Sudden Independents

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Hunter shattered the minivan’s window with a broken chunk of asphalt and shoved the dried-husk of the driver aside. Dust from six years of slow decay rose in the sweltering heat, reflecting sunshine in a cloud of golden glitter. Waving off the floating remains, he reached inside and found the lever that released the fuel door. He grabbed a pair of Ray-Bans off the dash and licked them clean before sliding them on. Adjusting the rearview mirror, he checked out his new look and then smiled at the dead man. Nothing beats a nice pair of shades on a bright, sunny day.

Hunter removed the gas cap with a pressurized pop—a good thing—and fed his siphon hose into the minivan’s tank. He filled a small cup and checked the quality. Free of floating particles, the fumes and the taste also passed inspection; thankfully the gasoline remained pure enough to run his motor. He siphoned again and topped off his Kawasaki two-wheeler. Without the empty tank problem, the trip back home to Independents would be a cinch.

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