The car rolled into town, adorned with human skulls and other various bones. People gave it a wide berth, just the way Jackson liked it. His voodoo priest getup–complete with top hat and white face paint–only helped his cause.
Ever since the government collapsed the world had become a dangerous place. Keeping people at a distance was safer. Inspiring fear, even better. A stolen car and a few mutilated corpses were a small price to pay.
Now came the part he hated most: filling the gas tank. It meant he’d have to barter with yet another crazy hillbilly.
Written for Friday Fictioneers.
Click here to read stories for the other Fictioneers.