He was a large, bulbous man leaning back in a chair that was five seconds from being rubble. At some point in the early morning, he had fell asleep while watching for intruders from his loft ten stories above the ground.
He had no idea how long he was traveling along the old route of I-80. He was heading west, trying to make his way to the New California Republic.
Everything that has a beginning, has an end. Whether it’s the life-cycle of some distant star or the short existence of a fly, everything eventually leads to ruin.