by Dan Henk
The black walls of foliage were penetrated by a dot of light in the distance. As I drew closer it gradually took shape as a small gas station. It was dimly lit, although any illumination in this darkness shone like a beacon. Its weather-stained white metal sign reflected back the rays of my high beams, the corroded edges dissolving under an onslaught of rust. As I closed in, I noticed it appeared abandoned, one dim light bulb gleaming through a dirty front window. There were no vehicles and no signs of life. It sustained two old pumps and a parking lot that consisted of packed dirt and a small, whitewashed, yet filthy brick hut. The left side harbored a one-car garage, a segmented metal gate almost completely debilitated into rusty scrap shielding its entryway. I pulled up next to a pump and climbed out. The small building had one wooden door, the paint long since worn away, with two grimy windows abutting both sides. The right one was almost ensconced in total darkness. The left one glowed slightly, an indiscernible light source shining through the grungy glass, its wooden corners harboring reflecting drifts of sand. A thin breeze whistled through, rattling the leaves overhead and swinging the metal sign to and fro with a raspy creak. I walked over to one of the pumps, scooped up the nozzle, pointed it at the ground, and pulled the handle. Nothing. I turned slowly around. The little store was creepy in its isolation and abandonment. A leaf hit my shin, clutching onto the faded material for a moment before being dislodged by a crosswind.
It was like a scene out of some horror movie, not any one in particular, but a patchwork of bleakness and faded memories. Logically, I knew there was nothing I couldn’t deal with, but that didn’t stanch a welling sense of trepidation. My situation was a bit desperate. If I ran out of gas up the road, in the middle of isolated countryside, nothing good could come of it. How might a long walk to some nearby farmhouse play out? The locals would probably call the police, who would then call the FBI. I glanced back at the gas station. The window glared at me with ireful venom, as if something living were secreted in its depths. I was imagining things. I approached slowly, leering at the void.
The pane shattered with a thunderous uproar, resonating shrilly as the slivers hit the concrete. The noise seemed excessively loud in the stillness, causing me to glance around. Nothing except the stubby monoliths of the gas pumps, the silhouette of the Mustang barely visible beyond. I smashed the remaining glass, tearing apart the wooden lattice that held it together. Gripping the bottom windowpane, I climbed in. The sound of ripping denim reminded me that my jeans didn’t share my invincibility. I glanced down. Damnit. There was a long gash starting at my crotch and running a few inches down my right leg.
Peering around the tiny room, my eyes amplifying the ambient light, I could barely make out that I was on the customer side. To my left stood a counter, just past the door and crowned with an old manual register and a filthy metal fan, both squatting atop a worn slab of wood. It didn’t even look like a real counter, more a makeshift assemblage of wooden slabs nailed together. The register looked too ornamental for the crude table, its gold and silver carvings reflecting a bygone era. On an unpainted shelf in back, a low-wattage bulb glowed dimly through a stained ocher shade. A white plastic shelf, maybe five out of the thirty slots filled with packs of cigarettes, was nailed crudely to the wall. I rounded the short counter, turning sideways to squeeze through, and glanced under the register. A single shelf harbored a crumpled dirty rag, a couple of quarts of Quaker State, and a rusty hacksaw. I wondered what the hacksaw was for. Feeling around the underside of the counter top, my fingers bumped into a rocker switch positioned directly beneath the register. Flipping the switch, I circled back around and strolled out to the car. Whipping off the gas cap, I plunged the nozzle in and filled up the tank.
It was then I had another idea. There was no mini-mart here, but there was a garage, and it might have gas containers, or at least something that could be used as such. Replacing the nozzle, I headed back. The garage door was down, and when I grabbed the latch and pulled up, it moved less than an inch before hitting an internal lock and jarring to a halt. The handle was a rusty steel T- bone, and when I tried to turn the lever it wouldn’t budge. Wedging my fingers under the lip of the garage door, I jerked up on it. The door hit the crossbar, creaking with the strain. I applied a little more pressure, and the metal gave way, buckling noisily on the inside as it shrieked upwards and curled into a roll.
The gaping maw beyond was a black void, lacking enough ambient light even for my eyes. Stroking the inside of the doorframe, I felt nothing but a strip of wood, the metal railing straddling it in a narrow ridge. I stepped in and turned to face the wall, gently guiding my fingers up the rough concrete. My hand bumped into a jutting piece of plastic, and with a flip of the finger the garage came to life. A single bulb dangled on the end of a long cord, a half-dismantled black muscle car commanding most of the space. Its open hood entertained a huge air filter, the chrome disc sitting atop a freshly painted electric blue big-block. A couple of black hoses snaked out from under the gleaming Holley carburetor, joining more tubes emanating from the water pump and shooting straight back toward the firewall. Eight millimeter wires flowed in perfect rows of bright red toward a distributor protruding from the intake manifold. This was obviously the garage owner’s project, in far better repair than the entire domicile that housed it. Glancing around I saw not one, but two beat-up red metal cans clearly marked “gas” lying against the far wall, along with a few quarts of oil and a plastic tub of antifreeze. The latter was buried amidst a greasy mound of cloth, a pair of crescent wrenches jutting out. I brushed aside the rags, scooped up the gas cans with my left hand, and grabbed the oil containers and antifreeze with the other. Awkwardly juggling the slippery heap, I hauled them out to the pump. Dropping everything in a chaotic jumble, I sorted through the containers, flipping each one over and dumping out whatever fluid was left inside. The whole mess oozed into a swelling puddle of black muck, the morass slowly spreading across the packed dirt. I washed out the containers with gas, the milky fuel mingling with the black oil in glistening swirls. One spark and I would be in the midst of a seething inferno. I filled the containers, popped the trunk, and stacked them neatly inside. It was more than enough to get me to NY. I replaced the nozzle, climbed into the Mustang, and peeled out, diving back into the maw of capricious blackness.
The rest of the drive was uneventful, the dark sky slowly paling into a bluish gray. I stopped a few times, pulling over onto the shoulder and digging through the containers, refueling tensely as I glanced around for passing cars. The last thing I needed was a visit by a good Samaritan.
I arrived at the dirt road leading up to the cabin before the sun had fully risen. Jerking the Mustang onto the trail, I was enveloped by shadows. The blanket of leaves tempered the brightening sky, the foliage parting in rifts to let through dusky rays of sunlight. The trees seemed thicker and older here, as if New York had ancient secrets hidden in its shadows. A carpet of fallen leaves covered everything in sight, venturing out onto the road in small peninsulas, the landscape of organic debris sprinkled with drops of early morning dew. Small rocks and detritus pounded a constant drumbeat against the walls of the Mustang, the heavily pitted trail pitching the car about and forcing me to slow down. The cabin came into view, a darkly wooded log chalet set atop a slight hill. The woods surrounding it cast long shadows over the roof, the winter shedding burying the lodge in a patchwork blanket of yellow and orange. The roof extended over a wooden porch, a hammock hanging lank under the shade. The whole lodge looked turn of the century, with its portico and balustrade made of aged wood and its sidewalls rows of trunks, the bark still clinging to the timber. I wondered how much history this place had known. It seemed to exude an aura, not so much evil as ancient and faintly cryptic, as if the premises had a story to tell. I had only been here a few times, but already this cabin felt like home, a refuge from the stressful anxiety of the past few days.
I circled around, climbing up the slight hill and following the overgrown path of cobbl
estones to the red generator hugging the back porch. The rear deck was less substantial than the front, consisting of a small outcropping of wooden planks shouldered by a few steps. The machine should be full—all of this followed a blueprint I had formulated months ago. I braced my foot on the tank and pulled the cord. Nothing. I pulled again and it sputtered to life. Ascending the steps, I pulled open the torn screen door and tried the knob, unable to remember if I had locked it. No point out here. It opened with a creak, and I stepped into a gloomy kitchen. Drifting particles of dust floated in a yellow haze, caught in the shaft of light pouring through the window over the sink. They seemed frozen in midair, flecks of white inhabiting the empty space. I rounded the oak dinner table, strolled down the hallway to the living room, and slowly lowered myself onto the dark brown couch. It was seven in the morning, but this body never seemed to tire. Even though I was sitting, the pose seemed more an instinct. No slack was involved—that actually seemed to involve more work.
I had what I’d always desired, but now came the tricky part. How to use it. There was plenty I wanted to do. To explore. But it would be difficult without a human face. I had killed several government agents, so there would be people looking for me. Although if any government got its hands on me, they’d probably want to study me, not destroy me outright. That could be an even worse predicament. I needed to get out of the US and into a second or third world country, where the surveillance technology wasn’t as sophisticated. I might be able to get away with more if I had less hindrance. It seemed half the advantage to being in a more developed country was the ubiquitous convenience. Stores on every block catering to each individual need, advanced technology in everything from medicine to electronics. But none of that was an issue for me anymore. If I could get to South America, I would have much more freedom.
I wanted to explore the vanished civilizations down there. In my current state, it would be easy. I just needed to make a little road trip and cross the border without being noticed. By the time I was finished, the heat on me should have died down, and I could conduct myself a little more openly. I decided that would be the best course of action. I would take the car down to the Mexican border and disappear. If I traveled largely at night, within the speed limit, I should make it. My first obstacle was to devise a method to get gas. I wouldn’t need many supplies. Maybe if I went to a gas station, grabbed a bunch of containers, and filled them… although everything about that would look suspicious. How could I avoid prying eyes and dangerous questions? That deserted gas station had been a stroke of luck, but I knew better than to expect another one. Not to mention the quantity of gas I would need to grab. I was stupid for not having foreseen that and stocked up here, but hindsight is always twenty-twenty.
I figured my best bet would be to don clothes, wrap my face in bandages, and take bucolic routes the whole way down, hoping to avoid detection. Maybe make a midnight run to some local stations to steal some gas. I figured I’d wait a week for things to cool down, then try my luck. I wondered if any of my adventures had made the news. I switched on the small TV and it crackled to life. But garbled static was all it showed. I flipped the channels, but there was no signal. I didn’t have cable hooked up, but I should at least have been able to get the local news. The one other time I had tried in the past, a few channels had worked. The “antenna” consisted of a mangled clothes hanger, rammed into the stump of what had originally been a retracting metal rod. I slowly twisted the hanger, but nothing changed. I clicked the TV off and went to try the radio. It was a huge antique, waist high and mounted into a carved wooden cabinet. I turned it on, noticed the red button light up, and slowly turned the knob. Nothing but white noise. Strange. I glanced over at the bookshelf. It was beginning to look like I would be reading to pass the time. I needed a distraction. I had bought this cabin as is. The original owner had died, leaving the detritus of his old life behind.
Crossing the burgundy rug strewn across the floor of the rustic living room, I stooped and examined the bookshelf. A Bible. A book on the guns of World War II. A complete twenty-five volume set on aviation. A huge tan book entitled The Volume Library. It was going to be a long week.
After a few hours spent looking over books on “The Epic of Flight,” I decided to do some exploring outside. I stripped off my clothes. They were unnecessary, and I didn’t want to get them dirty in the woods. I strolled out onto the front porch. The overhead awning sheltered me, the bright midday sun drenching the landscape, bleaching out the rolling carpet of leaves into leafy islands of brilliance. I descended the steps, scanned the area, and on a whim, decided to head off to the right. There probably was nobody within miles of the cabin, the woodlands providing a soothing wilderness of isolation.
I spent a couple of hours walking through the forest, passing groves of birch trees, outcroppings of moss-covered rock, tangled nests of thick vines. I tromped onto an incline and ended up climbing a tree-covered mountain. Normally, I would have been forced to bend over with the effort and take frequent breaks, but I felt fine.
Nearing the top, I spied a clearing with an outcropping of boulders, their slate gray edges jutting up from a blanket of moss and leaf. Surmounting the peak, I climbed a straddling rock and looked out over a heavily wooded valley. My cabin was off to the left somewhere, way down the mountain. I tried to spy it, picking spots I thought might afford a view, and focused my vision. Many of the deciduous trees were barren of leaves, but with distance their sheer volume clustered together into an inscrutable mass. My vision amplified with each new spot I chose, focusing in and magnifying my view until I could see every tree branch, the tightly wound limbs veiled in small clusters of fiery leaves. I focused in and out of a few spots when suddenly I noticed a small curl of smoke wafting up through the foliage. I concentrated my vision, but couldn’t make out much in the muddled battery of trunks and leaves. A haze seemed to be drifting languidly up out of the verdure in what looked like the direction of my cabin. A sense of apprehension mixed with annoyance gripped me. Thoughts flickered through my head in a convoluted matrix of analysis and deduction, sharp ephemeral signals pulsing in a methodical comportment without elevating any corresponding organic element. No racing heart or shortness of breath, just a clear-cut sense of determination. I needed to get to my cabin as quickly as possible. I jumped off the boulder, half-bounced and half-slid on the leafy incline, and took off running.
I may have meandered around in my journey atop the mountain, but I seemed to have no difficulty homing in on the source of the smoke. I slipped and skidded as I ran, leaving in my wake freshly torn trails of dirt as I descended, my feet ripping through the leaves as my downward scramble degenerated into a slide. Reaching the base of the ravine, I sprinted toward the cabin, bobbing up and down in a smooth inhuman canter as I flowed over gullies and small hills. My senses were heightened, in some sort of tracking mode, and my body reacted accordingly, deftly maneuvering between low branches, uneven ground, and ambient debris.
Reaching a slightly steeper incline, a low hill that I recognized as close to the cabin, I slowed my ascent. The horizon line steadily lowered as I ascended the slope. I expected my cabin to pop into view at any moment. Something else came into view first, and I ground to a halt. A red Dodge Ram pickup parked behind my Mustang. I glanced over at the cabin and saw the smoke rising from the chimney. I had company.
CHAPTER VII
UNIVITED GUESTS
I measured my approach, moving stealthily toward the front porch. Focusing my hearing on the cabin, I could make out more than one voice. They sounded middle aged, in their thirties or forties, and there were at least two of them. The voices came from the kitchen, and it was clear they were drinking. At least one of them was smoking. I could make out distinct inhalations between gurgles of liquid.
“I think there’s some good hunting around here, but we should go into town, stock up. The cupboards are bare.”
“You wanna wait ‘til tonight? Probably not a real good idea to let anyone know
we’re here.”
“We can find a mom and pop joint. They usually close up early, and it’s almost dark already. I think almost everything here closes early up, streets in town should be empty. Breaking into a place like that, if they even have an alarm? Who’ll come?”
“I wanna go back for my girl tonight. We just gotta wait for this guy to come back. I don’t know who he is, never was here before.”
“Let’s go get some shit. These local places are probably a good bet. We can be in and out, back here in an hour. If that guy’s back, all the easier to deal with. He won’t be expecting us.”
Were they thieves? Fugitives? It didn’t matter. Whatever they had planned, they were in for a surprise. My footsteps creaked on the floorboards as I ascended.
“So, you think this is the owner?”
“No idea. I told you, I never met him before. Stop drinking so much beer. I need you sober enough to watch my back.”
I pulled open the screen. The front door was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open. The hinges creaked, the conversation stopped. I heard the bolt of a rifle being drawn back. I was halfway across the living room, looking straight down the hall, when a guy popped into view. Beady eyes squinted through the scope of a hunting rifle, the barrel pointed at my chest. He was middle aged, a half-buttoned flannel sheathing a white T-shirt, a beer belly bulging underneath. A baseball cap rested atop a mess of dark, shoulder- length hair, his stubble peppered with gray. He was about fifteen feet away, although unfortunately for him, the narrow focus of the scope cut down his vision to a small circle. Unable to believe what he was seeing through the lens, he lowered the rifle, his pale blue eyes bugging out of their sockets in astonishment. His mouth had fallen open, making him resemble nothing so much as a dumb animal, frozen in shock as it was led to the slaughterhouse.