Chapter 1: Neon Exodus
Bill Hanford flicked yet another cigarette out the window as he cruised north on Route 15 with the top down. Relaxed behind the wheel, he was stretching out from the hell of air travel with an old habit: speed. You can't smoke at thirty thousand feet, but you sure as hell can on the freeway. This was his third smoke since getting off that soul-crushing shuttle to the airport parking lot—and he'd only been on the road a few miles. He frowned, knowing exactly what three in thirty minutes meant, then shrugged it off as inevitable.
Airlines had turned into puritanical hellholes. They kept the booze flowing for the lushes, letting the drunks get sauced by cruising altitude but left smokers to suffer in silence. No wonder there was air rage and dwindling revenue. Screw them. Next time, he told himself, it'd be a road trip—plenty of smokes, no jackass flight attendants asking him to buckle up.
The freeway was deserted at 12:30 a.m., unusual for a Friday night. That was about the only upside to getting stuck with a late flight into McCarran. Every street in Vegas would've been clogged on a November evening if he'd caught the 4:40 back from San Fran.
Las Vegas—what the locals sneeringly called "The Valley" or "Lost Wages"—was just a blob of suburban sprawl with a neon tumor in the middle. A chaotic blend of grid and confusion, it was pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle missing half its pieces. The city used to be a pit stop with under a hundred thousand folks when no one wanted to bake under the desert sun. Now, with AC and false hope, it had exploded to over two million desperate souls.
Even in the dead of night, the roads were behind the times, a few lonely lanes trying to carry a city bursting at the seams. Even at half past midnight on a Friday, traffic was still a possibility.
Citywide stats called it "growth." Bill called it an infestation.
Still, people kept coming—like moths to neon. The whole damn place was a bad habit, like one of those two-dollar-a-cigarette joints on the Strip that preyed on weak willpower and nicotine-deprived tourists. The local news bragged about 5,000 new residents each month like it was a good thing. What they didn't say was how many of those poor suckers packed up and fled once reality hit.
He pictured a reverse exodus: the hopefuls marching in under banners of cheap housing and glitzy entertainment, only to slink out broke, sunburned, and bitter.
The sick part? He got it. He understood why they came back. The city sunk its hooks into you. Even the ones who bolted couldn't stay away long. Hotel rates dropped, paychecks shrank, and they came crawling back to their slot-machine overlords—sadder but no wiser. It was a cycle of glitter and disappointment that never quite let you go.
Bill had thought about leaving more than once. But nowhere else gave you what Vegas did. Where else could you grab a steak and cocktail 24/7 at any bar on any corner? And not just some Denny's slop—we're talking real steak.
Hell, you couldn't go a week without spotting a Hollywood celeb.
Comedians, lounge acts, rock bands—Vegas was their playground. Sure, it could drive a person crazy, but it also comes with perks. Namely: women. Single, available, and more than willing. And if you live here, expect family and friends to visit constantly. Everyone needs an excuse to come to Vegas. People in Cleveland don't have this problem.
It's a social trap.
Just as the desert tends to play tricks on your sense of distance, Bill had to slam on the brakes when an old man suddenly drifted into his lane in a smoking blue Saturn. Tires squealed as he downshifted and punched the throttle, switching lanes with practiced ease. He didn't need to look at the dash to know he was speeding—and he didn't care.
Things could be worse, he figured. Had he caught that earlier flight, he wouldn't be enjoying this joyride in Shay's bright yellow Corvette.
A smirk crept across his unshaven face. Over forty, and his reflexes were still razor-sharp—but testing them in someone else's car might not be the best idea. Oh well.
He reached for the cigarette lighter, eased off the throttle, and dropped into sixth gear. The speedometer dipped under 100.
It was Shay's idea to swap cars for the week anyway. She'd been tearing up Red Rock in his Jeep—might as well let her Vette stretch its legs. With only 11,000 miles, she probably hadn't even unleashed its full 400 horsepower.
Shay was a car girl—one of the rare ones who actually gave a shit about "guy stuff." Off-roading, fishing, football—she was in it for real with none of that East Coast pretense he was used to.
He chuckled. Shay was easily the best he'd met in a long time.
Growing up on dirt roads had taught Bill how to handle any vehicle with reckless finesse. Drift racing was second nature long before it became ESPN material. He'd miraculously dodged jail and hospital beds more times than he could count.
Sliding into corners and powering out of curves always gives him a rush—even if he'd only been gone five days. The airport hassle sucks but hey, bills don't pay themselves.
Maybe settling down locally wouldn't be so bad. Striking nurses didn't thrill him like they used to, and soul-crushing RN shifts weren't exactly his idea of a good time either.
Once inside, he glanced at his phone—three missed calls in a twenty-minute drive. One from Shay. One from work. One from his fellow ER nurse Troy.
He hit redial.
"Hello?" came Troy's voice, half drowned in background noise.
"What's up?"
"Hey Bill! You working tonight? Did they call you?"
"HELL NO," Bill snapped. "Just got off the plane half an hour ago. Jesus Christ."
"Can't spare a few hours to help us out? We're dying over here. ICU holds everywhere—"
Bill cut him off. "Dude, of course you're struggling. We're the third-busiest ER in the country. Always holding patients."
"Breakfast tomorrow?"
"Yeah, sure. Roadrunner on Buffalo."
"Great. Catch ya then. Tell 'em my plane crashed. Cya."
Click.
© 2025 Brian Fleig All Rights Reserved.
Join the Discussion