I'm actually writing things again.

The clock inside the forlorn pewter BMW 525i “sport wagon” glowed 2.18 in red letters. It was the only light inside the otherwise dark wagon as it idled with the headlamps off, halfway across a dim overpass of the Verdana Highway 6-7 multiplex, on Dissension Island. This was the least-travelled part of the inner-eastern Verdana corridor, a crackled four-lane facility over a swampy island that was probably just as deserted in broad daylight as it was now.



This particular overpass that accommodated a nameless supermarket-aisle-width road had an attachment of particular value to the owner of the old BMW waiting nearby. It was a fairly normal overhead sign that displayed the shields of the two joined highways and the nearest control city, the ambiguously named town of Somewhere about ten or eleven miles to the north. Called a pull-through, it was of a slightly older style used by the Verdana Department of Transportation (VRDOT), sporting actual state-highway shields bolted to the green informational sign on which “Somewhere” was taped on in dingy reflective Highway Gothic.



Trying to use the prize to make him forget his dislike of heights, Alexander McAndrews, screwdriver in hand, swung himself over the railing and onto the treacherously narrow platform at the bottom of the sign’s mount. It appeared as though it had light fixtures a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, he noticed as he creaked about on the grating, which had probably withstood a hurricane for every letter of the alphabet. He stuck his screwdriver in his pocket and began to palpate the sign and the affixed shields. The latter felt rough beneath the patina of black and white paint and reflective lettering, which excited him so he nearly fell to his death. Wooden signs with reflective lettering? Dear God, he thought, this sign is the Holy Grail of roadgeeking.



The highway below remained deserted as he gradually removed the sign from his mount, having three sides undone by the time he heard a car approaching.



“. . .Hell,” he muttered to himself, quickly jumping back onto and over the guardrail and pulling the sign back to a natural position just in time to see a Verdana State Police cruiser, one of those new Chargers, pass by heading south, its lights the only source of illumination on this entire side of the island. Licking his lips, he waited until the line of taillights was but a spot on the dark horizon, then climbed back onto the tedious platform and finished his work.



Having never stolen a pull-through before, he was surprised at how not heavy it was as he easily extended it up and against the side of his car. Success! He wiped his brow and admired the prize that was now his. He jumped back onto the concrete, glad to be back on a semi-real surface. The sign was about thigh-high on him and maybe five feet wide, fitting somewhat nicely into the back seat of his car, with its face leaning against the seat back. He stood back to examine his work from that state trooper’s perspective.



“Eh. . .someone might notice that,” he said. Now rummaging through the life he held in the wagon’s cargo bay, he located his large Verdana Tech University comforter and threw it back there, adjusting it to conceal the stolen sign from suspicious eyes and to make it look natural at the same time. Somewhat satisfied, he stepped into the BMW. Turning the headlamps on revealed the dashboard, casting a dim red glow onto his tired face and the rest of the car. He slid the console shifter into Drive and casually drove away.



No-Name Road disintegrated into the brushy swamp a short distance away from the overpass. He turned around shortly before the Leaning Tower of End State Maintenance Sign, mowing the tall grass as there was little more road for him to maneuver in, now heading east again. This road hugged the island’s eastern shore, serving the aging homes of a few aging holdouts before turning back and meeting a similarly unceremonious end at the freeway. This side had an interchange, likely the loneliest spot in all Verdana. As he reentered the freeway, he craned his neck around to see what the signs called that road, but couldn’t see anything, so he continued on, listening to part of the Top Gun soundtrack playing on the White City-area classic-rock station. The clock now glowed 2.44. He upturned the dregs of his Full Throttle into his throat. It didn’t stop him from yawning until his cheeks cramped.



As he continued south through nowhere, contemplating finding a spot to crash for the night so he could continue the rest of his quest to White City, he began to see the dancing blue and white lights that could be nothing else but a Verdana state cop, underneath the very overpass from which he had just stolen the pull-through.



“. . .Hell.”



As he got closer, he could now see there were two cruisers, an Expedition and a Charger, probably the same one that passed him earlier. He took a breath, and just as he was about to exhale, he saw a figure in a reflective vest, waving his hands as if to flag Alexander down, who immediately imagined the rage face in his head, but obliged. The policeman looked to be in his middle forties, with a face chiseled from the sort of driftwood that provided the scenery along this freeway and a belly that obscured his leather belt. He shined a flashlight into Alexander’s face as he rolled down the window.



“Mornin’,” he said in a reedy voice. “License and registration, please?”



“Sure. . .” Alexander said. He extracted his license from his wallet, then waded through the glove box to find his registration card, which was one of the newer proofs that was a credit-card-sized replica of his license plate with the vehicle information on the back. He handed both to the officer and tried to look innocent.



“You’re from Eposz?” the officer asked. “What brings you all the way out here?”



“Heading to school,” Alexander replied.



“Oh. VSU?”



“Tech.”



“Ah.” The officer handed him back his cards. “I did a bit at Tech before I went into the service, back before it got nerdy, haha.”



“. . .It wasn’t nerdy before?”



The officer laughed deeply, his vest moving in time with the juggling of his belly. “Eh, what can you expect from a tech school? Have a good one and be careful.”



With no valid response, Alexander rolled up his window and continued on his way, yawning widely as he did so. It was now almost three in the morning, and he was still in the best nowhere had to offer. He sighed. With nothing to see on this stretch of road, he let the scenery roll in and out without taking anything in. His eyes slid lazily to his red-lit dashboard and scrutinized what it was telling him. The speedometer needle leaned between the number eighty and the thin line to its right, the tachometer pointed at just under 2500 rpm, and he was somehow doing just under twenty miles per gallon at this speed. Neither the fuel gauge nor the temperature gauge had moved since the last time he looked at them.



Dissension Island became narrower and narrower the further south he travelled, until the island disappeared entirely and he was on a bridge over the Verdana River. He knew this bridge, but couldn’t think of the name of the thing as his tires clomped over the expansion joints. He yawned yet again and slammed his fist against the steering wheel.



“Damn it,” he whispered to himself, “I should’ve stopped in Somewhere.”



A sign materialized from the darkness, advertising from its lonely gantry that the “Big V Truck Stop” was a mile away. Attached to the gantry’s leg was a beaten sign that advertised food, fuel, and. . .lodging! So there was a God, and he wanted to go to sleep just as much as he did. He shook the Full Throttle can, knowing he downed the rest of it earlier, but wanting to make sure, anyway. Land reappeared beneath the bridge, and the brightly lit truck stop filled the island on which it was constructed. He saw the yellow and black glow of a Pilot, complete with attached Wendy’s and the small motel behind it. Much like the unnamed road from which he acquired his prize, the road that connected the truck stop to the freeway dissolved right next to where the off-ramp ended. He turned left and headed toward the light.