The Last Can
By David Bracke
Posted on
The man parted the bushes and limped out onto the road. A chunky wind of dirt and sand blew across his face, mixing with the faint plume of his breath. He pulled his scarf up over his mouth and nose and adjusted his goggles. He looked both ways; the desolation seemed to stretch on forever. He took out his old pistol and held it ready before crossing the street. The convenient store was nothing more than a burned-out wooden frame with broken windows. Weeds were growing in the open doorway and he crushed them down with his boot. A skinny rat scurried along the wall and disappeared behind the counter where the clerk would have sat.
With his pistol still raised he started inspecting each shelf for food. …
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