[ WP ] Many people consider this the end of the world or hell on earth . Me ? I actually like it better this way .

The motorcycle roared down the highway like an untamed beast. I wove in between the old cars, rusting on the highway shoulders as the grit and wind slowly reclaimed them. Duke smiled from the sidecar, tongue hanging out of his slobbery mouth as he took in the view. 
 
 Across the horizon, a storm was brewing. Dark clouds swirled around mountaintops in the distance, and the sound of thunder echoed across the brown grass of the flat plains like the voice of God. The clouds became hazy, obscuring the snowy peaks: a distant rain, coming closer. 
 
 I pulled into an abandoned ranch; the purr of the bike quieted to a deep throb. The old fence separating the land from the highway had long since rotted and crumbled, leaving only a few remaining posts jutting up, formerly white paint yellowed and peeling off under the constant sun. The driveway was choked with weeds, and the porch sagged under my weight as Duke and I trod up the creaking steps. A doorbell, still shiny, had been waiting for decades for someone to give it a ring. I'd pushed plenty of these back before the End. Plenty of sales calls, plenty of doors slammed in my face. Plenty of lonely, cheap hotel rooms and long-distance calls to women who did n't really care about me. Just for fun, I pressed the button, but the house remained silent. 
 
 The hinges creaked with effort as I opened the front door. I was probably the first visitor the old place had seen since the End. And I would probably be the last. The furniture inside was covered in dust, but the synthetic fabrics of the couch were holding together nicely. Pictures of the long-dead inhabitants lined the walls, smiled back at us. Happy that their home could shelter two wandering travelers, I liked to imagine. Duke immediately jumped into a plush armchair, throwing a cloud of dust into the air. He panted at me with a big grin; proclaiming himself king of the living room. `` That's just fine,'' I told him. `` I wanted the couch anyway!'' 
 
 I went back to the bike, secured it under a tarp, and brought back some supplies: hot dogs, beans, and a good book. My favorite ( and Duke's ). I tore up some of the old floor boards and made a fire in the old brick chimney. It sparked and crackled with life, and the whole room seemed to glow as though thrilled to have someone back in the house. 
 
 The rain reached the house just as we were enjoying our meal. It was light, at first. A whispering, light pitter-patter against the old roof. The storm grew louder. Ear-splitting thunder echoed around us, and drops began to fall through the many cracks above. The rain began to pound on the ceiling like an angry ex boyfriend that wanted to be let in. But the fire was warm and the couch was soft. Duke snorted as he devoured the hot dogs and curled up by my side while I read. The rain pinging against the remaining glass windows and shingles sang a chorus of lullabies. We fell asleep together dreaming of where we would go next.
