Lonely Roads, chapter 1

John continued to walk with his head down, container for holding gasoline in one hand. How long have I been walking? He thought to himself, then looked at his watch. "Stupid," he murmured "It's broken." He took off his watch and tossed it over his shoulder, not caring as it broke into pieces.

How long had John been walking? Minutes? Hours? Without the sun in the sky, he had no sense of time whatsoever. Hell, he didn't even know what direction he was walking in. John looked up at the full moon and stared at it, but his stare was broken when he hit the large green sign.

John fell down and rubbed his chin, which had hit the sign. He looked up at the object that had cut his chin and read what was printed on it: GAS STATION: 2 MILES AHEAD. "Finally!" John said to himself and stood up.

He dusted himself off and looked side-to-side: On his right, a barbed-wire fence that had been going on for the last mile or so, and beyond that, a large plain that stretched-out into darkness. To John's left was a two-lane gravel road, and beyond that was another barb-wire fence, and another plain.

John rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand and then held it away to find that his lip had been cut from the sign and was now bleeding a little.

Two hours ago, John guessed, he had been driving in his car, but then . . .

Then he had become an accidental killer.