One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 1, page 3

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Bhanar Narak hadn’t seen any road signs for over an hour, and that got him worrying he’d missed a turn. He rubbed his eyes and reached for another can of cola. He must’ve messed up. Nothing around but dark desert and stars. The fuel gauge twitched near half. There’d have to be a fuel station in the next hundred miles. There had to be. Or so Bhanar hoped. His patched-together old truck was a fuel fiend.

Bhanar cracked open the cola and took a long swig. The cool elixir flowed through his muscular body, nearly instantly recharging him. He just might make it. If only his audio cassette deck wasn’t busted. If only there were any good radio stations out in this Rívorí-cursed wasteland.

At least there was another automobile on this road, heading the same direction. Bhanar had been slowly catching up to it and now it was only a quarter mile ahead. When he caught it, he’d have to speed up to pass, or else he’d be driving in the left lane forever.

With his slender right hand, Bhanar put the can of cola in the holder, flipped on the cab light, and grabbed the awkwardly folded roadmap. He should have been to the Éíkızo-Suívıpíko Highway by now, surely. If he was on the right road. Plagues. He should never have gotten off the expressway.

Matter of fact, Bhanar should have arrived at the motorbike race camp an hour ago and now been asleep, resting for the morning trials. But no, the Sarıman border guards had made him wait and wait and then questioned him for over an hour about where he was going and all the stuff in the back of his truck: his motorbike; his elaborate audio speaker system; his ocean-diving gear; his rifle. All his worldly possessions--minus the school projects and toys that his mom and dad kept. He sure wouldn’t need that crap at college.

Those Pétíso-damned border guards had recognized him, Bhanar was sure of it, and they’d just wanted to prove their power. Bhanar had had enough news photos snapped that his round, tan face and short, spiky black hair surely would be known by half the people in any country on any world--the Union of Narakamíníkı-Sarıma, for sure.

The leading auto’s glowing red taillights topped a rise and winked out of sight.

Bhanar gave his old truck more fuel and it charged up that hill, growling deeper than before. He took another drink of cola, nearly emptying the can.

Tíhímé Holy Day songs jingled through Bhanar’s brain--even though it was the middle of summer. Bhanar cursed and started singing an Eternal Hearses song.

“Eat your Tara-fucking love! You can kiss it all goodbye! When I come ’round again, then you know you’re gonna die!”

Headlights cut through the air above his truck, then he crested the hill and the other auto’s brights blinded Bhanar. The young man flashed his own brights, hoping the jerk driver would show some courtesy or get a Tara-fucking clue.

And then Bhanar’s windscreen exploded.

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