If I’m going to die here, I should at least know the name of the town where I’ll be buried. This place is a bit of an anomaly. There are only a few residences before the small downtown emerges. The construction is newer and paint still fresh; far more pristine than anything I’ve stumbled across. Perhaps they’d just begun building the supporting residential infrastructure when all hell broke loose.
Or perhaps it was planned this way.
This ghost town is better served without a name. There is one that keeps popping up, though: Ezekiel. I’ve seen it printed on flyers throughout town and a few of the shops bear its name. The biblical implications unnerve me, but it’s better than Cannibal Creek or Manson Hills.
All right, Ezekiel. Tell God that I know he’s watching over me. And if it’s not him, then someone else certainly is. No doubt he thinks he's God as well.
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