Taking the next exit off of I-40, he began to search for the nearest city. Gas stations were useful for collecting spam and Twinkies but with the pockets of electricity becoming more and more sparse it was hard to find a working pump. It was much easier to find clusters of suburbia and siphon gas out of the parked cars. Besides that, he enjoyed the sightseeing. They were like little lava-less Pompeii's, frozen in time, and a warning to any future civilization that might idolize the white picket fence.
Cautiously, he began to scan the scene in front of him for any signs of habitation. The silver light of the moon intertwined with the beams from his car to illuminate row after row of cookie cutter houses. If there had been a light dusting of snow he would’ve sworn someone had hung a Thomas Kinkade painting in front of his face.
Sighing, he continued to look for any signs of life. He had yet to come across anyone dangerous, but the surprise of seeing another human being flooded his veins with as much adrenaline as being held at gun point. Satisfied that the area, like most, had been evacuated quickly and sometime ago, he started to look at the available choices. While it had originally been his policy to start with vehicles containing larger gas tanks, he had come to realize that Civics and Camrys were often better pickings. The Land Rovers and Expeditions sat empty and idle like stone lions guarding the gates of upper middle class suburbia.
After aiming his headlights at a promising mid-sized sedan, he put the car in park and grabbed his tools. The crowbar came out first and was introduced to the window with a swift and formal bow. Without missing a step, he opened the door and finding the release lever for the tank, popped it open with a quick flick of the wrist. It took him only a few moments to unscrew the cap, thread the rubber tube in, and start the flow of gasoline into an empty container. At this point it was instinctual and meditative, like a dance he had been practicing for years.
He always laughed at the irony of it all. Before everything changed he couldn’t get enough of the TV shows focusing on survival in a post-apocalyptic world. None of them predicted with any accuracy the situation in which he currently found himself. Circumstance had left supermarkets with full shelves while animal dung from which to recycle moisture was in short supply. Survival, oddly enough, required less effort than before. Unfortunately, living still required something altogether different.
Here's Part I:
https://steemit.com/writing/@ikilledcobain/the-shift-part-i-of-a-dystopian-novel-about-the-future
Here's Part II:
https://steemit.com/writers/@ikilledcobain/the-shift-part-ii-of-a-dystopian-novel-about-the-future-original-work
