After breakfast the next morning, I realized something grim. I was down to my last few cans of gasoline, and with the power well on its way to going out permanently, it would be quite hard to get gas from the pumps. I mulled this over for a while, and then got an idea. If I could just find a gasoline tank truck, I’d be set for at least six months. That’s what I’ll do, I decided, I’ll find one of those babies.
I found an ugly red sports car on the road outside my neighborhood and dumped a can into it. I drove around town and looked until lunchtime, at which point I pulled into a Wendy’s, where an immature thought struck me.
“Why not?” I inquired out loud, and floored the accelerator.
With a screech, the little car exploded through the plate glass at the front of the restaurant, scattering tables and chairs across the dining room, cracking the windshield, blowing one tire, and finally coming to a halt wedged into the condiments bar, wheels turning slowly. I had to break the back window to get out.
I took a length of hose that I had in my pack and siphoned the gas back into the can. This car wasn’t going anywhere. I also took my trusty sharpie and scribbled my name and satellite phone all over the walls. I was trying to attract as much attention as possible, just in case more survivors were around.
I then went into the kitchen and turned on the gas skillet. I ripped open a new packet of bacon and dumped it on the griddle, as well as a pack of hamburgers. In a few minutes, I had made myself the world’s most badass Baconators ever. I enjoyed the fruits of my labor, and, dodging the remains of my ride, I went out in search of another.
I fueled up a smart little hybrid a few hundred feet down the road and buzzed on. Sure enough, within the hour, I had found what I was looking for. The giant cylindrical beast had run into a telephone pole and knocked it down, but it still looked functional. I went past it to a gas station a half mile away and, taking advantage of the temporarily up-and-running power grid, “bought” my fuel (I say this loosely, as I convinced the computer I had purchased $2,000 of diesel). I filled the truck and started it with a roar.
It handled awfully. The clutch was heavier than anything I had encountered, and during one stall, I was about ready to give up and just come out here when I needed gas. However, I noticed the manifest said the truck had 7,000 gallons of gasoline in it. This motivated me, and I had the truck home an hour later. I was forced to drive it straight into my driveway, as it was far too difficult to back up. Nevertheless, I was satisfied. I had enough fuel to run all my vehicles for at least a year, and a sweet truck rig to boot. My hopes were dashed, though, when I realized I had no way of unhooking it from the trailer. Oh, well.
I filled all my vehicles to the brim, just for the fun of it, and then spent the rest of the daylight hours fixing bars to the windows. When the sun set, a rain came as well, and I stayed up most of the night replacing the doors in my house with solid steel models liberated from Lowes. My propane lanterns really helped in this, and I resolved to pick up more as soon as possible.
I fell asleep around midnight, my head resting on an old door and a screwdriver in my hand. For the first time since D-Day, I had no nightmares.