm water. The canteen was just over a quarter full, and as he screwed the cap back on, he frowned at the way its meager contents sloshed. He'd be out in a couple hours, maybe even less.

That night, sitting before the fire shortly after sundown, he swallowed the last of the water, replaced the cap, and chucked the canteen into the dust. The moon sat high in the inky heavens, its glowing face wrapped in thin, ragged clouds like rotted burial clothes. The man stared up at it and pursed his lips in thought. He'd leave at first light and follow the road until he could get back on. If he was lucky, he'd happen along a wagon train or one of the settlements that dot the Mojave like pimples. He didn't have much to trade, but there were always things to steal - he took his last car from a constable in New Town, a fishing community on the jagged coastline defining the desert's western edge. Before that, he had a horse with no name which he stole from a merchant in Baja.

He was stirred from his reprieve when a high, mournful howl rose in the distance; it echoed eerily through the night like the cry of a wayward spirit, then was joined by another, then another, then another still. A knot popped in the fire, and the man jumped, his heartbeat speeding up in dread anticipation. Coyotes. He touched the revolver sitting in his lap like a frightened boy seeking strength from a crucifix. The chorus reached a wavering crescendo, then gradually faded until the only sound was the crackling of flames. The man listened for a long time, head cocked, and when it came again, it was farther away.

Even so, he rolled onto his stomach, crawled into the car, and rolled the window up. He fell asleep as soon as he closed his eyes, and didn't wake again until the next morning; warm sunshine spilled through the window and warmed his face He muttered, stirred, and rolled onto his right side. His bladder was full and a tension headache smoldered over his left eye; he stretched, and his stiff joints popped audibly. He yawned, rolled down the window, and scuttled out, the handpan stinging his palms. He pushed woozily to his feet and tested his bad ankle - it was sore, but the pain was dull twinge rather than the fiery apocalypse it was two days ago. He'd have to stop and rest frequently to avoid overtaxing himself, which would retard his search for water, but that's just the way it was.

Before leaving, he packed a faded green rucksack with provisions: The remainder of his food, an emergency bottle of water he completely forgot he had (there was enough in it for two or three gulps, and that was it), spare ammunition (eight rounds for the revolver, two for the Woodsman, and four shells for the shotgun), the machete, his photo album, matches, his bedroll, a compass, a knife, fishing line, black powder, and assorted odds and ends. He sat it on the ground next to the car and hobbled over to the pile of sticks he gathered the day before. He scanned them, spotted one roughly six feet and 1 ½ in diameter, and picked it up, his fingers closing around the rough shaft. One end was slightly tapered, and it curved slightly in the middle. He gripped it, jammed the end against the ground, and leaned his weight on it.

It held.

Using the walking stick to support himself, he limped over to the bag and hefted it up. Leaning the stick against the car, he threaded his arms through the pack's straps, one hand holding himself up on the tire, then grabbed the stick again and looked up the embankment. From here, he could just make out the roofs of stalled cars thronging the highway - he counted a dozen. Smash-ups were a sad fact of life, like genital warts, but in the years since the Collapse, many were cleared from the more frequently traveled routes. The presence of a jam here told him this road wasn't used very often, which didn't bode well for his chances of coming across a village; if the roads were blocked, there weren't likely any close by.

The man sighed and looked around the crash site one last time, then started walking, the stick tapping the crust and sinking into the occasional soft patch. At the bottom of the slope, he turned left and lurched along its base. An arid breeze blew over him, ruffling his lank white hair and plastering a few loose strands to his slick forehead. A quarter mile from the car, he sank onto a boulder to rest; he was panting, covered in sweat, and his throat was dry and tacky. He slung the bag off, dropped it onto the ground, and rummaged through it until he found the water bottle. He twisted the cap and took a long drink; it was hot, slimey, and full of grit - if he remembered correctly, he took it from a river then boiled it. Or did he boil it? He probably did. Maybe. Oh, who cared.

Replacing the cap, he shoved the bottle back into the bag and wiped his face, the stubble on his chin scraping his palm. When was the last time he shaved? He tried to remember but couldn't - everything leading up to the accident was hazy, like visions shrouded in fog. The last thing he recalled with any clarity was trading three bottles of whiskey to a man for a box of shotgun shells. He thought that was less than a week ago, but wasn't sure.

He put the pack on again, used the walking stick to stand, and set off, picking his way along the bottom of the hill. The road bent sharply to the right and the land with it; there were more rocks here, most small but some large as cars. He carefully navigated them, and stopped to rest when his ankle started burning.

Eventually, the terrain flattened out, and the embankment gradually lowered. Dense tangles of scrub interspersed with Joshua Trees, and clusters of cacti boasting pink blossoms covered the ground. The man kicked through them, wincing at the strain in his ankle, and climbed up to the highway - vegetation grew between cracks in the blacktop and thin layers of safe were drifted here and there. A tour bus sat in the breakdown lane, trash, suitcases, and clothing scattered around it. He shambled over and checked the outside compartments for anything useful, but they were empty.

The road continued arrow straight into the distance, the desert around it thirsty, brown, and hardscrabble. The man followed it through the afternoon, at one point stopping to rest on the hood of an abandoned Chevy. He took a towel from the bag and wrapped it around his head like an Arab - it wasn't very comfortable, but it kept the sun off. Three miles from the bus, the road crossed a dry river bed over a concrete bridge. Beyond, a small town spread out on the north bank, its skyline defined by a blue water tower and a set of frozen oil derricks set apart from everything else by a half mile. The man paused and leaned against the retaining wall, his breath coming in short, hot gasps. His ankle was starting to hurt and he wasn't sure he could make much progress before darkfall. He'd rather stop now and shelter here than keep going and have to camp in the wilderness.

Pushing away, he limped down the center line then followed the off ramp. Narrow, sandy streets ran past dirt coated storefronts with smashed out windows. A skeleton lay in front of a movie theater box office, its arms out on either side of it like Christ upon the cross and its gaping eye sockets seething with bugs. A wreck sat in the middle of an intersection - a pick up truck kissing the driver door of a Taurus - and a metal sign over a doorway creaked rustily in the wind. The man looked left and right as he walked, each step coming harder and the pain growing. He was almost to the wreck when a sound rose behind him. Heart in throat, he whipped around just in time to catch a flash of white disappearing down an alley between a bank and barber shop.

A raider.

He yanked the revolver from its holster and cocked the hammer.

"Drop it!" someone shouted. Another raider leaned out of a second story window to his left - clad in white and holding a gun. Their face was hidden behind a baseball catcher's mask. It sounded like a woman.

The man started to turn, intent on blasting the bitch, but three more people, all dressed similarly, swarmed him from all sides, each hunched defensively and aiming guns, moving with the practiced wariness of a SWAT team - an MP5 here, a double barrel shotgun there. His stomach knotted. He was surrounded.

"Drop the fucking gun!" one of them, also a woman, ordered. She wore gray shoulder pads, knee pads, and elbow pads; black combat boots; a wire mask; and an olive green flak jacket over her chest. Her thick brown hair was held back in a simple and pragmatic ponytail, and through the slots in her mask, the man glimpsed hard brown eyes. He looked at each of them in turn and while he couldn't be certain, he thought they were all women.

"Do it," another growled, "now."

This one was slimmer, her hair, the color of old rust, in a ponytail like her comrade.

The first, whom the man took to be the leader, stepped forward and shoved her gun at him. "Put it down or we'll shoot," she warned.

The decision to fight back was not a conscious one, but rather instinct, like breathing or blinking. In this world, the man had learned, you either die on your feet or live on your knees, and he sure as shit wouldn't live on his knees. He lifted the gun, and as one, they opened fire, dozens of rounds pelted his chest and stomach, spinning him around and knocking him to the ground. Red, throbbing agony enfolded him, roaring like a five alarm fire, and he let out a long, low moan. Every breath sent sharp pangs through his body, and his vision started to gray.

Here it was.

Death at long last.

All the pain, all the misery, all the nightmares...gone. The knowledge that he let his little girl die then abandoned her body in some godforsaken part of rural Vermont, that no matter how many raiders he killed or opponents he bested, he failed in the one thing for which a man is worth...protecting his family...it was over. Finally fucking over.

Warm, fuzzy peace descended over him, and a wan, weak smile touched his lips.

The sun blotted out when the leader loomed over him. He couldn't see her eyes, but he knew they would be filled with the savage satisfaction of a triumphant predator. The one thing he didn't like about being killed was it hurt his pride.

Just a little.

His fingers twitched as he felt for the gun, but it wasn't there - it must have flown from his hand when they shot him.

There was only one thing he could do.

Licking his dry lips, he glared up at her. "Fuck you, bitch," he croaked.

Then lost consciousness.