As we walked I tried to remember where the path would have led us – if the whole end of the world thing hadn’t turned a perfectly good town into tumbleweeds and charcoal. Whoever I was tailing was headed to the east – the bad end of town, though at this point ‘ends’ of town was academic.
Every few steps I would feed Junior a chip, just to reinforce his companionship – I had kept a bag of them just in case.
The path ended, maybe a two miles from my shelter. I couldn’t believe it.
Skulls on sticks made for a picket fence, assortments of burned out cars were stacked or pushed together to form crude walls and barricades. What had been a school was now an homage to a Mad Max marathon. If I saw a mohawk in the next five minutes I resolved to shoot myself.
Not wanting to cross the skull-line, I shouted vaguely at the largest car-pile.
“Hey!” Not the most manly opener but I was hoping for civility.
I was rewarded by a tall, rangy figure popping up from behind a bus; he nocked an arrow in a crude bow and let fly.

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