my cup and his, poured the cold coffee dregs out on the dirt, and went back into the house.
23 | Ghost town
We drove slowly through the blackened ruins. Stores I had frequented throughout my life were now unrecognizable, reduced to concrete foundations and warped metal framework—their insides picked clean of anything worth taking. Fragile charcoal sculptures, crafted by the flames, rose like twisted gravestones out of the shallow rectangular troughs of black mud.
The roads were streaked with soot, perhaps from rain run-off or from the sprayed water that had failed to extinguish the fires. The blackened water had stained the road on its way to the drain, creating elongated paintings of dead winter trees that now appeared to be rooted inside every metal grate.
We managed to pass through town with very few detours, having mapped out most of the area on countless supply runs—we made our way out through the uncharted residential areas beyond. There were homes amid the ruins that remained standing, seemingly untouched by fire, but nevertheless deserted.
“Where have they all gone?” I asked.
“Beats me.” Powell shrugged. “Take a left up at the intersection.”
I followed his directions, weaving between stalled vehicles, fallen signs, and obstacles. The main road was blocked at the end by several lines of cars, trucks, campers, and debris.
“Looks like there was a party at my house,” Powell said through an audible smirk.
“Should I turn around?” I asked.
“No. My place is only a few blocks down, if it’s still there. We can go the rest of the way on foot if you’re up for it?”
I turned the truck around anyway and parked it half on the sidewalk. “Just in case we need to get out of here in a hurry,” I said.
Powell reached behind the seat and retrieved the shotgun. “Just in case.”
At the front of the lineup, two cars were seemingly welded together. It was hard to know which one was embedded in the other. Another car lay on its side. Orange, red, and clear glass littered the road between twisted and separated bodywork. Powell stepped over a crumpled bumper and around wreckage, and I followed.
“Where were they all going?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but it looks like they were in a hurry though.”
We arrived at the house on the corner. It was a small one-level rancher with a telegraph pole embedded from corner to corner of its caved-in roof.
“This is it. Home sweet home. The post is a new feature,” he said. “I don’t suppose it matters that I lost my keys.”
He tried the door before kicking it. The flap of the mail slot rattled, but the door didn’t budge. He picked up a plant pot, tipped out the dry remains of whatever plant had been in there, lifted his left arm up to shield his face, and launched the clay pot through the glass panel next to the front door. The glass clanged to the step, shattering at Powell’s feet. He reached in, fumbled with the lock, and pulled at the handle with his other hand. “The door’s wedged. You might want to back up a little, just in case the whole place falls down when it opens.”
I took a few steps back, and Powell wrenched the door handle with both hands. The door shuddered open, enough for us to slip inside, and the house creaked.
“If it was going to collapse, it would’ve done by now, right?” I asked.
“Unless it was the door holding it all up,” he said and raised an eyebrow.
“All right, well, after you.”
Inside, dilapidated drywall layered the floor where it had fallen from the ceiling, and large cracks ran diagonally down the walls in the living room, but what I could see of the rest of the house seemed fine, or at least better than I had expected.
I followed him into the kitchen.
“Beer?” he asked, as he pulled two from the fridge.
I smiled and took the beer. “It’s a good thing you didn’t leave anything but condiments and beer in the fridge.”
“I pretty much survived on
23 | Ghost town
We drove slowly through the blackened ruins. Stores I had frequented throughout my life were now unrecognizable, reduced to concrete foundations and warped metal framework—their insides picked clean of anything worth taking. Fragile charcoal sculptures, crafted by the flames, rose like twisted gravestones out of the shallow rectangular troughs of black mud.
The roads were streaked with soot, perhaps from rain run-off or from the sprayed water that had failed to extinguish the fires. The blackened water had stained the road on its way to the drain, creating elongated paintings of dead winter trees that now appeared to be rooted inside every metal grate.
We managed to pass through town with very few detours, having mapped out most of the area on countless supply runs—we made our way out through the uncharted residential areas beyond. There were homes amid the ruins that remained standing, seemingly untouched by fire, but nevertheless deserted.
“Where have they all gone?” I asked.
“Beats me.” Powell shrugged. “Take a left up at the intersection.”
I followed his directions, weaving between stalled vehicles, fallen signs, and obstacles. The main road was blocked at the end by several lines of cars, trucks, campers, and debris.
“Looks like there was a party at my house,” Powell said through an audible smirk.
“Should I turn around?” I asked.
“No. My place is only a few blocks down, if it’s still there. We can go the rest of the way on foot if you’re up for it?”
I turned the truck around anyway and parked it half on the sidewalk. “Just in case we need to get out of here in a hurry,” I said.
Powell reached behind the seat and retrieved the shotgun. “Just in case.”
At the front of the lineup, two cars were seemingly welded together. It was hard to know which one was embedded in the other. Another car lay on its side. Orange, red, and clear glass littered the road between twisted and separated bodywork. Powell stepped over a crumpled bumper and around wreckage, and I followed.
“Where were they all going?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but it looks like they were in a hurry though.”
We arrived at the house on the corner. It was a small one-level rancher with a telegraph pole embedded from corner to corner of its caved-in roof.
“This is it. Home sweet home. The post is a new feature,” he said. “I don’t suppose it matters that I lost my keys.”
He tried the door before kicking it. The flap of the mail slot rattled, but the door didn’t budge. He picked up a plant pot, tipped out the dry remains of whatever plant had been in there, lifted his left arm up to shield his face, and launched the clay pot through the glass panel next to the front door. The glass clanged to the step, shattering at Powell’s feet. He reached in, fumbled with the lock, and pulled at the handle with his other hand. “The door’s wedged. You might want to back up a little, just in case the whole place falls down when it opens.”
I took a few steps back, and Powell wrenched the door handle with both hands. The door shuddered open, enough for us to slip inside, and the house creaked.
“If it was going to collapse, it would’ve done by now, right?” I asked.
“Unless it was the door holding it all up,” he said and raised an eyebrow.
“All right, well, after you.”
Inside, dilapidated drywall layered the floor where it had fallen from the ceiling, and large cracks ran diagonally down the walls in the living room, but what I could see of the rest of the house seemed fine, or at least better than I had expected.
I followed him into the kitchen.
“Beer?” he asked, as he pulled two from the fridge.
I smiled and took the beer. “It’s a good thing you didn’t leave anything but condiments and beer in the fridge.”
“I pretty much survived on
Similar Books
