So, Minerva pissed in the snow and I ticked off the seconds until the ultimate showdown. My shadow didn’t give a shit about odds, or eventualities, or pain, or certain death. My shadow exhibited the type of nature that causes men to weigh themselves with stones before they jump into the midnight blue, causes them to mix the pills with antifreeze, trade the pistol bullet to the brain for a shotgun barrel in the mouth, just to be on the safe side. I kind-of, sort-of liked the idea that this might be the end, except for the fact sweet, loyal Minerva hadn’t asked for any of it, and my nature-my atavistic shadow-was, as usual, a belligerent sonofabitch. It was back to the previous ice age for us, the end for us. Snow was falling thick, and those small signs wouldn’t last long. Her tracks and the infrequent firefly sparks on the road were the only signs of life for miles. She raised her graying snout and growled softly at the void that surrounded us, poured from us. I loosed Minerva and watched her trot around the perimeter of the sodium glow. Periodically a semi chugged along the freeway, its running lights tiny and dim.
Placards were obscured by shadows and could’ve pronounced warnings or curses, could’ve said anything in any language.
Against the black backdrop it reminded me of a crypt or monument to travelers and pioneers lost down through the years.
#Reaper death seal hand signs windows
A metal building with a canted roof sat low and sleek in the center island, most of its windows dark. I parked the Chevy under one of the lamp posts that burned at either end of the lot. Snow dusted the asphalt and picnic tables of the deserted rest area. Night descended on Interstate-90 as I crossed over into the Badlands.
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