The Filling Station – A Dystopian Story

September 1, 2023

A Lone Survivor Tale

*Disclaimer: This is a draft of a story posted here as a proof of concept, meaning it is incomplete and contains errors in grammar, punctuation, and writing mechanics. You might even notice notes I’ve written to myself. Whether this story every moves beyond the proof of concept phase is to be determined. This version is placed here for your enjoyment. Due to graphic descriptions, strong language, and sensitive subject matter, this story is intended only for mature readers.

The Filling Station (working title)

Tuesday, May 24th

He held his plastic travel mug by the cracked handle, his arm bent at a perfect ninety degrees, as he stretched and eye-rubbed his way up the cluttered hallway. The old Sonaco logo had long since faded, but the mug still kept the damn coffee hot, and that’s about all a fella can expect out of an old mug. It ain’t for decoratin’ by God. He scratched his head, tousling the silver remnants of his once thick head of hair. A clump of it came out and stuck to his calloused fingers. He stopped and stared at it, then let it fall to the floor.

“Gotta sweep anyhow,” he muttered to himself before taking a sip. The bitter brew, black and strong as he could get it without it being assault and battery on his protesting gut, hit his teeth, and he grimaced. “I wisht that ol’ tooth’d just hurry up and fall out soes it can leave me the hell alone.”

At the end of the hallway, he pulled up and blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the sunlight beaming through the windows. Not a speck of dust or grime on them. Hell to pay if there were, by his reckoning after spending four hours scrubbing them inside and out the day before. He took another sip of coffee, careful to avoid the rotting tooth this time, and then exhaled. Windows aughta be clean, he thought. Still, wouldn’t be altogether terrible to see some fingerprints on the lower parts of the glass. Them damn kids were a nerve-aggravating nuisance, but they also brought a certain life to the station.

“Ain’t no use standing around, Gus,” he said to himself and turned from the windows.

He avoided snagging the sleeve of his light blue button down shirt on a map carousel and headed for the tourist section of the station. It took several minutes to walk through the racks and shelves, and he paused randomly to straighten a stack of something or other. When he reached the other side, he took two long strides to the glass door and pushed the bar handle outward. Outside heat blew in, and he squinted to keep a swirl of dust out of his eyes.

“You can come on in, Rex.” He stepped through the door and propped it open with a rock. Then he turned, back to the station, and scanned the horizon. Two rusted eighteen wheelers were parked at the truck filling pumps, sunbeams spread across their hoods and cabs, fractured by the torn awning. He shook his head and grunted. “That’s for filling, not for parking. Bunch of inconsiderate sons of bitches.” He sipped his coffee, then shouted. “Rex! I ain’t holding this damn door open the whole morning. You want your breakfast, you best get in here!”

No response other than the hot, humidless breeze sweeping across his face. He waved a dismissive hand, turned, and walked back into the station with his head down, grumbling all the while. Passing the checkout counter, he set his mug down and lifted his head.

“Memorial Day a week from today. Sure be nice for a fella to get some help around here.” He went on grumbling to the right, quickening his pace toward the showers. “Gonna be mildew. Happens every time you leave the door open for that no account mutt.” He rubbed the back of his neck and scratched at a lump he’d noticed getting bigger the last few days. “Well, there’s all sorta work to be done, and ain’t no sense belly-aching about it. Best just get to it, Gus.”

There was indeed mildew. All four showers looked as if they hadn’t been cleaned in over a week and someone had left the water running. He got down on his hands and knees and scrubbed showers one, two, and three for the better part of an hour. Finally, he stood and tossed his cleaning rag into a bucket. Phantom pain coursed through his head, and he instintively touched his fingertips to his forehead as he caught sight of the red stain in shower number four.

“You gotta clean it sometime. Quit being a stubborn old bastard and just get it done.”

He took a few deep breaths. Felt his heart beating faster. Closed his eyes and reopened them. Then he sniffled and rolled his shoulders back.

“Well, no time for it this morning.” He rubbed the lump on the back of his neck. “Gotta get to inventory before we lose the light. Ain’t but a week left. Them cars are gonna pack this place, and all them travellers is gonna be ready to spend all that money they done saved up all year.” He picked up the bucket and turned to walk out of the showers. He paused in the doorway when he heard the voice.

“Ain’t no damn cars coming, and ain’t no—”

“You shut your god damned mouth!” He had to catch his breath, but he didn’t know why he was breathing heavily. “This station makes more on Memorial Day than any other day of the year. Ain’t a filling station for miles between here and Amarillo, and you know it. So we’re gonna get to work, and that’s all there is to it.”

“And what about that lump? Huh? What about your hair falling out?”

He waved his hand and walked back out to the main store. “Bah. Old men lose their hair. Lumps come and go. Just like your bitchin’ and complaining.”

“You know that’s not true.”

He balled up his fist. “I told you to shut your mouth, you son of a bitch. Now if you ain’t helping, you’re hurting. That’s what my daddy always said, and I reckon he know’d what he was a saying.” He paused, listening, but the voice was silent. He nodded to himself.

Halfway to the front register, the voice returned. “You’re getting clumsy.”

He kept walking. “I know it. Ain’t nothing for it, though.”

He held an overstuffed clipboard at chest level. Looking down at the yellowing, corner-curled sheets of paper, he marked a blue “1” in a hand drawn column beside the words “Slim Jim.”

He cleared his throat. “Gonna have to order more. Kids’ll be wantin’ them things come next Tuesday.”

“Who are you trying to fool?”

He used the pen to point down the aisle. “And gummy worms.” He chuckled. “Never did care for ’em myself, but damned if them little fellas don’t love ’em.”

“We haven’t had gummy bears in six months, you fool. You’re losing it.”

He scribbled a note at the bottom of the page, but the ink ran dry. He huffed out a breath and slid the pen into the top of his ear. The only word he’d managed to write before the ink gave out was “Need.” Setting the clipboard on the shelf, he turned and headed to the register. Once behind the counter, he rummaged through small boxes, opened drawers, and shuffled items around, but no pen produced itself. He scratched his nose, wincing as soon as his nail scraped the scabs. Blood soaked his finger, running beneath the broken nail of his forefinger and mixing with the dirt collected there.

He pulled an already bloody rag from his back pocket and pressed a corner of it to his nose, holding it in place as he rounded the counter and headed for the office supplies aisle. It had been picked clean, but he found a pen easily enough. The last ten pack of Bics. Not the kind he preferred. A man got a strange bit of satisfaction from clicking the top of a pen, then clicking it once more when the job was done. Who the hell wanted to pry a cap off? And the damn things always went missing, and then you’d have a dried up pen all over again. But they were there, and they were cheap.

“Got enough charged to my employee account as is.”

“How about charging some gas to that old Ranger and getting the hell out of here?”

He pulled the pack from the hook. “Didn’t I tell you to shut your mouth?” He ripped the pack open, much too aggressively, and pens flew everywhere. “God damn it! See what you made me do?” He knelt and scooped up one of the pens. A spider crawled over his hand, and he yanked it back. “Shit!” He’d dropped the pen. “How’s a man to get any work done with all this nonsense? I ain’t got but a few more minutes of light left.” He knelt again and scooped up the pen. “Wish somebody’d pay the damn light bill, or get the ‘lectric company out here to fix whatever the hell’s wrong.”

“You know what’s wrong.”

He realized his rag was gone and looked around. It lay on the floor next to one of the fallen pens. The spider had taken up residence on it. He sneered at the spider and turned, then made his way back to the snack aisle. As soon as he retrieved the clipboard, his shoulders drooped. A glance over the shelves and out the windows confirmed his fears.

“Lights gone.” He rubbed his teeth with his tongue. “Ain’t nothing else for it.” He sighed, debated returning the clipboard to the front counter, then gave up and set it back on the snack shelf. “Ah hell with it. I’ll pick up where I left off come morning.”

He tossed the Bic on the clipboard, pulled the Slim Jim box from the hook, and headed to the back of the station. His mind didn’t even register that he’d taken a pack of batteries off a carousel until he reached the rapidly darkening hallway leading to the employee break room. He shoved the pack in his pants pocket and made a mental note: double pack of D cell batteries. Remove from inventory and charge to Gus’s employee account.

“Damned expensive little bastards.”

He grabbed the handle of a Coleman lantern and lifted it off a coat hook and flipped the power switch. The hallway lit up in bright blue light, and he squinted, turning his head. Out of habit—what the hell else could it be?—he gave a nod to his employee of the month picture, mounted in a plastic dollar store frame on the wall. Then he rounded the corner and came to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. He turned the wobbly knob and pushed the door open. The smell of moth balls and stale coffee overpowered him, and he paused in the doorway, the back of the hand holding the Slim Jim box pressed to his nose.

“Just give it a minute, old son. You’ll get used to it.”

Which held true. As soon as he stepped through the doorway, his eyes had grown accustomed to the unnatural blue light of the lantern, and his sense of smell seemed to decrease, accepting the smell. The lantern flickered, and he shook it. He had a mind to get rid of the mothballs. The damned things hadn’t been worth a hill of beans keeping the snakes away. One had crawled into his cot two weeks prior. Luckily he’d been awake and saw it before he felt it, but it’d taken the better part of thirty minutes to corner and kill it.

“And it was the last real meat you’ve had since.”

“Bah. That’s a devil’s tale if ever I’ve heard one.” He set the lantern on the counter next to the sink, then turned and walked over to the breakroom table, where he pulled out a wheeled chair and sat. “What about that beef stew we finished night before last?” The lantern flickered, casting a flash of darkness over the room.

“The single serve can of Dinty Moore you had to stretch for three days?”

He opened the Slim Jim box and took out one of the individually wrapped meat sticks. “You’re always griping about something.” His fingers fumbled with the tiny plastic wrapper, and he felt his patience wearing thin. After nearly a minute, he threw the Slim Jim across the room, then swept the box from the table with his forearm. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. A coughing fit suddenly hit him, causing him to hunch over in the chair. He coughed so hard and so many times that he spit up blood. It bubbled at his feet. Blood and saliva dripped from his lips. His eyes bulged, and he gasped for air. Then he draped his arm across the table and rested his head on it.

Twenty minutes later he slowly stood on shaky legs and stumbled across the room. He fell onto his cot, and his head slammed into the wall. There was a burst of light to accent the blow. He rolled onto his back and pulled his legs onto the cot, a wave of dizziness washing over him. The batteries in the lantern died. He thought he remembered ordering more as darkness fell upon him, and he drifted to asleep.

Wednesday, May 25th

He grabbed the clipboard off the shelf and studied it. Scanned the sparse items on the aisle. Frowned. Shaking his head, he turned the “1” next to the Slim Jim column into a “0.” His head throbbed, and he gently touched the spot where he’d hit the wall. He’d cleaned it with water he’d warmed over a propane camping stove and covered it with gauze. The damn stuff would probably stick to his hair. Hell, that’s falling out anyhow.

He glanced toward the employee only hallway and spotted a blank hook on the battery carousel. “Best order more D cells.”

“Damn fool. Check your pocket.”

“I don’t have time for your meddling, nor your belly aching this morning.”

He flipped through the pages of the clipboard until he found the battery inventory sheet. The D cell column showed one pack left in stock. He drew a loop on the “1” to make it a “0” before laying the pages back down. Then he set the pen on top of the clipboard and laid them both on the shelf. He pressed his lips together and exhaled through his nose. Shoved his hands in the front pockets of his navy blue Dickies. The fingers of his right hand touched something. He fumbled around the object until he’d got a hold of it, then took his hand out of his pocket.

D cell batteries. The last pack.

He coughed, thought it was going to be a little one, then found himself hunched over, spasming as his entire upper body went to work trying to produce whatever’d lodged itself in his throat. Blood splattered onto the dull tile at his feet. He wiped his mouth and took deep breaths. A few more coughs forced their way out as he stood. He inhaled long and deep, then closed his eyes and groaned the air out. The lump on the back of his neck itched and throbbed, but he fought the urge to scratch or rub it.

“Cause you’re too chicken shit to face the truth?”

“Shut your god damned mouth. It’s just a lump. After Memorial Day I’ll get over to Amarillo and see the doc.”

“The fucking doctors are all done!”

“Then by God I’ll just deal with it!” He swung blindly, and his hand swept across a hook. The last pack of pizza flavored Combos flew across the aisle and landed on the floor in front of the sunflower seeds. He sighed, shoulders slumping, and walked over to pick up the shiny package. “Ain’t nothing for it. We do the best we can with what we has. That’s all a fella can do.”

No response.

When he’d returned the Combos to the hook, he decided it’d be a good idea to replace the batteries in the lantern while there was still plenty of light. There were still a few things to inventory if he wanted to get the order out before close of business, so he hurried to the back. The break room was too dark, so he felt around until he found the lantern and then headed back out to the main store. Passing from the dark hallway into the sunlit store, he froze.

A man stood in the front doorway, sunlight silhouetting his lanky frame. Long, greasy strands of hair hung over his eyes, and a black bandana covered the lower half of his face. He wore a faded slicker that stopped at his knees. Leather work gloves covered his hands. He made his way across the store with slow, methodical steps and stood at the end of the snack aisle. He lowered the bandana, revealing the bloody scars on both sides of his nose and the blisters around his mouth.

Gus took a step back.

“Them fuel pumps work?” the stranger asked.

“No,” he said as he set the lantern on the coffee counter beside him. “Not since the power went out.”

The stranger scratched his cheek, scraping a gloved finger over a patchy beard. “You alone?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Store’s closed for inventory, friend. Them pumps don’t work, but I can get ya a tank of gas simple enough. You’ll have to be on your way after that.”

The stranger arched his brow. “Inventory?”

“Don’t believe I misspoke. You want gas for your vehicle or not?”

The stranger grinned. “Sure, old timer. Much abliged.”

The lump on his neck itched terribly, and a coughing fit was threatening its way up his chest. “I gotta fetch it from the resevoir out back. Won’t be but a few minutes.”

The stranger bowed his head in thanks. “Mind if I do some browsing while you’re fetching? Been a while since I ate.”

He coughed onto the back of his hand, discreetly slipping the blood stained hand to hi side. “Don’t get greedy, and I’ll need to see whatever you take.” He jabbed the forefinger of his other hand at the stranger. “I got a full inventory, hear?”

The stranger held up his hands, palms out. “Scouts honor, old timer.”

He maintained eye contact as he walked sideways toward the exit, then turned and walked backwards until he reached the door. The stranger kept his gloved hands up the whole time, his smile growing wider.

He couldn’t run, but he fast-walked around the back of the building to the overnight drop box mounted to the wall at the corner. It took a few seconds of fiddling with the ring of keys on his belt loop, but he finally got it free, found the correct key, and unlocked the box. He tossed the Master lock on the ground, lifted the clasp, and yanked the box open. Peeking inside, he found the revolver he kept there for emergencies, along with a set of keys. He grabbed both and then let the lid fall back into place.

“Don’t be a fool. Get the hell outa here.”

“No.”

“He might not be alone.”

“I said no, damn it. This is my station, and I ain’t going nowhere.”

He opened the cylinder and tilted the revolver to inspect the bullets. All six were seated in their chambers. He gave it a spin out of habit and clicked it back into the housing. Then he pocketed the keys, turned, and fast-walked to the fuel resevoir around the corner. The stranger stood in his path leaning against the wall. His gloves were tucked into his belt. In one filthy hand he held the Combos package. With the other, he reached into pack, pulled out a single cheese-filled pretzel, and popped it into his mouth. He narrowed his eyes while he chewed, then swallowed and pushed away from the wall so that he stood straight.

“I took these,” the stranger said, lifting the package slightly higher in the air. “And a toothbrush.” He smiled, revealing brown teeth, several of which were missing. The stranger glanced down, then back up. Took another pretzel from the bag and popped it into his mouth. “You need a gun to fetch fuel, old timer?” he asked, bits of pretzel falling onto his chin and catching in his beard.

He pushed the barrel of the revolver into his belt. “A fella can’t be too careful.”

The stranger swallowed. “S’pose not.” He wadded up the empty package and tossed it on the ground. “Let me help you with that gas.”

Gus looked down, eyeing the crumpled package, then quickly looked up again. “It’s this way.” He motioned with his head and brushed past the stranger.”

“Now!”

He pulled the revolver free, cocked the hammer as he spun, and raised it. The stranger’s eyes bulged wide open. Blood appeared between his eyes a split second before the crack and boom of the revolver echoed across the parking lot. Blood sprayed on the wall behind the stranger, and he fell backward like a board.

Gus lowered the revolver, barrel smoking, and exhaled.

“Now what?”

“You know what.”

He tucked the revolver back into his belt and then picked up one of the stranger’s legs. He turned and leaned forward, dragging the stranger. It wasn’t a long walk to the pump station behind the eighteen wheelers, but the stranger was heavier than he looked, and two spasm-filled coughing fits slowed him down. It took the better part of ten minutes, but he finally reached the small, plywood framed building. He had to cover his nose with the back of his hand to block the sour smell when he got close enough, which made it impossible to swat away the swarming flies. He dragged the stranger to the side of the tiny building and then pushed him into the hole he’d dug there on the previous Memorial Day.

The stranger’s body landed unceremoniously on the demaciated corpse of the last stranger. Gus covered his mouth and nose with his forearm and took a peek into the hole. It was nearly full, and he’d need to fill it in with dirt pretty soon. Gonna be overrun with flies any day if I don’t.

“You really think you’ve got the time?”

His response was another coughing fit, and this time he coudln’t help but scratching the lump on the back of his neck. The combination of his body jerking through a violent cough and the rough scratching proved too much for the lump. It burst, spraying its wet contents onto his hand. He pulled his hand away to inspect it and almost wretched at the sight of oily, puss-filled blood.

“Won’t be long now.”

“Shut up.” He turned and walked as fast as he could across the lot, away from the rotting smell and the swarming flies.

Saturday, May 28th

The lantern had died some time in the night. He’d forgotten to turn it off again. His stomach growled, but the thought of food made him want to vomit. Another chill ran through his body, and he pulled his knees closer to his chest. He coughed until he couldn’t breathe. He coughed so hard that he blacked out.

Sunday, May 29th

He forced himself to eat. The last can of sour cream and onion Pringles. They were stale, but the salt felt good in his mouth. He ate them sitting up on the edge of his cot, a West Texas A&M Buffaloes blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He washed it down with the last can of Pepsi.

Then he threw it all up.

Monday, May 30th

He leaned against the jamb in the doorway of the showers, staring at shower four. Flies buzzed around the red stain. The ammonia from unflushed piss wafted in from the bathrooms down the hall.

“That smell’s been here for weeks.”

“I know it,” he whispered, rubbing the sores on his nose.

“You can’t ignore it anymore.”

He nodded. “I know it.”

He pushed himself up straight, turned, and left the showers, feet scraping the dusty floors. He braced himself by pressing his hand to the wall and sliding it as he walked. Every step took effort. Every shoulder racking cough brought more blood up from his lungs to spatter on his lips.

When he got out to the main store, he paused and took in the sight. For the first time, he saw it the way it really was. Smelled the way it truly smelled. A layer of dust caked everything: floors, shelves, counters. The refrigerator doors hung open, exploded milk cartons pilling out onto the shelves. The milk had long ago dried up, but the sourness of the mildew and bacteria remained. The rest of the shelves were bare. The hooks and carousels picked clean. Nothing to inventory. No shipment coming in. Now, or ever again.

“You tried.”

He swiped a finger under his nose to wipe away the blood he felt trickling onto his lip. “Wasn’t enough.”

Tuesday, May 31st. Memorial Day

The revolver felt heavy in his hand, hanging at his side parallel to his leg. Hot wind brushed across his face, making his sores itch, but he ignored it. This was the first time he’d stood in front of the station in months. He held his chin up and looked down the empty highway. It stretched to the edge of the horizon where the nearly transparent blue sky met the yellow-brown fields of wild grass, the grey road like a knife cutting its way through it all.

He swayed in the wind, his frame so emaciated he thought it might get swept up in the breeze and float away. That would be nice, he thought. Maybe he’d break up into tiny particles and float all the way to the mashed potato clouds overhead. He’d turn to mist and fill the clouds until they darkened and turned their wrath on the earth. Then he’d be set free with the rain, clean and purified for the first time in his life, sent like judgment to cleanse the dead world below.

But it was just wind, and there was no such merciful ending for him.

“No point complaining about it.”

“No, don’t guess there is.” He took a deep breath. Held it. Exhaled slowly. “Nah. Ain’t nothing for it now.”

“Least you’re going on your own terms, not like those ones buried out back.”

Or the millions of others, those spread out around the country, unburied and forgotten. Some lying in their beds in the eternal sleep. Others in front of dark television screens that had been blank and dark for months. They watched memories in the screens of their minds while their eyes stared at the physical screens. Still others lie decaying in cars and trucks along one of the highways spiderwebbing the country. Some floated in oceans, the gases of their internal organs raising their bodies to see the sunsets their eyes never would.

He cocked the revolver at his side. We don’t deserve mercy.

His hand twitched, and he clenched his teeth as the fingers twisted in pain. The revolver slipped from his grip and clattered to the asphalt. He hunched over, clutching his waist as a sharp pain stabbed him in the stomach. His face bulged, straining against the agony of his dehydrated muscles, the shooting pain in his stomach, and the clot of blood forcing its way up his throat. He couched for the final time, and blood exploded from his mouth. It sprayed outward, and the wind blew it back into his face. He squinted as drops of blood struck his eyes.

Blood smeared his vision, but he stole one last look at the mashed potato sky before closing his eyes for the last time. The clouds were bright, gleaming white against a brilliant, blue backdrop. He smiled and let his eyelids black out the scene. He felt himself falling. Something scraped his face, and he knew it was the asphalt.

He whispered into the wind. “Store’s closed.”

Note to the reader:

This is a proof of concept story, which means I haven’t decided if I will revise and finalize this story, develop it into a longer work, or abandon it for worthier projects. So, if you enjoyed The Filling Station, please share what you liked about it in a comment. If you didn’t enjoy it, please share your reasons why in a comment. Remember, this HAS NOT been revised or edited. I am aware that I’ll need to address errors, repetition, plot holes, etc. Please don’t brow beat me over commas or how many times a character sighs.