As we begin our small town escape act, most things appear the same as before sleep ended. Empty. There’s definitely some kind of heaviness, a dryness or thirst in the air. The only human movement I feel is the occasional watchful stirring, or shutting of curtains, in houses, but never any actual people. Then seven quiet streets away, metal has bitten into metal. A shattered melted sand shower has ejaculated everywhere. Steam smokes up from a v8 engine block. A bright yellow chopped car has attempted to eat a family station wagon. An anonymous body has left a sloppy red teeth trail up the bitumen. The rest are pinned dead inside. Steering to the right we crunch up over glass onto a driveway and then along the thin footpath. Menace slowly slows down to survey the scene. Jesus. Any survivors? He holds his foot on the brake now. Nah, man, nah, fuck keep going hey. They might have some food in there, or drugs? I’m not quiet up for eating the food of the dead yet, Menace. Give it a few more days, mate. Yeah, maybe, probably. Ha ha. Fake laugh. Let’s fuckin keep going. Wait, can you hear that? What is it? Sounds like… Sounds like what, sounds like what Chrissy? Sounds like a remote control car… What? Yeah, can’t you hear it? Hold on, yeah, yeah I can hear it. Where the fuck is it coming from? Can’t see it. It’s getting closer. There! Menace’s blood shot eyes fill the rear view mirror. Twist my neck. Scooting, dragging, up the gutter behind us is a Dirt Buster 4 x 4 spattered with maroon paint. It’s pulling something, heavy, behind it. It disappears under our stopped car. You reckon it’s got a bomb on it. Fuck! Pull open doors and dive out, legs tripping head first. No big bang. The little car pulls up next to Menace’s head. Attached behind via twined fishing wire is a messy hacked hairy human hand holding a note.
The Prettiest Nightmare