It was over sooner than he expected. Out on the dark road, with nothing in sight but moonlit dunes and brush, the jeep’s engine sputtered, coughed, ran steady for a few seconds, then sputtered again and died. For the first time Ralph looked at the little circular fuel gauge on the dashboard. The tiny needle was set hard against the EMPTY mark.
He sat staring at the dial for nearly a minute, stunned. He marvelled dismally. Whatever you overlook is just what shoots you down.
With an effort he pulled his mind from the edge of the pit gaping before him. He switched off the headlights, then got down from the driver’s seat and stood away from the jeep. In the dim moonlight it squatted silently on its knobby tires. No longer an ally of his or even neutral, but gone over now to the other side—Muehlenfeldt’s universe.
Wait a minute, thought Ralph. He circled around behind the jeep and found a set of dangling straps beside the spare wheel, but not the fuel can.
Carefully, not daring to expect anything, he leaned over the side of the jeep and probed the dark interior with his hands. Behind the seat he found the fuel can. He lifted it out and heard a cheering gurgle. Not full, but at least a few inches of gasoline sloshed back and forth inside the container.
When the jeep’s engine was spinning again, Ralph let out the clutch and started picking up speed. Enough, enough, he breathed to the twin cones of light racing over the road ahead. Make it enough to get to where I can get some more.
Anxious miles ticked off on the odometer, until finally the miraculous occurred. A tiny store with a single antique gas pump appeared, nestled in the angle where a smaller road joined the highway. Ralph brought the jeep to a halt beside the pump and jumped out.
The hose’s nozzle was padlocked tight to the side of the pump. He tugged futilely at it for a moment, swore, then let go of it and ran to the store. A single fly-specked light bulb dangled beneath the battered soft drink sign, illuminating the screen door. He jerked it open, found the wooden one behind it locked, and began pounding on it. “Hey!” he shouted. “Wake up in there!” The door rattled on its hinges as he kicked it.
Through the window on one side he saw a light switch on in the store’s depths. A few moments later the door swung open, revealing a stooped figure in striped pajamas. The old man’s wizened head was hairless except for the gray stubble on his receding chin. His eyes widened at the sight of Ralph.
“Hey, I need some gas.” Ralph grabbed the man’s elbow and pulled him outside. “And quick—it’s an emergency.”
“No,” moaned the storekeeper. “I . . . won’t give you any.”
“What? Why the hell not? I’ll pay for it.”
“It’s wrong.” The old man feebly tried to jerk his arm free from Ralph’s grip.
“Wrong?” He dragged the man closer to the gas pump. “What’re you talking about? What’s wrong?”
“To be on the road after dark.” The cracked voice had shrivelled to a whisper. “There’s haunters out there!”
“What the— Come on, I don’t have time for this crap.”
“No, no, it’s true! Turrible dark things. The little dot’s out there!”
“The little dot?” Ralph stopped and looked into the old man’s face, caught for a moment its mask of feebleminded panic.
“When you turn off your TV,” whispered the store-keeper. “And it all turns into a little white dot in the middle, and then the dot goes away and flies through the night, and it catches you and . . . sucks your blood. It’s true.”
“No kidding,” said Ralph wearily.
“Yes! Yes!” shouted the old man in a sudden fervor. “Turrible dark things in the night!”
“Then you might as well give me some gas. Because I get those kind of things in the daytime, anyway.”
“No.” Convulsively, the old man pulled his arm free and ran back to the store, his thin pajamas flapping against his narrow legs. Ralph sprinted after him and caught the door before the old man could slam it shut.
Inside the store the old man had seemingly vanished. Ralph scanned the rough wooden shelves packed with cans of beans and sacks of flour that revealed nothing to him. Suddenly he noticed the edge of a shiny pink scalp showing from behind a row of barrels. He walked over to them on tiptoe, then reached behind and pulled the old man up by his stringy throat. “Give me that damn key,” grated Ralph. “The one to the gas pump.”
“Ak . . . ak . . .” gasped the storekeeper. His face darkened as he dangled from Ralph’s fist. “You—you’re one of . . . them!”
“That’s right. My buddy the little dot is right outside. So hand over the key.”
“I don’t have it!”
“Where is it?”
“In the cash register.” The old man flapped his arm. “Over there!”
Ralph dropped him and went to the counter at the rear of the store. He struck the NO SALE button on the tarnished metal register. Under the change bin in the drawer he found a ring of keys.
When he had finished filling up the jeep’s tank, as well as the spare gas can, he tossed the keys at the baldheaded face that peeked out at him from the corner of the store’s window. The keys bounced off the glass without breaking it but the old man ducked out of sight anyway. Ralph started the jeep and got back on the highway, wondering, as the wind increased in velocity, what dim mythology he had just gained a place in.
Las Vegas was beating off the night with neon. He drove past the incandescent casinos, his mind racing faster than the crawling traffic.
A motel, he decided. A cheap one—that’s what I need. To get the dust off. Nobody will listen to me if I look like I do right now.
Beyond the city’s brilliantly lit center he entered into one of the darker sections. The neon signs were smaller or broken, flickering their odd off-colors over shabbier, squatter buildings and the older cars parked around them. Ralph pulled the jeep in under a sign with red and green tubing twisted into the outline of a palm tree. The engine clattered for a few seconds when he turned the key, then sighed into silence as the fuel gauge needle fell the fraction of an inch to EMPTY.
“Always glad to see an army man in town,” said the gray-haired lady behind the motel office desk. She handed the room key to Ralph. “Have a good time.”
Perplexed, he stopped halfway through putting his wallet back in his pocket. He realized then that she had mistaken the Opwatch patch on the sleeve of his jacket for a military emblem. “Yes,” he said. “I will.”
I should’ve taken my civvies, he thought as he walked across the motel’s courtyard. He had a sudden, irrational fear that the Opwatch emblem, small as it was, could only help Muehlenfeldt’s agents spot him.
He let himself into the motel room and locked the door. On the bottom of the pink plastic trash can in the bathroom he found a discarded razor blade, its surface dotted with rust. He sat on the edge of the bed and carefully—the blade was dull and hard to work with:—picked at the threads holding the Opwatch insignia to the fabric. When it finally came loose he flushed the patch down the toilet, then laid the jacket out on the bed and sponged the dust from it with damp paper towels. He hung it by the window and then let a hot shower massage the driver’s cramp from his shoulders and arms.
“Is there a telephone booth around here?”
The gray-haired lady behind the desk smiled and nodded. “Just around there on the side of the building.”