He found four five-gallon gas cans and filled them, placing them in the bed of his truck. He looked back at Mr. Harnack, nodded his head, and drove off, heading for the police station, only a few blocks away. The dispatcher was dead, not a mark on him. On the note pad on the table was scribbled: “I’m the last one alive. Getting weak. No help. Atomic bombs hit some cities. Some type of germ stuff got the rest of us. God have—” He never got to finish the sentence. “Atomic bombs?” Ben said aloud, his voice hollow and echoing in the room. “Germs?” It really happened! he thought. I slept through a goddamned war! “Maybe I’m lucky I did,” he muttered. He started to pick up the mike to see if anyone would answer his call, then pulled his hand back. “Yeah—somebody might answer it. But it might be somebody I don’t want to see.” He knew only too well that many times human scum survived when others more deserving did not. Ben looked around the small station house (why do they always smell like piss?), could find nothing he felt he could use, then drove to the sheriffs office.
