Everyone is dead. You're all that's left.
You don't have to go to work anymore. You don't have to put on your customer service face. You don't have to pretend you like your friends.
No one can stop you from speeding. The wind breezes through your hair.
No one can stop you from screaming as loud as you want to. Your lungs burn.
No one can stop you from strolling the neighborhood naked. Kind of weird, but you do you, I guess. Everyone's too dead to care.
You can read all the books in the library. You have nothing but time.
You log into the library forum to write a review on your favorite. No one sees it. You scroll for hours and laugh with everyone else's reviews.
There's an about the author section on the back of the book. The sequel is set to come out in six months.
You stare at the announcement for too long. The plans he had that were cut short.
The book is probably on his laptop. Unpublished.
His picture smiles up at you. He lives (lived) in Atlanta, Georgia.
So you're on your way to Atlanta.
The car isn't yours. The CDs are from the library. They don't need it. You can sing as loud as you want. Drive as fast as you want. Your only obstacles are the empty cars that litter the streets.
You stop at a gas station for gas. The gasoline will go bad one day. Not today.
You pry open the automatic doors that aren't automatic anymore. A sickeningly sweet smell singes your nostrils. Melted slushie stains the floor. You return to the car with a haul of chips, candy, and snacks that taste like freedom.
Back on the road. The pedal's on the floor. The speedometer reads 93 miles per hour. You tear right past an abandoned police car and knock off its sideview mirror. It skids to the ground with a click, and disappears behind you.
No one can pull you over now.
A laugh bubbles in your throat until you're cackling like a madman and driving like one, too. The cops are dead. You'll never see a speeding ticket again. You outlived them all. There's no such thing as law anymore. The government is dead. The president is dead.
Thank God, if He isn't dead, too.
The Vice President is dead. Whoever comes next in line is dead. And the next, and the next, and the next, meaning that theoretically, you're the president now. You lead a globe with a bustling population of one. You voted for you in the election. It was an impossible decision, but in the end, you really did feel out of both candidates, you and you, that you would make the greatest president. And you're very thankful for your loyal supporters, who are also you.
Thanks, you. You're welcome, you. You'll be a great leader.
You grin and chug your flat soda. It tastes awful.
It hadn't occurred to you, in your bout of speeding and scream-singing and cry-laughing and laugh-crying and electing yourself president and not bothering to sleep amidst any of it, that you don't know where your esteemed author lives (lived) in Atlanta. He didn't put his home address on the back of his book. How inconvenient.
You look him up in a phone book you're shocked still exists, and then you're at his door. It's locked. Of course it is. You're used to that by now. People don't seem to mind their doors being broken down when they're dead.
The door falls, and fresh air hungrily pervades the new opening and disperses into the house. There's no dust on the floors. Dust gathers by movement. No one's moved here for a long time.
Might as well snoop. There's a wedding cake in the fridge. Its icing has melted and pooled onto the shelf. Shame no one got to have it when it was fresh.
Wilted roses sit on the countertop. Two mugs of cold coffee are next to it. You can see where he got the inspiration for the loveliest character.
The fabled laptop waits at his desk.
Hours. You open the first draft and don't stop reading until it's done. Your eyes are bleary. The sun rises and sets through the windows.
It ends on another cliffhanger.
You ransack the laptop. Every inch. You even stumble on his weird porn you really wish you didn't. But there's no third book.
There will never be a third book. No one to write it. No one to sell it. No one to read it.
You scream at the top of your lungs. No one can stop you. No one can hear you.
