Authors: David Berardelli
A couple of hours later, we reached Breezewood—at the junction of Interstate 70
and the Pennsylvania Turnpike, which for decades had been a popular comfort
thruway of motels, fast-food places, tourist attractions, and buffet restaurants—
and more gas stations.
The main stretch was deserted, and the stench of death clung heavily to the
air. Restaurants and motels displayed black windows. Vehicles of all makes sat in
the parking lots and take-out lanes, and next to the pump-service islands.
Passengers slumped over steering wheels. Bodies sprawled on the pavement near
car doors.
“This is horrible,” Reed whispered.
I made no comment as I pulled up to one of the pumps. I figured I couldn’t
keep my tank full enough. Many of the street lamps still flickered. Forcing myself
to ignore the sourness drifting over, I got out of the van and tried the pump. It
seemed to be working, then...
Something’s wrong
.
I turned around and listened. I heard only the cool breeze slapping flags and
banners, but my gut told me something else was going on. I scanned the darkened
windows, my eyes and ears alert for glints of light, sudden changes in the
darkness, and odd sounds in the breeze. I saw nothing, heard nothing—yet I
couldn’t shake the feeling that Reed and I weren’t alone.
The urge growing in my bladder and bowels wrenched me from my
observations, reminding me of more pressing matters. I opened the driver’s door
and stuck my head inside. “I need to use the john.”
Reed tilted his head. “Can’t you just ... go right there, behind the pump?”
“I’ve ... got more intense business to tend to.”
Reed frowned.
“Something on your mind?”
“My friend says someone could be in there.”
My gut had obviously been right. I considered getting back in the van, but my
sphincter was growing more active. There were other places that would suffice,
but this one was only twenty feet away, and I wanted to tend to business and get
out of here. The stranger in the building could be dead, dying, or still functioning.
If he was the manager of this place, he’d want money for the gas. He might even
be a looter or a psychopath. Reed’s friend hadn’t given me any details, so I had to
assume the worst.
But just in case Reed’s friend had underestimated the situation, I grabbed the .
22 Beretta and slid it down the front pocket of my jeans again. Then I got some
cash from the console and stuffed it in my pocket, just like I had done back at
Tysons.
“Same procedure as the other place?” Reed asked.
“I’ll be a little longer this time. Send him in if you’re worried.”
I crossed the lot and went inside.
In the dim light of the dying fluorescent, the cluttered office reeked of burnt
coffee, motor oil, and stale air. Dog-eared hot rod magazines covered the table in
front of the well-worn couch. The tin ashtray in the center of the table overflowed
with cigarette butts.
A slender young woman with thick chestnut hair sat on a metal stool behind
the counter. In her mid-thirties, she had fine features and high cheekbones. The
back of her head rested against the block wall. Her eyes were partially closed.
She was dead or very close to it.
I moved closer.
Her lower lip, bloody and bluish, ruined the overall picture. A jagged trickle
of blood had reached the bottom of her chin, forming dark drops on her light-blue
tee shirt.
Someone had obviously backhanded her.
I decided to check her pulse; corpses don’t bleed very much. If I found a
pulse, I’d carry her over to the couch and lay her down gently. I didn’t know how
much longer she had left, but I didn’t want her to stay perched on that stool.
She’d eventually fall and slam her face on the corner of the counter. I didn’t want
her to fall if she was still alive and I didn’t want her to die on a filthy floor with a
couch less than ten feet away. She deserved to spend her last moments in comfort.
I took a few more steps. She still didn’t move, but when I leaned against the
counter, I saw her hands. A large-caliber revolver grew from them like a giant
black finger. The barrel was aimed at my face.
My insides twisted hotly.
I raised my hands. I wanted to disappear, go back in time. I wanted to close
my eyes and tell myself I was imagining this, but I didn’t want to do anything to
startle her. I forced myself to stand calmly and hope my military training would
kick in again. But my mind refused to cooperate. I could only stare at that huge
barrel and imagine what would happen once the trigger was pulled.
Fight it. Force away the panic. Let logic take over
.
Despite my shattered nerves, my brain began working. As with Luke, my eyes
wandered from the gun to her eyes.
The eyes will reflect whatever lies within a person’s soul. And unless one is
facing a cold-blooded psychopath, the eyes will predict this person’s next move
.
The girl’s eyes were large and a deep shade of green. They were dead-steady
and focused directly on me. I could feel the heat of anger emanating from them.
The sensation was terrifying.
Her hands shook. She wanted to use the gun, but her index finger kept pulling
away from the trigger. She was obviously torn between shooting me and lowering
the gun. I envisioned her lowering it and putting it on the counter top.
The barrel refused to move away from my face.
I swallowed the cold, gooey lump in the back of my throat and struggled to
keep my voice calm. “I thought you were ... there’s no need for…”
“Shut up.”
“I … I was gonna ... I came in to…”
My bowels were the least of my concerns right now.
“I told you to shut up.”
Keeping the gun steady, she slowly raised herself off the stool and stood her
full height. The top of her head reached the level of my eyes, putting her at about
five-six or five-seven. Her slender frame gave her a distinctive vulnerable quality.
If she hadn’t been pointing the damned gun at my face, I would have felt sorry
for her.
Two live brass rounds glinted from the open end of the cylinder. They looked
like full metal jackets. Due to the structure of the frame, I couldn’t see what lay in
the top or bottom chamber. My experience told me to assume there could be four
live rounds in the cylinder.
“Don’t move.”
I did exactly as she ordered.
She circled the counter and came back around, stopping about five feet away
from me. She wore a pair of tight jeans and tennis shoes. The shoes were scuffed,
the jeans smeared with dirt. Dark stains smudged her tee shirt, and scratches and
cuts covered her forearms.
“Who ... hit you?”
“I told you to shut up!”
I went back to studying the gun. The hammer wasn’t pulled, which told me
she might not be familiar with double-action revolvers. Judging by the barrel
opening, it was a .44 or .45, and would deliver a deadly kick. She held it with
both hands, but unless she cocked the trigger first, she wouldn’t have a prayer of
nailing me on the first shot. If she closed her eyes while squeezing the trigger, I’d
be able to duck out of the way. She probably tipped the scales at one-twenty on a
good day. Her arms were very slender, her hands small. She might wing me, but
could lose her grip and drop the gun after that first shot.
But I had no desire to test her. She’d obviously been traumatized and
considered me a threat. Judging by her actions and speech, she hadn’t been
affected and was totally aware of her surroundings. I didn’t want to make things
worse for either of us.
I wondered if Reed was getting worried. Probably not yet. Staring down the
wrong end of a gun barrel feels like an eternity. The gas pumps were almost
directly in a straight line from the doorway. Reed would have a clear view of my
back and raised arms. His friend might have even drifted over, glimpsed what
was going on then returned to the van to warn him.
With luck, Reed wouldn’t try to help. If he showed up at the wrong moment,
he could easily get us both killed. Reed wasn’t the most collected person I’d ever
met. He’d already demonstrated his aversion to violence. If he did make a clumsy
attempt at bravado, he knew nothing about guns. It was one thing to know how to
handle a gun but another matter entirely to talk a gun out of the hands of a
desperate female.
“Why’d you come in here?” she asked softly.
I didn’t reply.
Her hands trembled. The gun twitched. She took a deep breath. “I ... asked
you a question.”
“You also told me to shut up—three different times, as I recall.”
She took another breath. “You can ... you can talk now.”
I lowered my arms.
She stiffened, but the gun didn’t waver. “I ... didn’t say you could do that.”
I raised them again.
“Answer the question.”
“I ... wanted to use the restroom. And pay for gas, if I found someone
working here.”
“Why don’t you have the money in your hand?”
“I had to find out if someone was in here, first.”
“You really expect me to believe such a stupid story?”
“It’s the only one I’ve got right now.”
“It’s piss-poor. I don’t believe you.”
“That should tell you something.”
She blinked. “Huh?”
“If I was gonna make up a good one, it would be a damned sight better than
that.”
The gun barrel dropped an inch. She was staring at my forehead.
“Now what’s wrong?” I asked.
“Your hair.”
“What about it?”
“It’s covering your forehead.”
“I came here for gas, not a TV interview. Besides, I don’t think we could find
a studio that’s still working.”
“That’s not ... what I’m talking about.”
“So ... what’s the problem?”
“I can’t see ... your forehead.”
“I’ve been trying out the boyish look. Is it working?”
“Push it back.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
I reached for my back pocket.
She stiffened again. “Watch it.”
“Don’t get tense. I’m only going for my comb.”
“Use your fingers.”
What the hell?
I had no idea what was going on, but since she was the one
holding the gun to my face, I did as she ordered, while she continued to stare at
my forehead. “Is there something I should know?”
She abruptly stopped staring. Her eyes shifted, darting to her left.
“You okay?” Reed’s voice drifted in through the open doorway.
The girl’s arm jerked to her left, in Reed’s direction. I immediately twisted to
my right, grabbed the gun with my left hand and rotated my wrist, forcing the
barrel straight up. I squeezed her wrist with my right hand, pulled her hand down,
wrenched the gun free, and elbowed her away. Then I broke open the gun,
upended the cylinder, and emptied it. Four live rounds of full metal jackets spilled
into my opened palm.
I snapped it shut and handed it back. She took it, watching me in stunned
silence. I dropped the brass on the counter. “You can have these back when we
leave.”
“What did you ... why did...?” She gawked at me, at Reed, at the gun in her
hand, at the counter, and at me again.
“Like I said, I came in to use the john and pay for my gas.” I reached into my
pocket, peeled off three twenties from the wad, and held them out. “I know how
things are now, but I still don’t want to stiff anyone.”
She stared at the bills. “I don’t ... work here.”
“Why
are
you here?”
She pushed some hair back over her shoulder. Only then did I realize how
thick and shiny it was. “I’m sorry,” she said softly and moved to the counter. She
laid down the gun and sighed. She looked like she was ready to collapse. I took a
step closer, but she immediately tensed and backed up.
“You looked like you were about to faint.”
She pushed more hair out of her face. “I’m ... all right.”
I pointed to the couch. “Sit down. I promise we won’t try anything.”
She stared at me then at Reed. “We really won’t,” he said.
She plodded over to the couch and collapsed onto it. I sat down beside her.
“Now, what happened? Who hit you?”
She rubbed her eyes and sighed deeply. “A couple of guys ... no, three. They
were weird and scary. They ... they were walking around, looking ... looking for
things.”
“What sort of things?” Reed asked.
“I don’t know. Bodies.”
“Were they looters?” I asked.
“They didn’t act like looters. I mean, they weren’t carrying anything.”
“How did they act?”
“Weird, like I said. And scary. Dazed, but not like ... like everyone else.”
“Drugged?”
“At first I thought they were, but I changed my mind when I saw how they
moved. They’d walk over to a body, kneel down beside it, and check for a pulse.
Then they got back up and walked away.”
This made no sense. She was obviously leaving something out.
“You’re still alive. What exactly happened? And why’d they hit you?”
She shivered. “My car died, and I was checking around to see where I could
pick up another one. They came around the corner and bumped right into me. I
tried running, but they caught me and pulled me right off my feet. One of them
picked me up with one arm and swatted my face. He didn’t do it very hard, but it
really hurt. I almost blacked out. Then I fell and they stood over me, looking
down at me. I had the weird feeling they were studying me. I thought ... I really
thought they were going to kill me.”
A tickling began at the crown of my head. “Did they ... say anything?”
Her eyes grew before she spoke again. “They didn’t say a word. Not one of
them. I thought of those stupid zombie movies I’d seen when I was little. That’s
what they reminded me of. They had no expressions on their faces. They looked
almost like department store dummies. I thought I was a goner, but a car went
down the road right then and they spun around and ran after it like a pack of wild
dogs.”
The tickling vanished and was replaced by a heavy throbbing low in my gut.
“Did they ... catch it?”
“That was the
really
scary thing. The car was moving at around twenty or
thirty, I guess, and much faster than you and I could ever run.” She took a deep
breath and shuddered. “They actually caught it. I know it sounds incredible, but
they actually ran down a moving car! They forced open the doors while it was
still moving, pulled out the driver and the female passenger as if they weighed
nothing at all, and started beating them. I got up while the poor lady was
screaming and took off. I don’t know what kept me going, but I made it here. I
figured if I could stay in here a while, I could sneak away and find another car.
That’s why I didn’t move when you came in. I was playing dead.”
“Where’d you get the gun?”
“It was in the drawer under the cash register. The drawer wasn’t locked. No
one was here, so...” She shrugged.
Judging by what she’d already told us, the gun had supplanted my digestive
tract as the least of our worries. Despite my growing fears, I had to find out more
about this.
“What did they look like, the three who assaulted you?”
“Young, maybe mid-twenties. Fairly tall, and really strong and fit. I mean, if
they could pick me up with one arm…”
“Go on.”
“They were about an inch taller than you. And they all wore black caps. Their
clothes were dark, too. And they wore black boots.”
The more she spoke, the more terrifyingly familiar it sounded. The throbbing
in my gut had become a hot coal raking at my insides.