Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 3 Gas Station Horror Stories

Episode Date: September 3, 2025

NoSleep Coffee: https://nosleepcoffee.com/ When the lights flicker at a lonely gas station on the side of the highway, you never know what’s waiting in the shadows. In this episode, we bring you chilling stories of late-night fill-ups gone wrong—strange attendants, empty desert pumps that hide more than they reveal, and travelers who should’ve kept driving. From eerie encounters to full-blown terror, these gas station horror stories will make you think twice before pulling off at the next exit. Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com New Book Releases: https://www.amazon.com/Matthew-G-Doggett/e/B08FD5378Z * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 17. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Story one, gasped up. Without the tube pumps out front, it would have been hard to tell the structure was a gas station at all. It more closely resembled an ancient general store, thanks to the log cabin design, which included a covered porch with two wooden rocking chairs that looked like they would collapse if a toddler sat on them. An old sun-fated cook machine sat under the front awning, next to a window that looked as if it hadn't been cleaned since back when people were worried about Y2K bringing the world to its knees.

But as I approached the two-story gas station on foot, kicking through the tawny weeds on one shoulder of the pockmarked two-lane highway, I had to admit there was a certain charm to the place. It was certainly better than one of those cookie-cutter gas stations you see off major interstates. Maybe not better for shopping or getting gas. but better to work at, for sure. And that's what I was about to do.

It was my first day, or first night, technically. The sun was so low behind me, it stretched my shadow out a good 15 feet, making my already thin legs look like those of a flamingo. My dad assured me he would be okay alone for the length of my six-hour shift, from seven to one in the morning. I'll be sleeping anyway, he said in his whisper of a voice.

That's all I do these days anyway. Sleep, eat, and shit. Sounds like a good life to me, I'd said with a wan smile, looking into my father's wrinkled face. But we both knew better. My dad was dying, and he could hardly do anything on his own anymore.

I had barely gotten more than a few hours of sleep a night since I'd moved back in with him a month ago. I figured it would be a miracle if I made it through my shift without falling asleep. Now, as I walked with heavy feet across the gravel lot, toward the gas station's front door, I pulled out my phone just to make sure he hadn't called or texted. I hated leaving him alone, but I had little choice. He couldn't work, and we needed money.

As I pushed through the door, a collection of old bells tied to the inside handle jangled loudly. The smell of dust, mothballs, and cardboard swept over me, bringing forth memories of my grandparents' house when I would visit as a child. Isles full of near-expired wares crammed the inside of the small station. A line of ancient drink-coolers buzzed like a nest of insects against the wall off to my right. Straight ahead, over the tops of the shelves, I saw the silhouettes of two people deep in the unlit hallway that led to the bathrooms, the back office, and the stairs to the second floor.

The people, a man and a woman, stood there in the dark. Although it was hard to tell, I was certain they were looking at me. I thought maybe it was the two owners of the gas station, Joe and his wife Jenny. I raised my hand in greeting. Hello. Hey, Kurt. The voice came from my left. I whipped my head that way and saw Joe Fenner, sitting on his stool behind the counter,

half hidden by a display of mix-and-match beef jerky. When I looked back down the dark hallway, the figures were still there. But now their eyes flared yellow-red. They seemed to move into each other, morphing together to make one growing and distorted figure that expanded, stretching toward the ceiling and taking on a monstrous, many-jointed shape. I took a step back and bumped into the door, rattling the bells mutedly. With the sound, the ghastly figure disappeared, snapping out of existence. What's wrong?

Joe asked, standing from his stool and hurrying around the counter. He followed my gaze, looking down the hall he hadn't been able to see down earlier. Seeing nothing, he looked at me again as he approached. You okay? I nodded, straightening up. Yeah, I just thought I saw a couple of people down the hall. Is there anyone else here with you? Jenny, maybe. Joe scoffed.

Jenny never steps foot in this place. Just the lack of sleep, probably. Mind playing tricks on me. Wait, you guys don't live upstairs? I asked, gladly jumping on the change of subject. Hell no, Jenny would... Joe stopped himself. I mean, it's too small for us, too old.

We have a nice house on a few acres off 2.14. Are you sure you're okay? Yeah, I said, glancing at the hallway once more, before moving deeper into the store. All good, just... I shook my head and then smiled. So give me the rundown. I had known Joe.

since we were teenagers, but not well. We'd never been very close, but in a town as small as this one, there was no way not to know everyone. After high school, I'd moved away, and Joe had stayed, eventually marrying Jenny Denahey, who had never been very nice to me as a teenager. But I guess people change. Now, the family business was Joe's, having inherited it after the untimely deaths of his parents. Back when we were kids, Joe and his parents, parents had lived above the station in a small two-bedroom apartment. Now, as he gave me the tour, we stopped at the door up to the apartment, which was located at the end of the dark hallway, right across from the office door.

Do me a favor and don't go up there, Joe said. Nothing there but a bunch of my parents' old stuff. Besides, it's locked. I raised my hands. I'm not going to go snooping. You don't have to worry about that. Joe smiled. We haven't seen each other in a long time. We might as well be strangers, so I have to say these things. You get it? I nodded. Yeah. Joe had been an average enough kid, and now he was an average enough middle-aged man.

His brown hair was thinning, his gut was growing, and his skin had lost its youthful luster. I thought of my dad, who was on the cusp of death, and wondered if he was doing okay. I reached for my phone but stopped myself from pulling it out, as Joe guided me into the office. to show me where to put the till when the night was over. As he flipped the office light on, I saw a framed family picture on the wall of Joe as a younger man with his parents. The grain couple sat in the two rocking chairs under the front awning. Joe stood behind them and between them, grinning at the camera.

It took him another hour to show me the ropes, pausing each time a customer came in. By the time we were done, it was dark out, and Joe seemed in a hurry to leave. As he stepped to the front door on his way out, he paused and looked at me where I stood behind the counter. If you need anything, give me a call. And remember, don't go upstairs, okay, no matter what. Before I could answer, he pushed through the door.

The dry rattle of old bells filled the store as the door swung closed again. No matter what, I thought, what the hell does that mean? But I didn't have to wait long to find out. Two hours later, when I had already done all the stocking and cleaning I could do until closing time, I was dozing on the stool behind the register when a thud jerked me from my days. At first, I thought a customer had come into the store without me noticing. I peered down the aisles, pointedly ignoring the dark hallway at the back of the store, but I saw no one. When I looked through one dirt-caped window, half-obscured with vintage stickers, advertising cigarettes,

beer and various sundries, I saw no cars parked on the property. Another thud sounded, and I jerked away from the window, looking at the ceiling. There was no mistaking its source now. It wasn't the kind of noise an old house makes as it settles. This was a heavy noise, like someone was up there. Possibilities rushed through my mind, ranging from the logical to the downright insane. Maybe he rented the apartment out to someone. Maybe he's holding someone hostage up there. Maybe the place is haunted. I thought of the silhouette I'd seen earlier, or what my mind created out of the shadows. Right, I muttered with a half-smile. Haunted, ridiculous. Another thud sounded from upstairs, but this one was followed by a cry of

surprise or pain. Although muffled by the ceiling, I was sure it had come from an old woman. Many times in the last month, I had heard my father cry similarly as he fell on his way to the bathroom. He'd always been a proud man, and it was a miracle he hadn't broken anything since snapping an arm a few months before my mother died last year. I rushed down the dark hall and stopped at the door to the stairs. As I grabbed the doorknob, a creeping awareness invaded my mind. I felt eyes on me from the open office directly across the hall. Ignoring the sensation, I turned the knob. only remembering as I did that Joe said it was locked, but it turned,

and the door opened to a set of steep wooden stairs that led up to the dark apartment. I slapped at the light switch on the wall. The overhead light came on, flashed brightly, and then went dead, leaving the after image of its brilliance in my eyes. Help! A quavering woman's voice shouted from upstairs. Joe's parents were dead, weren't they? I hadn't broached the subject with Joe, But I was almost positive. My mom had told me they died during one of our weekly phone calls several years earlier. I couldn't remember how they had died, but maybe mom hadn't told me.

Mrs. Fenner? I called, staring up the stairs. Something like a grunt sounded from behind me and across the hall. With one foot in the hall and one on the first step, I froze. I swallowed involuntarily as I turned my head to look over my shoulder. The hulking figure stood deep in the office. those red yellow eyes gleaming about a foot from the ceiling. I couldn't make out any details aside from the sloped shoulders and the thick body,

but the contours of it seemed wrong. Crazily, my attention was drawn by a faint glint of light off the family picture beyond the figure's right shoulder. The computer which sat on the desk had a white power button that glowed in the otherwise dark office, casting a faint sliver of light onto the framed picture. A hissing sound came from the thing, and the air between us shimmered. The smell of rotten eggs assaulted my nostrils.

A moment later, the silhouette snarled and raced toward me, smashing the crappy wooden desk out of the way and sending the computer flying. The family picture fell off the wall, and the glass front shattered as it hit the floor. On instinct, I grabbed the door and slammed it shut behind me as I rushed up the stairs. The thing smashed into the door, but it didn't break through.

When I reached the top of the stairs, I spun back around and watched. Throat closed to a pinprick and heart pistoning in my chest. The hiss still sounded from behind the door, but there were no more sounds of violence and no more snarling noises. Still staring at the door, I reached into my pocket and pulled my phone out. I'm calling the police. Whoever's down there, this isn't funny. That rotten egg smell seemed to follow me up the stairs, growing stronger. Something about that and the hissing noise bothered me.

I dialed 911 and put the phone to my ear while looking around for light switches. keeping one eye on the door at the foot of the stairs. I found the switches, but of course they didn't work. When the operator answered, I told him where I was. Although I didn't have the number, I knew the area well enough to explain it to him. There's an intruder here. I'm not sure if they're trying to rob me or what, but I'm trapped in the apartment upstairs, and I think there's a woman who's heard up here.

I'm sending police in an ambulance. But like I said, there was a woman calling for help. Can you locate her safely? I looked at the door and then said, Hold on! To my right, from the light filtering through one filthy window, I could see a small living room. The kitchen was at my back, to my left, a bathroom. Dust-covered furniture hunkered in the living room. In the kitchen, a fridge, a gas range, and a coffee maker. But all the rooms were unoccupied. I stepped away from the stairwell and found the hallway to the bedrooms on the other side of the

living room. The first door was open on a bedroom empty, except for a stripped twin bed and a few boxes. is marked Joe's stuff. The other door was closed. I knocked. There was no answer. Sir, are you still there? The operator asked. Yeah, hold on. I'm looking for her. As I gripped the door knob, that rotten egg smell came rushing back. The hissing intensified in my ears. I knew with a certainty that I didn't want to see what was on the other side of the door. I took my hand away from the knob and turned back, feeling lightheaded. Help. I turned back at the sound of the woman's voice coming from inside the room. Jesus, flexing my jaw, I rushed into the room.

An elderly couple lay in the bed in their night clothes, their eyes shut, but they weren't sleeping peacefully. Their bloated and discolored flesh made that clear enough. An insect crawled out of the woman's left nostril and scurried across her lips and down her chin. Suddenly it came to me. The smell of rotten eggs. The hissing sound. Gas!

Panic struck, staggering me. There was a natural gas leak. It was causing me to hallucinate the thing downstairs. I was going to die if I didn't get out of here. As I took a step back, both corpses opened their eyes and shot up to a sitting position in the bed. I screamed. Stumbling back, I turned to run and came face to face with the old couple. Their cold, bloated hands snapped up and gripped me by the shirt, the neck, the arms.

They leaned toward me, bulging eyeballs, staring blankly, discolored lips parting. I screamed again as they whispered into my ears. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find. exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more

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And if you get stuck, Shopify's award-winning customer support is there for you 24-7. See less cards go abandoned and more sales go with Shopify and their shop pay button. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com slash DNS. Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's shopify.com slash d'n.S. Let's talk inside, I said to Joe and Jenny, as the first responders slowly loaded up their stuff or stood around chatting and casting occasional slid-eyed glances in my direction. The three of us stood next to the gas pumps outside, but I had half turned and gestured

toward the door. Joe and Jenny, both in their pajamas, hesitated. Joe looked at his wife, who wore silk pajamas, and had clearly taken the time. to apply makeup on the way over here her bottle blonde hair had been pulled into a fussy ponytail apparently she hadn't changed much since high school i'm not going in there she said you heard the fireman i said there's no gas leak there never was jenny said nothing joe looked expectantly at her i looked at them both before saying i just figured you might want to see the damage you might have to close the place for a few days and the insurance company will want to want to know what the robber stole.

That got Jenny's attention. They stole something? She snapped, drawing the attention of the nearby first responders. I shrugged. That's why I need you two to look. I have no idea what would be missing. It's my first shift after all. Jenny's lips pulled back from her teeth.

Yeah, kind of a coincidence that this happens on your first shift, Kurt. Joe put his hand on her back. Please, let's just go see what the damage is. She jerked away from him. Fine. Joe and I followed as Jenny stomped inside. The bells jangled. The store lights were on, except for those in the back hall,

where my eyes went as soon as I stepped inside. Two figures stood in the dark, red yellow eyes gleaming. Jenny hustled directly toward them. I expected her to scream at any moment, but she didn't. And as she closed on them, the two figures separated to let her pass. She paused for a moment outside the office door and looked around, then shook her head once and stepped into the wrecked office. Joe moved between the two figures, but he didn't stop.

Soon, I lost him from view as he went into the office. I eased forward and saw the elderly couple, Joe's parents. Look at me with those coal-like eyes and those horrifically bloated faces. They both nodded. As they moved to go into the office, they joined together, morphing into the giant, hulking thing I'd seen in the hallway once before. The apparition, wraith, poltergeist, whatever it was, disappeared into the office. A moment later, Jenny said,

What the hell are you doing with that, Joe? Quit screwing around and help me figure out what that asshole friend of your stole. Joe made no answer. And when Jenny spoke again, the edge was gone from her voice, replaced by a girlish fear. Joe? The next thing I heard was a loud, blood-curdling scream. I backed away from the hall. Sounds of a scuffle erupted from the office.

The bells jangled behind me, and I saw two cops stepping through the door. Who's screaming? One of them asked. I pointed at the hallway. I think they're fighting. Jenny screamed again. The sound ragged and more desperate than the first. She stumbled out of the office, bloody gashes all over her face, neck, and hands.

She tottered toward us. Help! The two police officers started forward, pulling their weapons. But before they could reach her, Joe came rushing out of the office, a jagged piece of glass in his hand. I didn't have to see the inside of the office. office to know where the glass had come from. It had once belonged to the dusty family portrait of Joe and his parents. Both cops started shouting at Joe, but he ignored them, quickly catching up to his wife and grabbing her ponytail from behind with one hand. He yanked her head back and dragged

the shard of glass across her neck. Blood spewed out. He shoved her to the floor and stood over her as she gurgled and writhed and tried to pull herself forward with what little strength she had left. The police kept yelling for Joe to put the weapon down. He didn't. Instead, he rushed at them. The tremendous bang of the gunshots made me wince. A couple of ejected shell casings bounced off me before I moved farther back. They shot Joe eight times in the chest before he dropped to his knees. He stayed there, standing on his knees for a long moment.

The bloody shard of glass fell from his hand. As I looked on, I wondered if the two cops could see what I was seeing. Joe's eyes were different. They had been different ever since he'd come out of the office. had a yellow-red glow to them. But that glow disappeared completely, fading like a flame-starved of oxygen, a moment before Joe dropped to the floor next to his dead wife. That was two years ago. My father has since died, and I've moved away after selling his house. But I often think about that night. I will probably never stop thinking about it. I mean, who sees proof of an afterlife and then just

forgets about it? Not me, that's for sure. I remember word for word what the corporation of Joe's parents whispered to me before the first responders arrived. They told me a story about Jenny and Joe, about how Jenny had wanted to sell the gas station as soon as she and Joe married. It was just one little problem. The gas station wasn't theirs. Apparently, it was a problem Jenny was more than willing to solve. She snuck into the upstairs apartment one night, while Joe's parents were sleeping, and blew out the stove's pilot light, and then put a small hole in the stove's gas line. For the next several hours, the small apartment filled with natural gas and suffocated the elderly couple in their sleep.

But Jenny was in for a rude awakening. Joe's parents weren't dumb. They knew Jenny wanted to sell the place, and they knew their son would do whatever Jenny wanted. They had given Joe the gas station in their will, but only if he agreed not to sell it for 10 years. Otherwise, it would be sold to a competitor, and the proceeds would go to charity. She had murdered Joe's parents for nothing. Well, not nothing. She had lived off the profits from the gas station. It wasn't much, but enough for her not to work. She did other things for money, too, things that the wraiths only hinted at.

Finally, as the sounds of sirens approached that night, the wraiths told me that Joe knew what she'd done. He'd put it together soon after. But he didn't do anything about it. He kept his mouth shut. Just get them inside. They had said into both my ears, the two of them speaking in one voice. voice. We'll do the rest. Then we can move on. Think about your dad, Kurt. Wouldn't you want him to

move on? Wouldn't you want justice if someone had murdered him? Honestly, it wasn't a hard sell. I just hope when my time comes, I don't have to hang around like they did. After what I've seen of this world, I'll happily move on to the next. Hey guys, I'm excited to finally share my brand new horror-themed coffee with all of you. No sleep coffee is here. If you need that first morning cup to get moving or a late-night brew to make it through my darkest tails. This is for you. Every bag is roasted the same day at ships, so it arrives fresh and flavorful every time. Go to no sleepcoffee.com and use promo code No Sleep 20 at checkout for 20% off your first order. Premium roasted coffee, straight from the roaster to your door. That's no sleepcoffee.com promo code No Sleep 20 for 20%

off your first order. Story 2. Give your life to Ducky's. Duckees was more than a gas station. Sure, the cheap gas available at 24 pumps prompted plenty of people to stop, but the massive interior was filled with a mall's worth of goodies. From Duckies brand candy, salsa and barbecue sauce, to clothing items, candles, camping gear, and a little bit of everything else you would expect to find in your neighborhood box store. There were a thousand reasons for travelers to stop at the place. Some people took pictures with the brass statue of Duckie, the duck mascot that adorned all the signs and billboards and merchandise. For many, it was a destination in itself.

But such a massive operation had to have workers to make sure everything went smoothly. So when my grandfather started working there as a way to supplement his retirement income, I thought it was a good thing. The pay was decent, he said. And it would give him something to do all day, besides since. in his room down the hall for mine, watching TV and waiting to die, as he put it, always with a smile. My parents thought it was a good thing, too. Before my grandfather started working there, I had only been inside the place once. Although I saw plenty of things I wanted, but couldn't

afford as a teenager still months away from high school graduation, I didn't like the place. Partly it was the crowds of people. The place was always packed. I didn't like being in big crowds, Never had. But there was something else about Duckies that I didn't like, something I couldn't put my finger on, at least not until Grandpa started working there. Of course, by then it was too late. Grandpa couldn't drive, so it was my job to pick him up when his shift ended at 11. I waited in my car in the eerily quiet parking lot with the windows rolled down, the early autumn breeze carrying the promise of cooler weather. Duckies closed at times. So the only cars left in the parking lot belonged to employees.

Several vehicles gassed up at the 24-7 pumps, their drivers paying with cards before getting back on the road. It was an entirely different feel from the chaotic maelstrom of normal business hours. Although I hadn't been inside the place more than once, I had driven by many times during the day, and it was always busy. At 11 on the dot, a small army of people in red shirts with yellow duckies logos filed out the door, Grandpa among them. They were all types of people, all ages and races. I even recognized a couple of classmates from school. None of the people talked, and they all moved in a foot-dragging, slump-shouldered shuffle.

Mild alarm erupted in my mind as I watched Grandpa make his way toward me. He looked ready to collapse. As he got into the car, I expected a hello, but he said nothing. He just sat in the passenger seat, staring out the windshield. That was your first shift? Grandpa swiveled his head toward me. At first, his face was slack, like it had no muscles. Then he smiled, as if the corners of his lips were pulled by lines attached to fish hooks.

The gesture didn't reach his eyes, not even close. Great, he said. It was great. The smile dropped from his face, which once again took on a saggy look. He resumed, staring blankly out the windshield. Seeing my normally gregarious grandfather silent and seemingly morose increased my mild alarm significantly. Still, as I drove, I found I couldn't help but talk to him.

I had plenty I wanted to get off my chest anyway. I talked to Maya today, at lunch. I glanced at grandpa, but he only seen. stared straight ahead, mouth hanging open. Since the breakup, Grandpa had been my sounding board. Now, it was like he wasn't even hearing me. Every time I see her, it's like an explosion goes off in my head. But in a good way, you know?

Even now, after she broke my heart, I still get all goofy around her. I paused and glanced at him again. No response. He looked back out the windshield as I slowed at a traffic light. I think I love her. Grandpa snorted derisively. You're a teenager. You don't love her.

It's just hormones. I stared at my grandfather for a few long moments, surprised at the venom in his voice. He'd never spoken to me like that before. Maybe it was a misguided way of trying to make me feel better, but I didn't think so. The tone of his voice was like he was a different person. The car behind us honked, and I looked up to see that the light had turned green. We drove the rest of the way home in silence. Back in the house, I immediately went to my parents' room, thankful to find them still awake and reading.

Their reaction to my concern wasn't what I'd been hoping for, although I hadn't told them what Grandpa said to me about Maya. I stuck to his silence in the way he looked. He hasn't worked in several years, my dad said. I bet he's just tired. Yeah, but everyone looked like that. You should have seen them. They were like an army of zombies. I'm sure that's not an easy job, my mom put in. Her book, tented in her lap. Every time I've been in there, all the employees are constantly smiling. I'm sure they're all drained by the end of their shifts.

Customer service is tough. Against my better judgment, I accepted my parents' reasoning. But while I was getting ready for bed, I stopped outside Grandpa's closed door and listened. As long as I'd known him, Grandpa liked to have a TV on in the back. background, usually playing old reruns of gunsmoke or some other Western TV show. The low tones of Marshall Dillon interspersed with the flat smacks of fake punches and occasional crack of TV land gunshots had become a kind of oral safety blanket for me. Now, as I stood outside his door, I heard no TV.

Silence would have been one thing. I could have convinced myself that Grandpa had fallen asleep as soon as he reached his room. but there wasn't silence. What I heard through the door was Grandpa's voice as he muttered something repeatedly. It sounded like he was praying, but as I listened, I realized that he wasn't speaking English or any language I'd ever heard.

Grandpa had been working at Duckies for two months when my life changed forever. As usual, I picked him up at 11, and, as usual, he said nothing on our ride home. I had long since given up asking us. asking Grandpa how his shift had gone. Each time I asked, the answer was always the same. Great, he would say with that fake smile stretching his lips. It was great. I stopped asking after the first three weeks, mostly because I didn't want to see that smile anymore. My parents had

come around to my way of thinking. They had seen the difference in his behavior. It was like his personality had been stripped from him. Gone were the hours-long talks with my mother, or the offers to with my homework, or the comfortable silences while the four of us read in the living room. We'd all been urging him to quit, but that seemed to have the opposite effect. He was going in earlier, working longer shifts. He'd started working only 30 hours a week. Now he was at 60. My parents and I were going to confront him about it tonight. We'd been polite about it so far. Now it was time for some tough love. We wanted grandpa back. When we walked into the house, Mom and Dad were waiting for us in the entryway next to the living room.

Grandpa didn't seem to notice them. Head down, he trudged toward his bedroom until my dad stepped in his way. Dad, we need to talk. About what? Grandpa asked, tensing, but not lifting his head to make eye contact. At least he'd stopped. You need to quit that job, Mom said. A steel in her voice I'd only heard once or twice before.

No. Grandpa tried to sidestep my dad, But Dad stepped with him, blocking his path. We're all going down there tomorrow before your shift, and you're going to quit. Or what? Or, you'll have to find your own way to and from work. I won't be dropping you off anymore. And Seth, won't be picking you up.

My dad's voice wavered, and I saw he had tears in his eyes. Fine, I'll get a ride from one of my co-workers. Again, Grandpa tried to move past, but this time Dad did something different. He pulled Grandpa into a hug. The tears escaped his eyes as he hugged his father tightly. Dad, please. I don't know what's happening to you, but we want you back. Please!

Grandpa's tensed shoulders eased down as he relaxed a little. Please, my dad said. Please. My own eyes brimming with tears, I lurched forward and wrapped the two men in a hug. Next, Mom joined in. I felt Grandpa's body shake as he let go. of whatever he'd been holding on to, or whatever had been holding on to him. He sobbed.

Okay, okay, I'll quit tomorrow. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Time has a way of doing funny things at impactful moments in your life. I don't know how long we stayed like that, in a blubbery group hug, but the number of minutes didn't really matter. It was what happened during that time that mattered. The love I felt for my parents and my grandpa was so pure and bright.

It was impossible to look right at. I couldn't focus on it directly, so I didn't try. It was similar to what I felt for Maya, but also different. I felt as if I were on some kind of strange drug. I wanted to stay like that forever. When we finally separated, there wasn't a dry eye in the house. Awkwardly, we all said good night and went our separate ways to go to bed. I was sitting in my bed, stripped down to my boxers and scrolling on my phone, when I heard the commotion from down the hall.

When you live with people, you become attuned to their voices and the normal sounds of the household. As soon as I heard the way my parents' bedroom door was flung open and the surprise in my dad's voice, even through the wall, I knew something was wrong. But I didn't do anything, not then. Not until the sickening crack of a hard object, striking flesh came to my ears. turning my guts watery. This was nothing like the fake punches from gun smoke. It was repulsively real, unmistakable, and irrevocable. My mother cried out, the noise not even close to anything I'd ever heard from her before.

My father muttered something drunkenly. Of all the noises I'd heard until that point, this was the worst. I lurched out of bed, ripped open my bedroom door, and raced down the hall, stopping just outside my parents' bedroom, as Grandpa swung the fireplace poker into my mother's raised hands. He'd corralled her into the corner of the bedroom where she cowered, begging, while seemingly unable to take her eyes off my father, who sat in the bed with his skull split open and blood pouring down his face. Her finger snapped under the first blow, and her skull shattered under the

second. Before Grandpa could land a third, I ran forward, jumped onto the bed, and threw myself onto his back. We crashed into the wall and went down, wrestling for the fireplace poker from the living room. I managed to get the tool away from him with some effort, but the whole time we fought, my grandfather's face was slack and expressionless, his eyes without depth. When I got the tool away from him, he remained lying on the floor, catatonic. He didn't move except to blink, and his face didn't change at all. He stayed like that as I tried frantically to help my parents, flitting between my mother and father, always with the poker in one hand, because I was too afraid to put it down. He stayed like that as I cried and tried to get a response from either parents.

My father gibbered incoherently as he bled out on the bed. My mother made no move, not even to breathe. Still, Grandpa stayed like that. He stayed like that even as the police and ambulance arrived after I called them with my mother's phone. He stayed like that as he was put in handcuffs and the paramedics announced that my mother was dead, but that my father still had a chance. His expression never changed. Not once.

I sat in my car in the Ducky's parking lot and watched as the last customer. customers of the day were corralled out by constantly grinning employees and red shirts with yellow logos. The employees locked the doors and shuffled back into the heart of the massive gas station as the exterior lights shut off. Phone said it was 10 after 10. I knew from watching what would happen next. The employees would spend the next 35 minutes cleaning up, straightening stock, and counting registers. At 1045, no matter what was still left to be done, all the employees would drop what they were doing and file through an employee's only door between the barbecue booth and the sweets booth. They would stay back there for 15 minutes until 11 sharp, when they would come out and leave for the

night. I didn't know what they were doing back there, but I knew it had everything to do with why my grandfather had murdered his son and his daughter-in-law. My father had died on the way to the hospital. My grandfather hadn't said a word to anyone since that night. I had been watching Duckies for the past three nights. That was how long it had been since my parents were murdered. Three nights.

My car was filled with water bottles and candy wrappers and fast food trash. I'd essentially been living in it since the morning after the double murder. My phone buzzed in its cradle, and I silenced it without looking. Uncle Dave had been calling several times a day. The police had also called, and a few other relatives. I hadn't picked up. I didn't want to talk to any of them. Not until I had some answers to give.

The only person I'd been tempted to answer for was Maya. She'd called several times. When I hadn't picked up, she texted, offering to talk if I ever wanted to. I was sorely tempted. Even her name on my phone screen had a crazy effect on me, but I resisted. I needed to focus on getting some damn answers. The first night, at 11, I had tried talking to one of the Duckies' employees, a kid from school named Lawrence, who was walking out with the two dozen others. At first, I thought he was going to ignore me.

Even as I approached him and said his name, the zombie look on his face didn't change. He stared past me and kept shuffling, stooped, and heavy-footed. It was only when I grabbed him by the shoulders and shouted, Lawrence! into his face that he looked at me. A fake smile came onto his face, and then it turned into a fake frown. We're so sorry about what happened, he said. It was an accident.

His face went slack again, and he pushed past me. I let him get a few steps away before the confusion and shock finally wore off. An accident? I yelled, crushing after him and shoving him in the back. He stumbled and fell to all fours. Shaking with fury, I got ready to do something else, something violent. But then I noticed that all the other employees in the parking lot had stopped and were staring at me. As one, they all raised their right hands, index fingers up.

At the same time, they all wagged their fingers at me and shook their heads. The eerie display so startled me, I backed toward my car. Then they all spoke at the same time. We're so sorry about what happened. It was an accident. Fighting the urge to scream, I yanked the door open, threw myself into the car, and peeled out of the parking lot. That was the last time I tried to talk to any of them. Now, as 1045 rolled around, I knew the time for talking was done. From where I sat in my car, I watched as the employee nearest the door mop-handle and turned around, heading into the

employee's only area. When all the employees were gone from view, I got out of the car with my backpack in hand, ran over to the door, and crouched. I retrieved a crowbar from inside my backpack and jammed one end between the two sliding doors. The doors wouldn't budge. I kept trying, but they wouldn't move. Growling, I yanked the crowbar out and raised it overhead. Thinking of the way grandpa had killed Mom, I slammed the tool down into the glass as hard as I could. It bounced off, leaving barely a scuff. But the door slid open, as if I had said the magic word. After pausing for a moment and surprise, I grabbed my backpack and stepped inside. The store seemed to carry. despite all the merchandise crammed between the walls. The lack of people did a lot to make the

place feel bigger than it was, but it also thrummed with the kind of dangerous energy that made me want to flee. I thought of mom and dad and grandpa and forced myself to keep going. I put the backpack on and kept the crowbar in my right hand. Stopping outside the employee's only door, I held my breath and listened. There was no sound coming from inside, but I could feel the presence of all the employees. That many people being so utterly silent made my spine go rubbery so I could hardly stand up straight. What are they doing in there? Time to find out. I reached out, grabbed the handle, and found the door unlocked.

I pushed through into a pitch-dark room, the only light coming through the doorway, stretching my shadow out in front of me. As my eyes adjusted, I saw an extremely large man sitting in the middle of the room. He was naked, except for a pair of white underwear so bold. big, it could have doubled as a sail. Folds of flesh drooped over the waistband of the underwear as the man sat in some kind of oversized motorized wheelchair. All the employees were crowded around him, their heads down, and their hands up, as if in worship. But I quickly realized they weren't just pointing their palms at him. Tiny, skin-colored filaments stretched from their

hands to the obese man's body. They protruded from the skin on his legs, arms, and abdomen. Each person and had two filaments leading from them, one from each hand, back to the man's body. For a moment, no one seemed to notice me. But then the light snapped on, and the obese man's eyes, deep in fat folds on his face, fixed on me. Kurt, we've been expecting you. Come on in! Join the family! Revulsion swept through me at what I was seeing. Close behind it was anger. But both emotions were swamped by fear as I sensed movement behind me. As I turned to run, two Ducky's employees who'd appeared out of nowhere came at me, staring blankly as they rushed forward.

I realized belatedly that one of them was Lawrence, the kid from school. As panic took over, I lashed out with the crowbar and hit Lawrence in the face. The curved portion of the tool tore through his left cheek and hooked there for a moment before the other employee tackled me to the floor. Since I was still holding onto the crowbar, the move only ripped the curved end through Lawrence's cheek. He tottered away from me. an expression of shock and pain quickly replacing the zombie look he'd been wearing only a moment before. He lifted one hand up to his bloody cheek, where the flaps of skin dangled sickeningly,

exposing his molars, several of which were bent or broken from the crowbar. Lawrence looked at me as he gingerly fingered the wound. Then his gaze shifted to the fat man. A screeching scream ripped from Lawrence's throat as he turned to run away, but several of the other employees had already disengaged from the fat man and eased between Lawrence and the door. These other employees quickly caught him and proceeded to drag him kicking and screeching toward the fat man.

I watched all this from the floor, where the guy who had tackled me held me in a bear hug from behind, pinning my arms down with his arms, and my legs with his legs. I didn't even put up a fight when a second employee came over and took the crowbar from my hand. Extreme emotions aren't good for business, the fat man said, as the others brought Lawrence nearer to him.

It took me a moment to realize he was looking at me, talking to me. All the employees who weren't engaged in subduing me or hurting Lawrence were still attached to the fat man through those fleshy filaments. They seemed oblivious to the goings on around them. Only then did I realize they were all muttering in the strange language I'd heard through my grandfather's door that first night. Pain, the fat man continued. Heartache, revulsion, bliss, love.

That's the one that broke something in great. Grandpa's brain, isn't it? Love. As he spoke, those escorting Lawrence forced the kid down to the floor as a filament emerged from the flesh under the fat man's right arm and snaked out toward my classmate. But instead of attaching to his hands, this filament snapped onto his face near the gory wound. Kurt, I'm not just taking from these people. I know that's what you think. I know that's what it looks like. But I'm also giving to them. One tube fuels me. And one. fuels them. They give me these extreme emotions, or rather the possibility of them. And I give them purpose back. Isn't that a fair trade? I said nothing, thinking of the group hug in the foyer at our house, the emotions of it, the way I felt like I was on some kind of strange drug, the love I felt.

Then the next thing I knew, Grandpa was killing mom and dad. It wasn't supposed to happen, the fat man said. It was an accident. Something about the directive I implanted in Grandpa, and the way you somehow managed to thwart that directive caused him to snap. I can't take all the possibility for extreme emotions. If I did that, they would die. So somehow, you and your family managed to dig deep into Grandpa's heart.

I'm not sure exactly how. I won't be able to tell unless I connect with him again. But that doesn't seem likely, does it? it, he smiled. The fat man raised one massive and flabby arm toward Lawrence. Case in point. Lawrence spasmed as the single filament drank all the possibility from him. His skin shriveled and his eyes dried up like a time-lapse of grapes turning to raisins. Good employees smiled during their shift, the fat man said as he absorbed Lawrence. Good employees never steal. They never show up later, call in sick. They don't work to live. They live to work. And they work for me.

The filament detached from Lawrence's face, and the dried-up corpse crumbled to the floor. That's two employees you've caused me, Kurt. You will replace Grandpa. But who will replace Lawrence? The employees who had been dealing with Lawrence came over to me. With the help of the guy who'd been restraining me, they dragged me closer to the fat man. As they pulled me along, Two filaments formed out of the skin just under the man's saggy left nipple and snaked through the air toward me. No! I screamed, fighting with all I had, shouting, kicking my legs and trying to break free.

It was no use. And as the filaments came nearer, I saw the ends were lined with tiny needle teeth. It's not so bad, being part of the Duckies family. The fat man, who everyone just calls the CEO, was right. Having a purpose really changes things. Plus, it was inevitable, wasn't it? I would have had to get a job somewhere eventually. That's part of growing up.

Might as well be someplace like Duckies, or I'm part of a family. We're connected in more ways than one. I can sense the other members of the Duckies family. I can feel them, even when we aren't at work. I've only been here for two days, but I already look forward to our team meetings at night, where we connect with the CEO.

I crave the release I get during our meetings. I crave the even keel I leave with. No more powerful emotions in either direction, good or bad. I can't believe I ever lived any other way. I'm restocking jars of ducky salsa when there's a tap on my shoulder. It's one of my family members, Hugo. But there's someone standing behind him, someone I recognize. This is Lawrence's replacement, Hugo says.

But you already know each other, right? You recommended her for the job, didn't you? Hugo's empty grin doesn't leave his face as he speaks, but my eyes have already fixed on the newest member of the family. Maya, my ex-girlfriend. As she smiles sadly and gives me a little wave, an explosion of emotions goes off in my head. It's a familiar feeling,

one that I've experienced every single time I've seen Maya. But this time it seems like so much more. It breaks through the low-grade apathy I've been stuck. in. A high-pitched buzz fills my head, causing me to drop the jar of salsa I've been holding. It shatters on the floor. Hugo grips his head as if he hears it too. Every family member I can see in the crowded store has the same reaction. But as the buzzing passes, leaving me breathless and vibrating with adrenaline, all the duckies' employees within sight whip their heads toward me. Are you guys okay? Maya asks, looking confused and concerned. I realize she isn't

connected yet. Of course not. Her first employee meeting is supposed to be tonight. I look at Maya, and there's no doubt in my mind, I love this girl, even if she doesn't love me back. The feeling swells within me, giving me the strength I need to resist. Don't! Hugo says, stepping between me and Maya. Don't fucking do it! I snatch a jar of salsa off the shelf and smash it against Hugo's head. He goes down hard, unconscious. What the fuck, Kurt? Maya screams. even as I grab her wrist and drag her toward the nearest exit. We need to go! I say, looking around, seeing all the grinning, uniformed employees, moving through the curious crowds of onlookers. She follows my gaze and sees the empty smiles on those

dressed in red and yellow shirts. What the hell is going on? Run! I shout, pulling her as hard as I can. She takes my advice, and we run toward the nearest exit. Ducky's employees close in, aiming to cut us off. It's going to be a close thing. But I'm a very, But I think we can make it. Story 3. Breaking up. What are you doing? Sophie asks as I pull into a gas station on a lonely West Virginia Road. I told you, I have to pee.

We need gas. Not this place. It's so dark. It's 3 in the morning, babe. No place is going to be open off this shitty 2 lane. But I'm guessing the pumps work 24-7. Sophie stares out the window at the dark gas station structure as I pull alongside a pump.

Please, Mason, let's keep going. I don't like this place. After only six months of dating, I'm starting to have doubts about this girl. Nothing is ever good enough for her. She's much more high maintenance than she let on at first. Whether she hid that side of her on purpose or not, doesn't really matter. What matters is that it's 3 a.m. I've been driving for seven hours straight, and my bladder is about to explode. Unable to help myself, I slammed the saline, lector in park, shut the engine off, and open the door. Pump the gas while I pee, I say, getting out and slamming the door. As I round the back of the CRV, headed for the woods behind

the station, her door opens. Mason, I don't have service here. I grit my teeth. We're in the middle of nowhere. That's why I downloaded the map, remember? I'll be right back. Gas up, please. Sophie winds some more behind me, but I ignore her, resisting the urge to yell at her to shut up. I've never yelled at her before, but I've certainly gotten snippy on this trip. Then again, so has she. As I near the gas station, I take a better look around. The steep, rocky slopes of the Appalachian Mountains give this valley a claustrophobic feeling. Unlike other portions of the Appalachians, where the ancient range seems more like a series of large hills,

This is high country, where craggy formations of sandstone and quartzite jut from the sheer slopes. The station, the first one we've passed in at least 30 miles, has seen better days. Its parking lot is pockmarked, its windows coated with grime. The pumps bordering on ancient. It has an attached two-bay garage for mechanical work. Both bay doors are closed. I keep moving, about to explode. I round the back corner, take two separate.

take two steps into the woods and relieve myself. As soon as my stream hits the ground, a sudden but short-lived yip sounds from the front of the station, like the beginning of a scream. She probably saw a spider, I think with a mental eye roll, knowing the sound came from Sophie. I expect to hear her call my name in that whiny way of hers, but she doesn't.

A bad feeling suddenly crimps my guts. Release takes longer than I like, because I've been holding it for so long, and I can't escape a sudden implacable urge to leave this place as quickly as possible. You should listen to your girlfriend, a familiar voice in my head says. It's a version of my inner voice,

but one that affects a Jack Nicholson from the shining voice for some reason. When that voice pipes up in my head, I know I've fucked up or soon will. When I hustle back around the building, Sophie is nowhere to be seen. Her door is open and the dome light is on. but she's gone.

I checked the driver's side of the car, but it looks like she never started pumping gas. I look inside the car to make sure she isn't in the back. She's not. Maybe she went to pee, that Jack Nicholson voice says in my head in an unmistakably sardonic tone. But the very fact that I'm unconsciously using that voice now speaks volumes.

I know deep down that she didn't go to pee. Sof? I call, peering around. There are no other businesses around. There aren't even any other structures around. Just woods and mountains. But I can see a small dirt road about 50 yards ahead, disappearing into a large cleft in the mountain.

Sophie? When there's no answer, I remember my phone, sitting in the cradle next to the steering wheel. I duck into the vehicle through the passenger door and reach for the device. But it's gone. The cradle is empty. A rotten taste invades my mouth is panicked,

ramps up. I searched the car frantically for my phone, or Sophie's, finding neither. During my search, I noticed Sophie's shoes in the passenger seat footwell. She's out there in her socks. The panic takes on a new timbre. Then I hear my girlfriend scream. I jerk my head up so fast I bang it on the doorframe before pulling myself out of the vehicle. Spinning toward the noise, I spot Sophie inside the gas station. Her terrified face is a pale moon on the other side of the glass door, the bottom half of which is obscured by sun-fated stickers and ads. It's strange, though. There's something odd about her, other than the fact that she looks like she's about to vomit from fear.

What are you doing? I ask in a small voice as I walk on numbing legs toward her. Again, she screams. This time, I pinpoint what's bothering me. It's her arms. They should be up, pressed against the door, maybe pushing to get out or slapping the glass. But they're not.

because, from what I can see through the grimy glass and the husky gloom, Sophie's arms are bound behind her. This registers distantly, and I keep walking toward the door, hoping this is some kind of prank, not ready to believe something is really wrong. When I'm just a few feet from the door, a gruesome figure rises slowly into view behind Sophie's left shoulder, as if standing from a crouch.

At his full height, he's a good foot taller than her, and six inches taller than me. My eyes fix on him, taking in the barely healed wounds disfiguring his face from forehead to chin. His head is bald, but covered in scar tissue like the surface of a dormant volcano. Darkly luminous eyes peer out at me from under lids made heavy with scars. He wears a wrinkled and stained button-up shirt that was once white, but is now anything but. Thick, form-fitting work gloves obscure his hands, which he brings into view. One of them clamps over Sophie's mouth.

The other holds in it a flathead screwdriver, which has been filed to a razor-sharp point. I can tell because he presses it to Sophie's cheek and immediately draws a thick beat of blood. Sophie has stopped screaming, and not just because of the hand over her mouth. Now, she's only trembling as her eyes search my face, pleading silently for help. Instinct moves my legs before conscious thought catches up. I take a step back, and then another. Now Sophie does scream against the hand. Her eyes go wider than I thought possible.

The green iris is brilliant with betrayal. I'll get help, I say as I back away, knowing I still have the key fob in my pocket. I'll get help. The mangled man laughs, raspily, and then pulls Sophie into the impenetrable depths of the store. Throat buzzing painfully with stomach bile. I spin around and sprint to the Honda, jumping into my front seat. With a press of a foot on the brake and a finger on the ignition button, I start the engine. I'll get help, I say, nodding so hard my neck hurts.

I'll get help. She'll be dead by then, Bucco. You know it, I know it. That guy with a fucked up face knows it. That's why he laughed the way he did. I shake the Nichols and voice away and shift into drive. That's when I sense movement behind me. My foot's still on the brake.

I look into the rear view mirror and see that same disfigured face come into view over my right shoulder. It's not possible! A fear-driven inner voice shrieks in my head. It's not. The man snakes an arm around my neck, Cobra quick. He presses a thickly muscled forearm onto my throat, clamping me against the seat back. His other hand comes up, the screwdriver in it, which he presses to the tender flesh just under my left eye. Put it in park and shut off the engine.

I do what he says, never taking my eyes off his mangled face in the mirror. You thought I would just let you leave? He laughs. It's a bass rumble. Then he presses harder with his fall. forearm, cutting off the oxygen to my brain. I don't even fight as consciousness drains for me, but that Nicholson voice in my head laughs like the Joker from the 1989 Batman film. It laughs until it, too, fades into nothingness. The smell of gasoline and the sounds of sobbing bring me

back to reality. Even before I open my eyes, I know Sophie is the one sobbing. As I blink in the dim light, I can't tell if the headache pulsing behind my eyes is because of being knocked out the way I was, or if it's the gasoline fumes. I'm lying uncomfortably on my arms, which are bound together behind me with what feels like duct tape. My ankles are similarly bound. The floor is tilted, and it takes me a moment to realize why as I look around. There's an extension cord snaking along the ceiling to a dim bulb in the middle of the room, but it's not really a room. We're in a huge gas tank under the pumps. It's about eight feet tall and 30 feet long. One end of the tank is missing, opening onto a short dirt tunnel that leads to what looks like the gas station's basement.

There's a large metal door there, but it's open right now. I shift awkwardly to look behind me at where Sophie is. As soon as I get my head around, my eyes lock on something past where Sophie lies. A man in tattered and bloody clothing hangs at the end of the tank from his wrists, which are affixed to anchors with zip ties. He's small enough that his feet don't touch the floor. There's a pool of dry blood under his toes. He looks to be in late middle age, but it's hard to tell because he's so badly disfigured

with what appeared to be animal scratches all down his body and his face. His chin is pressed to his chest, presenting his balding scalp rimmed with short dark hair. I can't tell whether he's still alive or not. You tried to leave me, Sophie says. I can't believe you tried to leave me. A whirlwind of emotions whipsaws through me.

I want to scream and cry and throw a toddler fit all at once. But I end up just puking the meger contents of my stomach onto the sloped floor next to me. The physical expulsion seems to help the moment of panic pass. I whisper, unable to look her in the eye. The Nicholson voice laughs its Joker laugh in my head. We need to get out of here. You will. A raspy voice erupts from the stubby tunnel.

When we're done with you. I whip my head that way to see the mangled man striding into the tank. The light glints off something in his right hand as he nears me, but I can't tell what. Please, I say sitting up, let me go. I'll give you whatever you want. I'll give you all the money I have. I can buy Bitcoin. It's untraceable. I can... He whips his right hand at my face in an open palm slap. But the pain that erupts in my left cheek is not commensurate with a slap. It's a pain so deep and sickening that I lose myself in it for a long moment.

When I look back, I'm gasping and dripping hot blood onto the tank's floor. Although I don't recall doing it, I'm now lying on my stomach. I meet Sophie's gaze. She's crying now as she looks at me, but she shifts her attention to the mangled man, who has his back to us while he addresses the man hanging at the end of the tank. As he raises his right hand, I see why the slap hurts so bad. The glove he wears isn't a normal glove. The palm and insides of the fingers are lined with metal spikes about half an inch long.

I continue dripping blood for my ruined cheek, but I keep my gaze fixed on the two men at the end of the tank. Wakey, wakey! The mangled man says, gently slapping the hanging man's already disfigured face with the spiked glove. What are you doing, Lars? A base heavy voice says from behind me. I turn that way to see the mangled man's double, standing at the other end of the tank. Two of them? I think. Two men with the same exact disfigurements?

Then it hits me. They're wearing masks. extremely realistic masks, like those used in movies. It's the only thing that makes sense. Lars ignores the newcomer and keeps trying to wake the hanging man up. I need your help with the CRV. We need to part it out by morning. I'll help you when I'm done.

And please stop saying my name, Troy, Lars says. Then, shifting gears with whiplash speed, he yells, Wake up! He smacks the spike glove into the hanging man's forehead and drags it down, ripping gouges in the man's face. The man finally wakes up, screaming in pain. Jesus Christ, Troy says in disgust during a lull in the screaming. He turns around and walks out.

Sophie is crying violently now, eyes wrenched shut. The sound of tearing flesh makes me want to bash my head into the tank until I lose consciousness. Instead, once again driven by survival instinct, I turn and start warming my way toward the exit, praying I can get out before Lars notices. I barely make it six feet before I hear, uh-uh-uh, bitch boy, you're staying here.

I flip onto my back to watch Lars come. The Nicholson voice saying, He's going to drag that goddamn glove all over Sophie's body. But you don't care about that, do you, huh, Bucco? Well, how about this? He's going to rip your face off with that thing. Just look at that poor sap over there. That's going to be you soon, bitch boy.

As Lars closes in, I glance at the hands. hanging man. His horrifically disfigured face ignites a fear in me so deeply ancient and primeval. It's as if something else takes over my body. Lars steps over to me, and I jerk my bound legs up, knees to chest, and then shoot them out toward his crotch. He sees the move coming, shifting so I only kick him in the hip. He takes a couple of staggering steps back on the sloped floor and then steps on Sophie's legs. Unable to keep his footing, he falls on his ass. Sophie moves before I can even urge her on mentally. She throws her on. She throws her. shows herself toward the man's masked face, mouth open and a snarl.

Her teeth clamped down on his nose, but it's not really his nose because of the mask. Whether she knows that or not, whether she is there enough to put it together doesn't matter, because what happens is maybe better than if she clamped down on his actual nose. She grips with her teeth and pulls, yanking the mask out of place, and making it so the eye holes are no longer over his eyes. He's blind for the moment, but the advantage won't last long. As the man whips his gloved hand up and grabs Sophie by the back of the neck, I'm struggling to my feet, knowing that this is my only chance at survival.

Sophie screams as the spikes dig into her neck. In the few moments it takes me to hop over to them, he shoves her to the side and then reaches toward his face with both hands to straighten the mask. He catches himself before using his right hand with a spiked glove to move the mask, but pauses with the hand held just above the right side of his face. With a grunt of fervent effort, I throw myself at the man's head, aiming for his face with the hard knob of my knees. I make contact, landing partially on his upper chest,

my knees crashing into the backs of both his wrists. The spikes gouge paths through the silicon and into the skin underneath. The man cries out in pain and tries to buck me off, but I do my best to stay on top of him, however awkwardly. I don't know my next move, but Sophie takes the baton. Screaming savagely, she lifts her bound together feet up, and pivots so her heels are above the man's face and the still out-of-place mask,

Through the tight yoga pants, I can see the muscles of her legs bunching and flexing as she slams her heels down into the man's face again and again and again until he stops moving. At my urging, she hits him a few more times for good measure, the whites of her ankle socks bloody at the heels. With some effort, I position my bound hands over the spiked glove and go to work on the duct tape. By the time I free my hands, I have gouges in my wrists, but it's a minor concern. My cheek is a throbbing sheet of pain. The minor wounds on my wrists barely register. With my hands free, I pull the glove off the dead man's hand and use it to free my ankles. Then I free Sophie.

The whole thing takes five minutes, and we don't say a word to each other. As we make our way out of the tank and into the basement, I find one of the sharpened screwdriver sitting on a crate. I offer it to Sophie, but she shakes her head, both hands pressed to the mess of seeping wounds on the back of her neck. I take the glove off and drop it on the ground, fixing that hand around the screwdriver. I press my other hand around my injured cheek, which is still bleeding freely. We go up the stairs and into a storage room. Distant sounds of mechanical work come through the walls. I pat my pocket for the key fob to the CRV.

It's gone. Then I remember what Troy said about parting the vehicle out before morning. Is this what they do? I wonder. Steal people's cars and sell the parts? How many people have they killed? Turning to Sophie, I think about telling her to stay here. but the look on her face tells me all I need to know. You tried to ditch her once already, Bucco.

The Nicholson voice says. I won't leave you again, I say, hoping I mean it. She only looks at me, her expression unreadable. I turn and leave the storeroom. Inside the gas station is dark and musty. I make it to the front door before realizing Sophie isn't behind me. Peering around, I see her standing by the doorway to the garage, where Troy is working on parting my car out.

I pad over to her and grab her by the arm to drag her away so we can leave. She yanks her arm from my grasp. What are you doing? I whisper. We need to leave. If you're too stupid to come with me, I thought you were going to leave me again. She stares at me. This time it takes no effort to read the challenge in her gaze.

She turns and slowly opens the door to the garage just enough for us to see inside. Troy has my CRV on a mechanical lift so we can stand underneath it while he works. He holds an impact wrench, which whirrs and calls. clangs loudly as he works to unhook something beneath the engine compartment. Sophie opens the door a little wider and then looks over her shoulder at me. She takes a step inside, and then another. I follow her. She stops at a control panel hanging against a post.

Troy's back is to us as he works, but he could turn around at any time. I gripped the screwdriver tighter. She points at the control panel. Although I've never met them, I remember her saying her dad and two brothers are mechanics. It's the family business. She puts her thumb on a button that says, Emergency release above it, and then looks at me. Without a word, I put my thumb over hers and press down.

There's a hydraulic hiss as the release works on the lift. All 3,500 pounds of the CRV plummet down on Detroit. The sound of his bones snapping wetly under the immense weight, fills the garage, and seems to echo in my head. We stand there, thumbs still on the button, and watch as blood expands from underneath the vehicle. It's Sophie who speaks first. I'm breaking up with you.