The car hummed softly beneath them, headlights slicing through the sleepy, curfew-bound streets. For a while, the ride had been uneventful — almost too quiet. The occasional passing of a streetlight painted fleeting stripes of orange glow over Marin's lap, then vanished into shadow again. She kept glancing at the dashboard clock, her foot tapping unconsciously against the car's worn floor mat. She was already late.
But then, a faint sputter cut through the stillness. It was subtle at first — the kind of sound you might dismiss as the car hitting a rough patch of road. Then it happened again, sharper, followed by a low, choking cough from the engine.
The driver grumbled something under his breath, an irritable sound that made Marin look up sharply.
She shifted in her seat. "What… what's wrong?"
The man kept one hand on the wheel, his other tapping at the dashboard as though coaxing the vehicle to behave. "Gas," he said shortly, his voice thick with annoyance. "I'm running low. I'd planned to use what I had left to get home… until I saw you at the bus stop."
Marin's stomach tightened. "You're saying we… might not make it to Hillbrook?"
He gave a half-snort, half-sigh. "Not without more fuel."
The car shuddered again. This time, the slowing was noticeable — the landscape outside seemed to crawl by. They passed a row of shuttered shopfronts, their metal doors chained and locked, the paint flaking under the dim glow of a few weak bulbs that still burned overhead.
Marin could feel her pulse quicken. "So… what are you going to do now?"
The driver's eyes flicked briefly toward her before returning to the road. "There's a gas station here in Crover Lane not far from here. I know the attendant. Good man."
She clung to that word — know. At least it wasn't some random stop in the middle of nowhere. But then he added, "They've probably closed up for the night. Still, if anyone's going to sell fuel after hours, it'll be him."
The car rolled to a slow, reluctant halt near the mouth of a narrow side street. The engine gave one last cough before going quiet, leaving only the sound of the faint wind and the ticking of the cooling metal.
Marin stared out the window, her unease deepening. Crover Lane looked… wrong. The buildings were old — squat, boxy structures that seemed to sag inward, with peeling walls and broken signage. A total opposite of Hillbrook. Not even a single person was in sight. Even the air felt different here, heavier somehow, as though the street itself knew it wasn't meant to be busy at this hour.
The driver shifted the gear into park and looked over at her. "I'll have to walk there. Won't take more than fifteen minutes, but I need you to stay in the car."
Her jaw slackened. "Stay? Alone?"
His brow furrowed, as though he couldn't understand her hesitation. "Better than standing out there. You'll be safer in here."
Crover Lane can get… quite unpleasant after dark." He added with sneered lips knowing the young girl would buy it.
Marin swallowed hard. The word unpleasant echoed in her mind like an understatement carved out of stone. "Okay…" she said finally, though her voice lacked conviction.
The man nodded, as though sealing the agreement. Without another word, he pushed his door open, the creak of the hinges unnaturally loud in the surrounding quiet. The cold night air swept into the car, brushing over Marin's skin and making her shiver.
He stepped out, moving with the steady gait of someone who'd done this before. Marin watched him circle to the back of the vehicle, his shadow stretching long under the glow of a lone streetlight. The faint clunk of the boot unlocking echoed in the emptiness, followed by the hollow rustle of items shifting inside.
Then she saw the dull, metal gleam of a gas can as he lifted it out. He cradled it in one hand like it was nothing, the other hand swinging loosely by his side.
For a moment, he just stood there with his back to her, as though considering something. Then he glanced toward the far end of the street, tightened his grip on the can, and began walking away.
His footsteps faded quickly.
Inside the car, the silence became its own kind of noise. Marin sat frozen in the passenger seat, her fingers knotted together. She looked at the darkened windows of the surrounding buildings, half-expecting to see movement. Nothing. Just the glassy stare of closed shopfronts and their signboards.
Her mind started turning over possibilities she didn't like. The man had said fifteen minutes. But what if something happened? What if he didn't come back? What if someone else came instead?
A minute passed. Then another. Marin's eyes kept darting between the street the man had disappeared down and the rear-view mirror. She could hear her own heartbeat, a slow drum in her ears.
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The night air was heavy with silence, a kind of stillness that seemed to cling to the skin. The driver trudged down the dim, cracked road towards Crover Lane, the faint glow of its gas station's sign blinking irregularly in the distance. Each blink made the world briefly darker, like the sky was holding its breath.
He hummed as he walked—the sound oddly loud in the empty night, echoing faintly in his ears as the cold nipped at his cheeks, and his boots crunched faintly against stray gravel. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, then fell silent.
As he neared the station, his humming slowed, the tune faltering.
At first, it was just a dark shape sprawled near one of the gas pumps. His pace slowed, his brows knitting. It wasn't unusual to see someone passed out—Heldale had its fair share of drunks who didn't make it home—but there was something about the stillness of this figure that set his teeth on edge.
The fluorescent light above pump three flickered weakly, casting the body in intermittent shadow. He stopped a dozen feet away, his breath catching in his throat.
It didn't look like the man was breathing.
The driver glanced over his shoulder—nothing but the black ribbon of road behind him. Against his better judgment, he approached, his boots scraping against the cement forecourt. Each step made his pulse pound harder in his ears.
When the flickering light steadied for a moment, he saw the truth.
The figure was actually the station attendant he had come all the way here to see or ....what was left of him.
The man's head lay several meters away, face turned toward the driver with eyes frozen in a wide, lifeless stare. The body—headless, pale—was sprawled awkwardly on its side in a growing pool of blood so dark it looked almost black under the flickering light. The driver gagged, pressing a hand over his nose as the stench hit him: coppery, raw, and thick. It clung to the air, almost tangible.
His stomach twisted violently. He hadn't smelled blood like this before except on a farm, and even then, it hadn't been human.
"What the hell…" he whispered to himself, the words trembling.
He took a half-step back, scanning the vicinity for any movements. The station was dead silent. No footsteps, not even the soft hum of an engine. Just the buzzing and crackle of the faulty light.
Panic began to bubble in his chest. He couldn't be found here—not like this. Anyone who spotted him in front of a dead body would think he'd done it.
He stepped back again. Then again.
And that was when it happened.
A sudden, crushing grip clamped around his neck from behind, fingers like iron digging into his flesh. He choked on his own breath, his eyes bulging wide. The grip was so strong, so unyielding, that his windpipe felt like it was being squeezed shut.
The driver clawed desperately at the unseen hand, his nails scraping over rough fingers that throbbed under his fingertips. A deep, guttural grunt sounded behind him—a sound not quite human.
His vision began to swim. Hot, molten panic surged through his veins as he kicked backward, trying to twist free, but whoever was holding him was impossibly strong.
Then he felt it.
Something cold and metallic pressing against his left side—so light, almost delicate—followed by a sharp, effortless glide.
Pain exploded through his body. A searing, white-hot agony tore from his ribs to his hip as if his flesh had been unzipped. His mouth flew open in a silent scream before the sound finally broke free—high-pitched, raw.
The world tilted. He looked down, and horror gripped him in a way pain couldn't. Blood poured from the wound, soaking his shirt and trousers in wetness. A glistening, pale loop of intestine began to slide free, hanging obscenely against his hip.
His knees buckled.
A violent cough wracked his chest, spraying flecks of blood onto the cement. His lungs felt like they were drowning from the inside. The metallic taste flooded his mouth, warm and nauseating.
The hand on his neck finally released him, and he collapsed forward onto his knees, his palms slapping into the sticky puddle forming beneath him.
His breathing became shallow, uneven. His vision blurred around the edges, darkness pressing inward. He could feel his heartbeat slowing, each thud weaker than the last. Somewhere behind him, he sensed movement—a shadow looming larger, blocking the flickering light.
Another cough came out with a choking sound that splattered the ground with more blood.
The figure stepped closer. Dark— and worn came into his fading view. He tried to focus, but the shadow swam and twisted. His hands trembled violently, fingers twitching against the blood-slick cement.
Convulsions shook his body, each one weaker than the last. His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached, a primal attempt to cling to life. But it was slipping—fast.
Finally, he slumped forward, his cheek pressing onto the cement, his mouth slightly open as if mid-scream.