The Black Seas of Infinity (10 page)

I was going to avoid the interstate highways,
relying on back roads as much as possible, and although it would
reduce my chances of being detected, it also would make everything,
including gas stations, scarcer. The little side road I was on
T-boned into a paved two-lane street heading north. I had hours of
rustic scenery ahead of me.

The sun slowly crossed the sky as I made my
way. The road alternated between thick patches of softly yellowing
sunlight and a cooler kaleidoscope of thin rays passing through the
gaps among overhanging leaves. My gas gauge continually slid in a
long, slow arc toward empty. The endless walls of trees, ablaze
with the bright colors of early autumn, were occasionally broken up
by neatly tended fields harboring a distant farmhouse. It was all
very bucolic, a much slower pace of life than I was used to. I
wondered what it was like, spending your whole life in one place,
tending the same fields season after season until the day you died.
Feeding the basic human instincts of eating, sleeping, and
reproducing, and little else. Then again, it might have been
pretentious to really think there was anything else more
worthwhile.

I would come to a halt at the occasional red
light, passing through a small town consisting of crumbling strip
malls and old antique stores. Everything seemed a bit more deserted
than usual, the stores empty, the few passing cars intent on
reaching their destinations. Perhaps they moved a bit faster and
more purposefully than normal, although that could have been my
imagination. I was keyed up and hypertensive. Things had changed so
quickly in the past few days, and I felt the need to constantly
push myself with a rush of motion and goals that kept me from
focusing on how much I might have really lost.

I doubted anyone could see much through my
tinted windows, but I was keenly aware of the fact that I would
stand out like a sore thumb to anyone who did. A little dose of
paranoia kept me constantly on edge whenever a car passed. The
lustrous colors and endless parade of falling leaves seemed to
portend an end to something. Then again, I thought the same thing
every fall. Moods seemed to flow with the seasons. And weren’t
moods chemically based? So they should have simply been dying
vestiges of my human body. Or maybe that was partially mental as
well? Perhaps a bit of both. I kept driving.

At first this form had seemed alien, like
something I controlled from within, but a slow change had crept
over me while my attention was focused on escape. I couldn’t
explain it, but this frame felt like me now, as if it was all I had
ever known. My instincts and emotions seemed heightened, as if
boosted by some neural stimulant, yet they remained uncomplicated
and tranquil at the same time. Maybe this body was adjusting to me?
Trying to match my native environment? For the moment I was
overanalyzing this. I could work on it once I was in the clear. My
gas was low and I needed a change of pace. I pulled over at a small
station. It looked like a mom and pop joint, the peeling tan paint
revealing the white bricks beneath. Pumps that looked like refugees
from the ’60s, bubbly and weathered, with exposed blotches of metal
emerging through a brittle ocher enamel. A rust-stained oval sign,
the red lettering cracking with age, marked the plot as “Tom’s
Gas.” A fatigued brown pickup, a good three decades old, stood in
the packed yellow dirt that served as a parking lot. The ripped
screen door flew open and a man in his fifties burst out. Faded
overalls surmounted a white T-shirt, a worn mesh hat advertising
“Milemarker” curbing his greasy salt and pepper mane. White strands
of hair jutted haphazardly from his neck, lavishly contrasting with
the sun-burnt leather of his skin. He looked distracted. Paying no
attention to my Mustang, he locked the door in a flurry of jiggling
keys and ran straight to his pickup. Scrambling in, he slammed the
door and tore out of the lot, barely missing my car as he headed up
the road. Twin clouds of dust flew up in his wake, billowing past
in hazy rolls of yellow smoke. As they melted away, the old man and
his beater were long gone. Strange. I got out and tried the pump.
Nothing. I wasn’t sure how to turn the pump back on, and I didn’t
want to break in and risk attracting attention. Crawling back in
the Mustang, I spun out of the lot.

I was riding on fumes when I spotted another
station, a small, decrepit store built of rotted wood and faded red
paint. I pulled into the gravel lot, next to the single ancient
pump, and opened the door. Stepping out, my boots crunched loudly
on the sun-bleached rocks.

No one came out to greet me. I walked up to
the grime-encrusted office window and peered inside. It looked
deserted. The shadows harbored a small, beaten wood desk. A rusty
fan sat atop it amidst a blanket of papers strewn about
haphazardly. The rolling stool was pushed back, its rusty wheels
askance, as if someone had exited in a hurry. Beyond it were notes,
photos, and newspaper clippings pinned to a pockmarked bulletin
board. The edges of the trapped papers rose and fell slowly in the
breeze. The garage gate was open, and rusty tools littered the
floor, battling the oil stains and crumpled towels for space. An
old, battered red pickup, probably a late ’60s model, was parked
alongside, the butt end sticking out beyond the garage wall. I
wandered back over to the pump and lifted the worn metal handle.
Pointing the nozzle at the gravel, I pulled the trigger. Gas gushed
out. A stroke of luck! Unlocking the gas cap, I filled the tank.
Finishing up with a tap of the lever, I headed back toward the
building. I tried the office door, but to no avail. The dented
brass knob moved loosely in its socket, refusing to twist fully. I
could probably get in through the garage door, but why bother. I
had what I needed. The only thing pushing me to explore was
curiosity, and I didn’t really have the time.

Heading back to the car, I ducked in and spun
out onto the road.

More of the same panorama overtook me as I
rolled down the rustic byways. Trees bordered the road in columns,
breaking open at intervals into wide expanses of grassland
harboring cattle or horses. A rustic wooden farmhouse often rested
in the distance, its metal silo glinting in the afternoon sun. Tall
weeds and grass mingled in a labyrinth of intertwined blades, their
advancing swarm eating away at the worn asphalt. Sand littered the
road, at times swelling into little drifts and lakes. Every
indication pointed to a serene, bucolic region; meanwhile a
profound uneasiness tugged at the corners. Maybe it was just my
overactive imagination, but things seemed too quiet. Too few cars
on the road, and there was something very strange about the gas
stations.

I was now in rural Maryland, headed toward
Pennsylvania, and gas was running low again. The road was more open
here, bordered by wide fields of tall foliage, the tops wavering
like a body of water as they rippled in the wind. A white brick
shack of a gas station cropped up on the right, and I pulled in.
This one looked populated and at least marginally modern, with
three pumps, a paved lot, and a small office that was built, or at
least refurbished, in the last twenty years. The building was a
featureless rectangle, sporting a flat roof and large bay windows.
At least it wasn’t another ramshackle house serving double duty.
Neon signs glittered in the window, making it look almost up to
date. No one came out to greet me, but lights were on inside the
building. All the more visible now that the sun had passed its
zenith and the shadows of dusk were slowly creeping in.

I climbed out of the Mustang, slammed the
door, and slowly circled around to the pump. Not new enough to be
digital, but at least it didn’t look like it belonged in a museum.
I pulled the nozzle, unlocked the gas cap, and filled the tank. I
didn’t glance around, keeping my back to the front door, listening
closely for footsteps. Nothing. When the tank was full I slowly
turned around, carefully scanning the building as I replaced the
nozzle. Beyond the pump, a tall countertop, half- obscured by a
cigarette poster, concealed most of the clerk. There was little
chance he could see me clearly through the glass. Time for the
moment of truth. I strolled toward the building. Opening the glass
door, I stepped into a small mini-market, its single row of shelves
lined with packages of pork rinds and snacks. Behind the counter
sat an old man, half-obscured by containers of beef jerky and an
ancient manual cash register. Racks of cigarettes lined the walls
behind him. The brow of his cap hid his eyes, but it was clear they
were directed at the paper he held out in front of him. His hat and
shirt both advertised Remington, the redneck picture completed by
his scrubby face and shoulder-length greasy hair. He cocked his
head up toward me, and the weed he was chewing fell out of his
mouth, bouncing off the stained white T-shirt barely covering his
gut. His eyes looked ready to pop out and he half-rose, stumbling
back a few steps and knocking the chair over. I slowly walked up to
the counter, and he continued stumbling backwards.

Stopping in my tracks, I pulled a pen and
notepad out of my pocket and scrawled on it “MILITARY-TOP
SECRET-DON’T TELL ANYONE.” I flipped the paper around so he could
read it. He glanced at the paper, glanced at me, glanced at the
paper again, and rang me up, his hands visibly shaking as he
punched the keys. “Thirty bucks.” I pulled out some cash and held
it out to him. He just looked at it. I dropped two twenties on the
counter and took a step back. He scooped it up. Fumbling with the
bills in the register, he slapped a ten-dollar bill on the counter
and backed away. I pocketed the ten spot and walked out.

One obstacle down. Hopefully this hick won’t
tell anyone, at least not for a while. Even then he’ll have a hard
time getting anyone who matters to listen to him. The government
has no idea where I went, or even my mode of transportation, and
this is a big country.

I didn’t want to try this too many more times
and risk pressing my luck. A couple more stops like this and the
military, by questioning the right people, could piece together a
route and track me. I climbed back in the Mustang and spun out onto
the main road.

The sky was now darkening, the isolated roads
abandoned tunnels of sandy asphalt winding through a desolate
forest. The groves of trees occasionally fell away to reveal dark
stretches of land illuminated by a moonlit sky, the savanna dotted
by the meager light of a distant abode. The grassland quivered with
the wind, rolling in undulating waves. It had been several hours,
and I was now in rural Pennsylvania. The gas gauge had fallen
steadily toward empty again. I would have to stop again soon.

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.