by Dan Henk
Walking out, my feet crunching through shards of glass, I scoop up the gas cans and head toward the pump. I unscrew the metal lid, insert the gas nozzle, and pull the trigger. Nothing. Had I flicked the right switch? Replacing the nozzle, I drop the can and return to the hut. Glancing around in the gloom, I can barely make out what appear to be light switches on the wall just above the TV. I flip them up. Nothing happens. I flick them down and up several times, but still nothing. Circling back around the counter, I run my hands slowly up and down the inside wall in search of another switch. My fingers bump into an empty key holder, dislodging some taped on papers, but nothing else. I kneel down and run my hand underneath the countertop until I reach the register, encountering nothing aside from the switch that I thought turned on the gas. I flick it the other way and jog back outside. I try the gas nozzle again, this time pointing it at the ground. A couple of drops of gas languidly roll out, making a thick, padding sound as they hit the gravel. Fuck, no gas. The fleeing hordes probably took it all. Maybe I can find something farther down the road. Hopefully everything is mostly abandoned, not enthralled in full-on chaos. I get the impression that people are holed up, waiting for the worst to blow over. I drop the hose, pick up the cans, and head back out onto the road. I can feel the creeping aggravation of things not going my way crawling up my spine. Some things never change. If I had teeth I’d grit them.
About fifteen minutes of walking in the dark, and the trees open up ahead on the left. A few more steps, and a building pops into view, the wall of foliage falling back into a pocket of civilization harboring a small ranch-style house. Drainage gutters outline the contours, most of it buried in the shadow of overarching trees.
Round patio stones trail from the paved driveway and disappear into the gloom of oaks, their final passage to the front door hidden in the twilight. Dark wood paneling holsters a blackened void of windows, a few thick trunks clustered in front. An old Ford pickup is parked in the driveway, its front end emerging from the cover of overhanging branches. I leave the road, crossing the grassy shoulder, stepping over the drainage ditch, and hugging the far tree line, my legs half-buried in the tall weeds. Gently setting down the gas cans next to a thick trunk, I traipse slowly out of the shadows and head toward the elegiac house. The high grass falls away into a manicured plot, and in a few quick steps I’ve crossed into the umbra of the lodging. All the lights are off, the windows obscured by crimson curtains. I scan the surroundings, my vision running across the outstretched front lawn. A huge tree on the left side of the driveway arcs out in a wide maze of twisted limbs and dying leaves, sheltering the solitary pickup and casting a pall over the gabled canopy.
I hear a rustling sound and glance up. The treetops are moving slowly, their leaves whistling in the wind. Beyond, a chimney straddles the far end of the roof, mostly buried by the smothering branches. No smoke emerges. All appears still and lifeless in the early morning darkness. I step onto the gravel of the driveway, the rocks gnashing loudly beneath my feet and forcing me to freeze in place like some bizarre pantomime. I let a moment or two pass, but there are no signs of life. I gingerly step around the loose rocks as I close in on the pickup. I try the door. It’s unlocked, and I ease it open. The hinges creak softly, obliging me to stop and scan the area again. Is everything really that loud or is my amplified hearing making me paranoid? The ignition cylinder juts out of the wheel shaft to the right of the steering wheel.
I was never an expert at hotwiring cars. It’s an older model, so it should have just a few wires to the ignition. I grasp the small cylinder and slowly apply pressure, trying to break it off with as little noise as possible. It starts to bend, and then the plastic cracks loudly. In what has become an annoying routine, I freeze, listening intently for any response. Still nothing. I duck back inside, bend the rest of the cylinder until it snaps off, and pull it out. The red wire should be power. I think one is for the starter and one is for ignition—at least that’s how it was on my Jeep. Grasping the red wire in two places, I press on one end of the plastic tube and pull on the other. The sleeve pops right off—instant wire stripper. I could never do that with human hands. I strip the other two wires. Now which one is the starter and which the ignition? I have to touch both to start the truck, but only one stays connected. Once the starter fires up, I need to take off in a hurry. I touch the red ignition wire to what I assume is the starter wire. Nothing. I touch the next wire, and I hear the motor turn over. Twisting the coil lead and ignition together, I brush the makeshift connection with the starter wire. Sparks fly, and the engine coughs a few times before rumbling to life. That noise is sure to wake anyone in the house! I scramble inside, slam the door, shift into reverse, and gun the engine.
Suddenly my head flies violently forward, rebounding off the dashboard and sailing into the passenger seat. My hat is gone, and I watch as the bandages cloaking my face slowly slide off. Glittering shards of shattered glass cover everything. I think I’ve been shot!
“What the fuck are you?”
As I raise my head and slowly turn to my left, I’m greeted at the side window by an obviously irritated local. An open flannel top reveals his hairy, fat gut, his striped pajama bottoms barely clinging on beneath a mass of flesh. A stained cap struggles to constrain his mop of greasy brown hair. He’s glaring at me, beady eyes and fat bearded cheeks bunched into a grimace, the yawning hole of a shotgun barrel monopolizing my immediate field of vision. I don’t know the strength of this body and I don’t want to kill him, so a direct assault probably is out of the question. I reach forward to open the door and climb out of the truck. He fires the shotgun into my face again, this time a full frontal blast. I’m ready this time, my neck muscles braced, and all the barrage does is briefly obscure my vision, pushing me back slightly.
I smoothly collect myself. He’s staring at me in shock, his mouth gaping and his eyes bulging. In the heat of the moment, I didn’t consider how things appear to him. He probably didn’t get a good view of me until now. He drops the shotgun, his hands still suspended in midair for a moment as it crashes into the gravel. Then he turns and runs, his open flannel shirt billowing in the wind as he careens toward the front door, a panting wheeze accompanying his movements. Best of both worlds. He lives, I get the truck.
I slam it into first and hit the gas. Rocks pelt the sides and a cloud of dust kicks up behind me. Pulling the light switch, the gauge indicates half a tank. Should be enough to get me to the nearest town. My mind is focused, yet I don’t sense that surge of heart-pounding adrenalin that typically follows a confrontation. I experience a heightened level of concentration, but at the same time I’m calm and collected. I feel removed, like I’m observing and influencing events behind a sheltered barrier that’s not quite a vehicle, but not quite me. I look down at my left arm gripping the steering wheel. Under the shirtsleeve I can feel that it’s stiff, locked in place. I sense that I have authority over it, but the limb nonetheless feels removed. The shirt fabric rustles in the wind, and although I can sense its movement, I feel nothing. A strange sensation washes over me, and I feel a pang of regret. What have I done to myself?
Spinning out onto the road, I head in the opposite direction of the interstate. I’ll need another vehicle—or gasoline—soon. It won’t be long before this truck is hot property.
The sides of the road revert into ebony groves, occasionally breaking into a small residential clearing. Most have somber vehicles in the driveways, the domicile windows a bleak, lifeless void. The locals are probably holing up in their houses, clutching their guns and muttering in disbelief. Or maybe a different reaction has taken hold. They could be excited into a sort of defiant, uneducated disposition. Upstate New York is a major haven of ignorance and naiveté, or so I’ve been told. Nothing breeds dissent like stupidity.
After about a mile, the line of trees abruptly falls away into a small town. The sky has that pre-dawn glow of deep blue. Little shops line the sides of the road. Most look like they began life as a house, th
e fronts slowly mutating into something more commercial. Awnings shade most of the front windows, the lettering of signs barely visible ensconced beneath. Many are shuttered, and nothing is alive. It’s like a ghost town. No business in such a rural setting would be open at this hour, but it still scowls with an illusory menace, more desolate than would appear usual. Maybe it’s just my imagination, given the recent turn of events. This is probably the only main street in the town, a grand total of a few blocks featuring one stoplight.
The small town has a different feel than the ones I encountered down South. Everything seems a little more prim and polished in a 1940s sort of way. The buildings are more thoughtfully decorated. The occasional porticoes and colonnades impart a sense of nobility and wealth, the chalets less rustic and bare than many of their Southern counterparts. Slightly ahead, just past a four-way stop, I see a quaint little mom and pop gas station. It’s probably more decrepit in broad daylight, but the low light adds an air of nostalgia. Two old, round pumps sit atop cracked asphalt. The building looks like a small house, the brick heavily painted in a caramel yellow, the front door white and harboring a single window draped with once-white curtains. A larger window to the right side is shuttered with wooden slat blinds. I pull over into the lot behind the pumps, pop the latch, and climb out, leaving the door cracked. I have no idea if anyone is in the gas station, and any sort of noise might bring unwanted attention. I step up and try the door. Locked. Stepping back, I kick the door with my heel. The wood caves inward, the lock tearing out of the frame with a loud crack. Limply hanging half-open, the bolt jutting out at a stilted angle, the mangled hatch hangs on by a thread. I push it free.
The room beyond is tiny, a few quarts of oil and a container of radiator fluid sitting on an otherwise empty wooden rack to the left, a small timber counter with an antique cash register atop on the right. I can hear the ticking of a clock, but the dim light hides its whereabouts. I step around the half-wall and look for the pump switch. A lever, over-painted in white and barely visible, is mounted low on the wall, right next to the register. I flip it up and walk back out to the pumps. Grabbing the nozzle, I point it at the ground and pull the trigger. Gasoline gushes out, pooling in a small lake on the packed dirt. I unscrew the lid and fill the tank. As the nozzle clicks full, it dawns on me opportunities like this might be few and far between. Maybe I should try and find some containers inside the station. I didn’t see anything except those quarts of oil and radiator fluid. I would have to empty and wash out each one. Furthermore, the locals no doubt will recognize this truck, and if I stay here too long it might bring trouble.
I survey the surrounding buildings. A boarded up hardware store, the aged white paint peeling off rotted wood, stands across from me. A small, quaint doctor’s office, the overhanging metal sign waving softly in the wind, sits on the right. Both look eerie and abandoned in the early morning hours. For all I know they could be shielding prying eyes that watch my every move. Maybe I’ve seen too many movies, but better safe than sorry. There’s something creepy about small, isolated towns to begin with, and recent events haven’t helped assuage that impression. I’m sure the stolen truck gets rotten mileage, but the prospect of a full tank with the possibility of a better vehicle down the road is better than dealing with an angry mob. My best bet is to make it to another town, preferably a wealthier one, and steal a better vehicle. Fill it up with gas and make for the border. I don’t think there will be any APBs on me, not with everyone fighting one another. This whole mess might be a blessing in disguise. I climb in, lurch back onto the main road, and gun the engine. The small business district quickly deteriorates into individual abodes, the congregations of houses receding into terse lawns and dusky wooden structures. The familiar forest closes in on the road, the overhanging limbs blanketing the street.
After a mile the road curves up into a highway, the trees migrating away from the shoulder of the road. The light of dawn casts a faint luminescence over the hazy morning mist. Pale blue light illuminates the wheat fields and grassy plains, the verdure falling away in areas to reveal rolling expanses of savanna. I see a sporadic farmhouse in the distance, registering as a dark fleck interrupting the undulating flow of the tilled fields.
I spend a couple of hours cruising down the road, the sun slowly rising in the sky. The mist burns away, the vegetation shimmering awake with the brightening light. Not a single vehicle is on the road.
The greenery starts to open up into small clusters of stores, followed shortly by even larger multi-level buildings. Before long I see the beginnings of a commercial district. I slow down.
As I roll through I can see that the streets, in what has become an eerily recurring theme, are empty. The light of mid morning makes the town look abandoned. The desolate buildings cast elongated shadows that crisscross the road. I glide slowly down Main Street, the empty shells of closed businesses flowing past on either side. The structures are newer, clean, and well maintained, the location apparently supporting a wealthier town than the last. There might even be a decent-sized city nearby. The green and white sign of a Land Rover dealer pops into view on the right. What a stroke of luck!
I pull into the parking lot and grind to a halt before a gleaming row of five new cars. I always wanted to drive a Defender 90! I pull the parking brake and climb out. Walking lackadaisically behind the parked vehicles, I spy a Discovery, a Range Rover, a Freelander, an LR3, and at the end…a Defender 90. It’s even a cool color—forest green. I walk up to the driver’s side and try the door. Unlocked! The new car smell greets me, and for a moment I feel a burst of excitement.
Wait a minute? How did I even smell that? Was my body anticipating it? It’s gone, a brief, passing scent, and I don’t even know if it was real! I’d noticed a slight metamorphosis engaging this shell—the body seems to be conforming to my characteristics. Except the change has the feel of a concession, a temporary state of adjustment. Come to think of it, the idea of acquiring something new and desired in this vehicle excites me, yet I don’t feel the raised body temperature. The clammy hands, the nervous reflex that often accompanies some new plunder. At the risk of overanalyzing things, how much of what makes me a unique personality is based on chemicals that my body no longer secretes? Am I not myself anymore? Now just a hollow shell that thinks he is still human? In my zeal to get this body I had totally failed to consider this. I’m growing introspective when I should be acting. I’ll have plenty of time to contemplate all this once I am south of the border.
I climb into the driver’s seat and immediately notice the ignition is on the left side of the steering column, near the dashboard. This one won’t be as easy to hotwire. The ignition is housed in a round metal cylinder, mounted on a small plastic box where the wheel shaft meets the dashboard. I’m not quite sure what to do, but it should operate off a few basic principles. I grasp the edges of the box and squeeze. The black plastic cracks under the pressure, and I pull the box forward gently. Most of the housing breaks off in my hand, and I twist it around so I can see the innards. Wires trail back into the dashboard, and I don’t know which two I need to join. I pull the whole bunch free, tossing the metal cylinder onto the passenger side floor. I try joining two wires—nothing. I try another wire, and the engine coughs. That must have triggered the starter.
I try another wire, and the dashboard lights up. Power! I twist the two wires together and brush the starter wire against the exposed tips. The engine roars to life. I slam the door, shift into reverse, and curtly slam into the grille of a parked vehicle. Goddamnit! Thirty seconds in a new truck and I’ve already damaged it! I shift into first and tear forward, jolting roughly as I climb over the parking barrier. The fuel gauge says I have a quarter of a tank. I stomp down the gas pedal, speed-shifting between gears, and start looking around for a gas station.
A plethora of buildings encompasses me. All sit still and lifeless in the gleam of mid morning, brightly outfitted for a typical workday that won’t be coming anytime soon. The concrete sta
res out in a deathly bluish gray, reflecting a sense of abandonment and disillusion.
I fly through the first two red lights, barely slowing down before each one and revving the engine as I pass. I wonder what the locals are doing, what’s going through their minds? Everything is closed, the streets devoid of people and cars. It’s like something out of a made-for-TV end-of-the-world movie. Open for business but everyone is dead. Only I know they aren’t dead, just scared.
After the second light, I see a gleaming Exxon on the right, its modern facade standing in stark contrast to the recent string of mom and pop stations I’d encountered so far. Holy shit, this one is staffed! Blurred shapes move around behind the glossy panes of Plexiglas, the morning sun reflecting off the windows in a blaze of brilliance. This should be fun. Pulling up next to the door, I shift into neutral and pull the parking brake.
Serenely I step out, letting the door drift closed but not quite latched. As I leisurely traipse into the service island, the chiming door signals my entry. The guy behind the counter looks up, sees me, and backs away in terror. I start to speak and only then remember that I can’t. Maybe I could communicate verbally if I knew all the intricacies of the suit, but I’d yet to figure that out. To my right is the stunned employee, a young Indian or maybe Middle Eastern guy, half-buried behind a black marble counter. I turn left and walk down the front row of mini-market snacks. As luck would have it, I spy bright red gas containers, their tops sprouting yellow funnels. Scooping them up, one in each hand, I walk back to the now empty counter. That’s odd.
The employee suddenly pops up, his face smeared with oily sweat, his curly black hair and beard glistening under the glare of the fluorescent lights. Jutting directly in my face, so close I can see halfway down the barrel, is a huge silver revolver. It looks like a relic from a Clint Eastwood movie, only a blurrier version because of how the clerk’s hands are shaking, and way out of proportion with his skinny frame. Dark patches of perspiration encircle his armpits, staining his white T-shirt with the blemish of fear. I drop the gas cans, their hollow plastic shells rebounding off the tile floor with a dull thud, and reach outwards with my right hand. A loud clap rings out, and I have just enough time to see a gray blob before it hits me in the face, shoving me backwards. Another projectile flies at me, followed by still more, the impacts jerking my head to and fro. I center my head and take another step forward. The guy drops the gun, the handle crashing loudly into the counter. He stammers something in a language I can’t make out and backs up slowly, his eyes glazed over and his mouth hanging half-open. Drool pools in the corners of his neatly trimmed beard. I reach over the counter and shove the man to one side. He collapses, falling backwards into a crouch and scampering toward the far end. Placing a hand on the counter, I hurdle it, bypassing the register. My momentum carries my feet into the cigarette rack, ripping it off the wall. I come down on top of it, nearly losing my balance amid the torrent of coated packs and slippery plastic shelves.
