???

It was almost a shame. The car was in perfect condition. It drove well. It cut a fine figure, even in the low light of the morning. Hell. it had fewer miles on it than his did, and the back seat looked far more comfy that what he was used to.

He looked in the rearview mirror. The seat was faux leather, and quite spacious.

His car was cramped, with carpet-like upholstery and seatbelts he couldn’t even tuck in. They jabbed his sides when he slept. Not to mention those electric windows. They probably sealed well and kept the moisture out. Probably kept the bugs out, too.

He scratched at his neck, his skin felt bumpy and inflamed. Allergies, maybe.

He was living rough. Rougher than he had to. He considered the car again. Could he keep it?

No, they’d be looking for it soon. Even if they weren’t…

He turned to the passenger seat.

They’d be looking for him.

There was a middle-aged man in the seat beside him. It might have been more accurate to say he was poured into the seat, given all the blood.

The stab wound through his back had caused him to bleed out like a stuck pig. Red flowed over both seats and deep into the cushion of the driver’s seat as well, due to the nature of the injury.

Too much evidence. Impossible to clean.

It all had to go.

He knew the back roads well, but not well enough to get to the stone. Besides, could he carry him through those backwoods trails?

He shook off the idea. Appeasement wasn’t the answer. He couldn’t work with it. He could only hope to beat it.

No sacrifice could forestall the inevitable. It was better to live in spite than in servitude.

The dirt roads were getting bumpy now. He had to make it to the reservoir if he had any hope of doing this final deed in secret.

No one went up this way if it wasn’t to fish or to dump garbage. Not even the deer came this way. They knew there were too many teens with baseball bats.

He scoured the scene.

The lake surrounded him. He was driving across a thin land-bridge over the large pipes that connected what was once two bodies of water.

He could see the wreckage of human interaction. Old kitchen appliances, once valuable servants to loving families, now rusted away under the elements. Battered by the pubescent rage of children with sticks.

Luckily, none of those little animals were around this early. He could add one more plaything to their dystopian playground.

Parking the car, he got to his dire work.

Pulling the seats back was difficult. The dead weight of the corpse fought against him but finally, it gave and rolled back. He bundled the body in a tarp, then folded the seats down over it like a squeaky, leather tent.

Soon, he was surrounded by the familiar smell of gasoline. It trickled down the seats, settling in the pores, pungent as it was combustible.

Liquid potential.

The fire was spectacular, bright even in the light of day, and hot enough to sear away the horrid stench of rictus death. Within that crucible plastic, metal, flesh and bone roiled together masking what was once a man with a protective cocoon of charred debris.

He’d come back the next morning with his truck. If he could, he’d shove the whole smoldering wreck into the water.

He looked to the edge, where the fish danced for the new light of day. Beyond them, he could see other wrecks and twisted metal. Like the appliances above them, these once prized possessions were now just playgrounds for fish.