The Black Seas of Infinity (14 page)

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, the 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 stares 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.

Scrambling to my feet, I lean over the
electronic cash register and jab the button to turn on the pump.
Casually raising my line of sight, I place a hand on the counter
and vault back over. The employee has rounded the edge of the kiosk
and is creeping toward the front door. By jumping back over the
counter I bring us almost face to face. He freezes in his tracks,
lets out a muffled whine, and scampers toward the back wall. I bend
over, pick up the gas cans, and kick open the door. Just as I reach
the pump, I hear the glass doors fly apart, the employee making a
mad dash across the lot. His shrinking form disappears around the
side of the building. I fill up the cans, seal them, and lower them
to the concrete. Unscrewing the gas cap, I fill up the Land
Rover.

Stepping back inside, I notice three
two-liter bottles of seltzer water in the fridge. I empty them on
the floor and take them out to the pump, where I rinse the bottles
out and fill them up. Opening the back, I toss in the gas
containers and the sparkling water bottles, and slam the doors.
This should get me quite a ways.