When the Sky Goes Dark

by Oliver C Seneca

  The Speedway gas station was burned to a blackness.

  Chapter THIRTY-FOUR

  Huntington

  Jon didn’t get any closer than the side of the road, which was brushed with black ash. The stench was harsh. His lungs wept.

  Blackened rubble and warped metal were all that remained of the Speedway gas station. It looked as if a missile had struck it. The four pumps were fried and covered in ash. The metal roofing was completely blackened and ripped on the right-end, exposing the metal skeleton inside. Three cars, two of them pickups and the other a tiny little four-door, were burnt and shriveled. The gas station didn’t look much better as the entire storefront was blackened from the fire’s wrath. It was hard to see the letter S across the top of the roof. It was nothing more than a filthy imprint of what the lettering used to be.

  The scene was something from a post-apocalyptic movie, but Jon’s shock didn’t last long as his thoughts returned to the night before. He’d seen worse than this. He saw that tractor-trailer plow into that man and light up the entire turnpike with its crushing speed. The same thing probably happened here. But where’s the tractor-trailer? It didn’t matter. Jon didn’t have a car. Gas was no longer on his list. Neither were cigarettes. I’m sorry, Emily.

  Speedway’s remnants were so black in contrast to the morning’s bright and blue sky, that Jon hadn’t noticed the McDonald’s standing to the right of it. Not as rattled from the fate of its neighbor, the Golden Arches stood with its darkened windows reflecting light. One window, however, looked smashed open.

  A couple of cars were in the parking lot. A tractor-trailer parked behind it with its front facing out toward the west. No movement from what Jon could see.

  He approached McDonald’s and found no signs of life outside.

  All of the cars were locked. No one was inside any of them, not even the tractor-trailer around back. It was a lonely lot. There was only one other place to go as Jon hopped through the shattered window and into the eating area inside.

  Chapter THIRTY-FIVE

  McDonald’s

  The McDonald’s eating area was lit only by the daylight through the windows. Behind the counter, light streamed through the vacant drive-thru. There was a man in a trucker cap lying face-down between two tables. A stain on the brown tiles surrounded his head. His white tank top shirt had stains of what looked like a blast of Coca-Cola.

  An older man in a jacket sat in the corner at one of the tables, fast asleep. His head rested on the window behind him as his breakfast sandwich lay cold on a yellow wrapper.

  Jon approached both men and found they weren’t interested in talking or moving an inch from their places of rest.

  Damn it.

  The soda fountain wasn’t working. No power. Jon turned toward the counter, which was stained with either blood or soda, maybe both.

  There were napkins and cups thrown around. A harsh stench of meat filled the air. Rotten meat. It emanated from beyond the counter and silver shelves that fenced off the cooking area. A door in the back was open to the morning air, but it wasn’t enough to flush out the smell of rotting food that stung Jon’s nose.

  Behind the counter, and just before the silver shelving, Jon could see a darkened, little refrigerator with two bottles of white milk inside. He walked around the side of the cash register and saw a young, fat female employee lying dead on the ground with her headset smashed into her face. Jon looked away just after noticing her silver name tag displaying COURTNEY. The rotten meat was stabbing into his nose. He sucked his upper lip to his nostrils to shield the smell. Flies buzzed around. One flew on Jon’s arm and he shook it off.

  Not much further behind Courtney was another employee, face-down by the drive-thru window. He was next to the fryolator that had a brownish liquid settled inside. Grease. A big vat of grease.

  It was a Black man with burns on the side of his face that seemed to have fused with the tiles on the floor. Jon didn’t dare turn him over to see the damage.

  The flies buzzed.

  He leaned over Courtney to open the refrigerator. No coolness came from it and the bottles seemed to be room temperature. Jon wasn’t sure how long ago the place had power, but he didn’t care. He grabbed the bottles and shook them. Then, he twisted the cap of one of the bottles and drank lukewarm milk. Not spoiled yet. It was almost refreshing. It helped the taste of vomit and granola for a moment as he drank and moved back into the eating area, trying not to make any eye contact with Courtney or the burnt man, or get another whiff of that putrid meat.

  After downing the second bottle of milk, Jon had to use the bathroom. Perhaps it was the warm milk that was stewing up something in his stomach along with whatever he last ate before the granola. Doritos? Chocolate? What did I eat before that? He couldn’t remember for sure what he had eaten from the vending machine back at the library. It wasn’t whatever Mark and Kevin must have eaten, thank God. If that was even the reason for their sleep and insanity. The thought of those two, and now thoughts of Dan and Emily, made his stomach churn. The THWACK of the bat against Mark’s head. Thinking about the sound made Jon cringe. That scene replayed in his mind for a moment. It made him feel sick, but he tried to shake it as he moved away from the cooking area.

  The men’s bathroom was pitch-black. Jon used the light from the flash of his iPhone camera to look around. No bodies. No trash. Just a quiet public restroom that smelled like urinal cakes with a hint of excrement. There were more flies in here, climbing on the white walls with their little black legs. Jon shined the phone’s light over the toilet and saw yellow in the bowl from the previous user.

  He did his business and flushed with his shoe. He was surprised to see the bowl flush without a problem. The water must still be working. He came out of the stall and turned on the sink below a fingerprint-covered mirror. Cold water spurted out. Jon propped his phone on top of the paper towel dispenser and cupped some water in his hand, sniffed it, and splashed it on his bloodied and dried face and hair. He even cupped some into his mouth to rid the taste of the old milk.

  Then he had an idea.

  Jon returned to the eating area and grabbed the two empty milk bottles off the table. He went behind the counter, grabbed a large paper cup from the line of circular cup dispensers, and walked to the soda fountain for a large lid and a straw.

  Jon brought them into the bathroom and first rinsed out the milk bottles with the sink water, pouring whitish water out and down the rusty-ringed drain. He filled one all the way up with water and drank it. Water splashed out of the sides of his mouth and dripped on his chin and shirt. Ahhh. He refilled it and then filled the other. After making sure the lids were screwed on tight, he pushed them in his backpack on top of the granola bar box and clothes and zipped it up. Then, he filled the large-sized paper cup all the way to the top, pressed on the clear plastic lid, and inserted the straw through the hole. He took a sip.

  Ahhh. It was the finest water that Jon had ever drank.

  Now with his holy grail of McDonald’s bathroom sink water, Jon ate the rest of his granola crumbs. He ruled out dehydration as his inevitable cause of death, but hunger still lingered. The crumbs weren’t much but were enough to give him the energy to keep him going for a little longer. They wouldn’t be able to carry him for the entire day. Too bad McDonald’s was filled with rotting meat, Jon would’ve loved nothing more than a Big Mac, large fries, and a chocolate milkshake.

  Jon was about to step out through the window when he remembered the cars and tractor-trailer that were parked around the building. A Honda and a Pontiac were out front. Keys. I need keys. He glanced back at the dead trucker. I can’t drive a fucking tractor-trailer. Then, his eyes moved over to the counter where he knew those two dead employees lay just behind it. Shit. No way did he want to get up close and personal with those bodies, but he knew for sure that the two cars in the front lot belonged to them. One of them at least. It had to be true. Just as true as the keys were in their pockets. Their cold, dead pockets.
r />   Jon sighed and walked behind the counter to see Courtney still lying there. Dead. Her fat-cheeked face looked punched inward, and her microphone headset was shoved up her bloodied nose. Jon held his breath. Fuck it, here we go. He crouched down and felt around the pockets of her black work pants.

  A bulge from her left pocket felt like keys and Jon shoved the top of his hand into it. Tight. His middle finger got to the keyring and he almost fell backward with them popping from the skin-tight pocket. A large set of keys around a pink ring jingled and jangled. He fumbled around with them until he found a car remote with a Honda logo. A silver button clicked out a key. Perfect. With no need to work with the burnt Black man, Jon got up, grabbed his large cup of water, and left the restaurant through the broken window.

  Courtney’s white Honda reminded him of Emily’s Nissan. An older, used model that doubled as a personal trash can. It also had an aroma like Emily’s car, except that it was McDonald’s food. Courtney must have taken her work home with her every day.

  Jon put his backpack in the passenger seat and twisted the ignition. Half a tank of gas, what a pleasant surprise! Thank you, Jesus. That was enough to get him home.

  He fetched his phone from his pocket. 42%. The screen popped up the map app and Jon punched in his home address again. 524 Franklin Court, Springsdale, Pennsylvania. He clicked START ROUTE, bringing back the robot woman’s voice.

  STARTING ROUTE TO 524 FRANKLIN COURT IN SPRINGSDALE, PENNSYLVANIA. TURN RIGHT ONTO VALLEY ROAD, AND IN ONE AND A HALF MILE, KEEP RIGHT TO MERGE ONTO THE PENNSYLVANIA TURNPIKE.

  A growl in Jon’s stomach made him check around the car for any form of food. No success. Not even a leftover scrap of a quarter pounder or a flake of a fry. Nothing. He thought for a moment about getting the keys from the Black man or even the trucker or old man to see if they had any snacks in their vehicles, but he couldn’t waste time. The sunlight wouldn’t last forever, so he put the car in reverse and backed out of the spot, turning right onto Valley Road.

  Chapter THIRTY-SIX

  Mirch’s Motel

  The Honda drove under the overpass as Jon listened to the only station that remained on air: 91.7. Classical music. Orchestral tunes played without interruption from a radio host or commercials. Just a constant stream of Vivaldi and Beethoven.

  IN ONE MILE, KEEP RIGHT TO MERGE ONTO THE PENNSYLVANIA TURNPIKE.

  Jon’s stomach growled again. Going number two in the bathroom must have emptied him out, and with all the water he downed in a short period of time, he felt like he would have to piss again soon. But Jon didn’t worry as there were plenty of trees around him to pull over and take a leak on.

  The woods were on either side of the road as the Honda glided through the empty road toward an upcoming bend. As Jon approached it, he saw the woods break away to reveal a brick building with MIRCH’S MOTEL displayed in red lettering on top of a long, grey roof. The lot was empty.

  Jon would’ve kept driving, but the sight of a snack and soda machine outside of the place caused him to slow the Honda down and turn left into the lot. His stomach did the driving.

  It was a quiet, old motel. The sign on the checkin door said SORRY, WE ARE CLOSED.

  Dark-red bricks and white doors that looked like they had taken a beating off of their hinges more than once lined the front. Small porches sat at each door with plastic chairs and tables holding ashtrays on top. The parking lot looked like one big ashtray. It smelled smokey and looked dirty. Murders. Drug deals. Who knows what had gone down in this backwoods motel? None of that mattered to Jon. The only thing on his mind was getting into those machines.

  The soda machine was a newer model that just had the big plastic buttons that dispensed the drinks. There was no glass to break except for the vintage snack machine that shelved chocolates and chips behind glass.

  Jon tried using one of the plastic chairs to break it. No use, it only wobbled the glass and cracked the plastic. Then, he grabbed one of the ashtrays and smashed as hard as he could against the machine. CRACK. It put a big, X-shaped smash across the glass in an instant. CRACK. SMASH. Jon squeezed his eyes and covered his face as the glass dropped from the machine and onto the asphalt.

  He grabbed little bags of Cheetos and Lays sour cream and onion chips, Reese’s Cups and Twix Bars. He pulled out as much as he could carry and threw them into the backseat of the Honda. More and more he grabbed. He tore open a bag of Doritos and ate it within seconds. His fingers were covered in orange. He licked them off and opened a cinnamon bun. He devoured it and went back to take more. The plan was to empty the whole goddamn machine.

  Jon was an animal between eating and stealing. He dumped another batch into the car and was about to turn up from the backseat door to grab the last row of chocolates when he felt something hard sticking into his back.

  Chapter THIRTY-SEVEN

  Interrogation

  “Don’t move an inch. Put both yer hands up right now,” a man commanded in a loud, backwoods accent. It reminded Jon of Dan, but even more hillbillyish. Part of him hoped he’d turn around and it would be Dan, alive and well. Although, the tone was not fit for a friendly reunion. It sounded like Dan’s evil twin.

  “What are you doin’ here? Lookin’ for trouble?” the man asked.

  Jon swallowed hard. His arms shook as he held them up like a football goal post. He could only assume the jabbing in his backside was the barrel of a gun. “No, sir.”

  “Then what are you after then? Lookin’ to rob an old man’s place?” The way he said the word you sounded like yew.

  “No, sir. I was just looking for some help.”

  “What kindsa help you lookin’ for?”

  “My friend and I were in an accident on the turnpike and I had to walk to Huntington, sir. I was trying to find some food and get back on the road to get to my family.” He felt sick. Regretful.

  “Where’d you get this car?” the countryman asked.

  “I got it from McDonald’s, just up the road.” Jon’s voice trembled.

  “You steal it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where’s yer friend?”

  “She’s dead.” Jon swallowed again. A slight sourness of milk crept up from his throat despite all the water he had downed. “She died in the car crash.” Jon closed his eyes when he said it.

  “Hmm. You ain’t one of them lunatics, are ya?”

  Jon shook his head.

  “Turn around. Slowly now,” the man commanded.

  With arms still trembling, Jon turned his body to face the mysterious hillbilly man who was neither large nor frightening, if you didn’t count the hunting rifle now pointed at Jon’s face. He was young and thin, maybe Jon’s age.

  The man had buzzed brown hair. A stern face. Cold, brown eyes. There was gauze wrapped around his left forearm. He was wearing a plain, white T-shirt tucked into navy slacks that looked too big around the waist and too short for him. They sat atop shined, black oxford shoes. Something shone behind him. Handcuffs. He looked like a cop in the middle of getting dressed for work. Perhaps he was a rookie with clothes that didn’t fit.

  “How’d you get all that blood on yer face? Car crash?” His voice didn’t match his appearance.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You ever kill somebody before?”

  “No…well…” Jon didn’t want to talk about what happened with Mark.

  “Tell me!” the man shouted and inched the barrel closer to Jon’s frightened face.

  “Uh…well...” Jon swallowed hard. His mouth and throat were bone-dry. “I had to kill one of the… maniacs… or whatever they are…he was attacking my friend and I had no choice. I used a baseball bat to bash his head in…”

  The man paused for a moment and then asked, “If I didn’t have this gun, would you try to kill me?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “You tellin’ me the truth?”

  Jon was so nervous that his head was vibrating. He took too long to answer.

  The man RA
MMED the barrel of the rifle into Jon’s head like he was trying to pop a balloon.

  “Fuck!” Jon shouted and rubbed his forehead, feeling the blood drip right above his left brow. It stung like hell. The spot on his head began to throb. He could see red droplets dangling above his eyelash. Somehow, by the grace of God, his glasses were still intact.

  “Don’t you lie to me! And keep yer fuckin’ hands up, I didn’t tell you to move, you thief!” the man shouted. “How can I trust you when the whole world is run amok with liars and fuckin’ psychos!?”

  Jon stood silent with his eye twitching. A bloody raindrop fell into his eye and he blinked as the red covered his iris.

  The man’s stare remained. “Empty them pockets for me. Put everything you got on the hood of the car there. Go on. Any quick movements and I’m blastin’ yer ass, got it? That cut’s just the beginning.”

  Jon pulled his phone from his pocket and placed it on the hood of the still-running Honda. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet.

  “That’s all I have in my pockets,” Jon uttered.

  “Alright, put them hands back up.” The man kept the rifle pointed with his right hand as his left grabbed the wallet and flipped it open. Jon’s license slid out into the man’s fingers and he held the license up next to Jon. Jon could now see the gauze had a tiny red stain in the middle of it.

  “What’s yer name?” the man asked.

  “Jonathan Barnes.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Springsdale.”