The Haunted Traveler December 2017 Edition

134
Tyler switched on the radio. Anything would suffice—country, rock, rap, golden
oldies. Even a sermon would be dandy, so long as it drowned out Joel.
A couple turns of the knob and the Rolling Stones rose from the static, Mick singing
about his nineteenth nervous breakdown. “Here it comes!” he crooned. “Here it comes!
Here it comes! Here it comes!”
The cigarette tasted acrid, had burned to the filter. Tyler tossed the butt out the
window, glancing in the rearview mirror to see the burst of sparks on the asphalt. He
inhaled and held the humid night air in his lungs. He could almost believe that reality
wasn’t crumbling around him.
The needle on the gas gauge had crept over the red hash mark, closing in on the
dreaded E. He needed fuel, and soon. But he was deliberately choosing his route back
to Florida, the highways he knew to be desolate. Few houses. Few cops. Few curious
eyes. But that also meant few gas stations. He collected his thoughts—a difficult
task considering they constantly returned to Della—and figured out where he was.
Somewhere between Warrenton and Moses Creek, a stretch of about twenty-five miles
of Georgia countryside.
I’m bound to pass a gas station sooner or later, he thought.
No good, Joel interjected.
Why not?
Think about it, bro. You’re at a gas station with other customers around, and even if it looks empty,
other customers could show up. You start filling your tank when whaddaya know—thump thump
thump from the trunk, for all the world to hear.
Tyler slapped the steering wheel.
But, Joel added, all you gotta do is go somewhere with no customers, or even the possibility of
customers.
What gas station won’t have any customers?
Think, bro.
Tyler thought. “One that’s closed,” he said.
Right as rain, said Joel.
The pale red full moon followed along overhead. The gas needle was halfway into the
red. In Moses Creek, Tyler passed a twenty-four hour BP lit up like a Las Vegas casino,
but there were several vehicles at the pumps. As he left town, he saw in his high beams
only trees and endless countryside flanking the highway and considered turning back to
take his chances at the BP.
He lifted his foot from the gas and was a moment away from pressing the brake and
turning the car around when he rounded a bend and came upon a small gas station
resembling a log cabin. All its lights were off. A sign on the building read “Roy’s Kuntry
Store.”
“Bingo,” Tyler said, pulling over.