Those that don’t have gas ranges do have gas hot water heaters. I let Stuart sever those lines, since I don’t think my skills are up to it. Would suck to blow myself up prematurely. Elsbeth’s job is to take the small amount of liquid fuel we can scavenge from the houses (gasoline, kerosene, fucking citronella lamp oil, etc) and pour lines going from the front doors of each house to a central spot at the end of my cul de sac. We’re breathing heavy by the time we meet back at my house. “Yours too then?” Stuart asks. “No,” I shake my head, “it’ll cut off our escape route.” “Lucky you,” Stuart replies. “Hey,” I snap, “you think this place will last long when everything else goes up? Do you? You’re a fucking idiot if you do!” “Don’t fight,” Elsbeth says quietly. “I get ya,” Stuart says.
