More miscellaneous shit. What about Jack's compound? Wasn't that one of the most bizarre dreams you've ever had? Were you the actual arsonist who exploded the gas-line, or were you a horrified observer? It was excruciating when the city began to fall, and there was no where for me to go. Rob didn't make it. He still worked as an Intern for Fifth Third in downtown Lexington. That entire building shrugged its shoulders, as if to say, Who the fuck cares?, and tumbled. I think he was in there, along with all the trust fund documents. I had to get to the Safehaven, but separating me from the Safe- haven was miles and miles of wasted city engorged with angry killers. And they were all so bright. I found temporary rest and solace and sustenance in Jack's compound on the way to the haven. It was there that I realized that Weckham not only owned the land upon which my family had built their home, but he also owned the World. Even though I knew him, there was nothing he could do personally to transport me to the Haven. We stood and talked just within the gates of the compound, and I learned that Ralph had purchased a home not a mile from my family's, and for a moment I was filled with a strange joy and anticipation. I had no friends left. I thought how wonderful it would be to visit Ralph, to talk about some of our old adventures, taking flowers to pretty girls' front doors in the small hours of summer mornings, with a safe margin between us and dawn. But then I dismissed it as impossible. I left the compound and mounted a tram to Safe-Haven. It moved very slow, but the doors locked and I was safe along with a dozen people with muddled profiles. We traveled through the eery wastelands. The angry killers climbed on the tram like ants, and shouted and shrieked and cursed and cried. They all had terrible weapons clenched in their hands or attached to their bodies. I remember one man in particular. He stood alone, wearing nothing but red overalls. He had blonde hair and his mouth stayed open in a toothy snarl. A splintered baseball bat rested, aware, upon his shoulder. As we passed him by, I pressed against the glass of the tram and it yielded. It stretched against my hand like cellophane. My hand bumped against this guy's head and he howled. He glared at me and told me he was going to kill me, pushing his face into the elastic glass. I quickly apologized and his wild anger disappeared. He said, "Okay." He boarded the tram and sat down next to a profile and became another profile. We moved on.
Over
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