Exposed.

The dead man laid their own the side of the road. His torso bloodied and his clothes now stained a dark crimson. Iron emanated from his corpse. Cold and lifeless, he could no longer wander these roads. His brown hair was knotted, and greasy, and he had let it grow long past his ears over the past months. Young and dedicated he seemed, even after the passing through Death’s door. His feet were bear, sporting no socks or boots of any kind. His soles however were dainty, and smooth. He was certainly no callous footed Indian, but more of an asphalt stomping city fellow. In his breast pocket was a pack of cigarettes. Crushed and wrinkled, the red label was a rare one, a kind of cigarette I had not seen before. “Lucky Strike,” it read in bold red. In his other breast pocket was a bronze key, with a three etched into the surface.

The ground was peppered with all kinds of sharp, jagged edges. Broken glass from past auto wrecks scattered the highway shoulder, just waiting to give a bloody foot to any barefooted passerby. Not to mention the sharp volcanic rock that had been spewed across the land a hundred thousand years prior. In this county, a man doesn’t get far without a sturdy pair of boots. A nice leather bag was lying at his side, with the leather strap still entangled around his neck. In it was a collection of old cameras, but the secrets they held no longer meant anything to anyone. Except for the dead man of course. Rolls of film spiraled out of the leather bag, looping up and down. It squiggled about on the asphalt as the wind blew, scratching against the surface of the road. Ruined by the desert sun.

Three miles down the road led right past the Modoc Motel, a small little allotment, dedicated to those late night drifters with no number to dial, and no room to stay. Its kitschy front office had been decorated with cheap neon. Surprisingly, the place found itself lodging the likes of many great actors, and figures, as it was the only place to lodge on the highway for the next 150 miles. The place was a proud of what it used to be, that I knew. Welcoming it was. Stylish it was no longer. A cheap plastic pillar stood at waist height, just outside room three. A top it sat an ashtray. The crunched up butts half buried in the sand were of no interest to me. Except for one particular one. It had been smoked hastily. Printed on the paper was a small red label. “Lucky Strike.”

Inside the room was clean. Unruffled, and organized, it was as though he didn’t even sleep in the room. A tightly wound roll of film sat on the bed, with a piece of tape wrapped around it. “Exposed” it read. Stuffing the roll into the pocket of my jeans, it was time for me to leave this place once again. Besides, I had a new pair of boots that still needed some breaking in.