Brett Battles - Sick

Though it looked like it was open, there were no customers out front.

He slowed, then turned into the large dirt lot next to the building, his eyes scanning left and right, looking for…

There.

The pay phone was mounted to a wooden pole a good twenty feet away from the station.

He pulled to a stop and stumbled out of the car, then cursed himself for not having gotten closer to the phone. When he finally got to the pole, he leaned against it and caught his breath. Closing his eyes, he focused on the number, trying to make sure he remembered it correctly. His headache wasn’t helping, but once he repeated the number several times, he knew he had it.

He fished some coins out of his pocket, then picked up the receiver and dropped several quarters into the slot on top. His strength waning, he punched in the number, making sure he made no mistakes.

One ring. Two.

Then a click and a beep.

“This is Ellison,” he said. “Barker Flats blown. I repeat Barker Flats blown. Littlefield initiated self-destruct. When the power came back on, the virus they were pumping into the target’s cell leaked into the rest of the building. Littlefield and three others eliminated with the facility. Target already freed at that point, but Littlefield discovered the escape and planned to report it to Karp. No confirmation if he was able to do that, but it seems likely.” He paused. “I’m…I’m infected, so this will be my last message.”

He hung up.

The phone was going to have to be destroyed, too, but that would be easy enough. He would just need to move the car right up against the pole before he lit everything on fire.

He went around to the trunk of Major Littlefield’s sedan. Inside he found more than he had hoped for. Not only were there flares that he could use to help get the fire going, but there was also a hard plastic case containing a Colt.45 automatic pistol.

It was a lot more power than Ellison needed, but then again, it wouldn’t matter when he pulled the trigger. At least he wouldn’t have to crawl out into the desert now.

He stripped off his shirt, then fed as much of it as he could into the gas tank. Once he had the car in position, his plan was to use a flare to light the shirt on fire. He would then get into the car and throw the flare into the back seat to ignite the interior. As soon as he saw the fire catch, he would put the gun to his head and pull the trigger.

What he hadn’t counted on were the three sedans that raced off the road and skidded to a stop twenty feet away, before he could get back behind the wheel and move the car into place.

Men jumped out of nearly every door, most with guns pointed directly at him.

“Stay right there, Mr. Ellison.”

“They know who you are,” the disease whispered in his mind. “They found you. See? You should have just stayed.”

“Get back!” Ellison yelled at the men. “I’m infected. Doesn’t matter if you shoot me or not. You come near me, your life is over.”

None of the men flinched.

“I’m not going to be a problem,” Ellison told them, then coughed. “Just let me take care of this, and it’ll all be over.”

He stepped around the back of the sedan and headed for the driver’s door.

“Stop. Now!” someone shouted.

But Ellison couldn’t stop. He had to finish.

“Stop!”

Ellison put his hand on the door handle and started to pull it open.

The first bullet caught him in the shoulder, knocking him into the car. The second went through his kidney and exited just below his ribs. He slipped to the ground, rolling onto his back as he did, and ended up looking at the group of armed men.

They parted in the middle, and two new men dressed in protective gear stepped through. Not biohazard suits, though-something different. Then Ellison saw the thin rifles in the men’s hands, rifles with hoses attached to one end running around to tanks on the men’s backs.

Not rifles. Flamethrowers.

Oh, thank God.

There was a whoosh , then short flames flickered at the end of each nozzle.

The two men took a few steps closer to the car and raised their weapons.

“The phone,” Ellison whispered as loudly as he could. “Don’t forget the phone.”

But his words were lost as long streams of flames roared out from each weapon.

“Stop there, stop there,” Chuck said, pointing down the road at the lonely gas station.

“Why?” his friend Len asked. They were supposed to be meeting some other friends for a couple nights of camping, but somewhere they’d made a wrong turn. Neither of them could get a signal on their cell phones so using their GPS wasn’t an option.

“I gotta go.”

“Again?”

“What do you mean, ‘again’? That was like two hours ago. I’ve drank two sodas since then.”

Len pulled into the station, figuring while Chuck did his business he could at least find out where they were. As he got out of the car he caught a faint whiff of barbeque. Maybe they were selling sandwiches inside. He could use something to eat.

Chuck raced ahead like his bladder was about to burst.

“Next time, don’t drink so much!” Len yelled after him.

Without looking back, Chuck flipped him off as he entered the store. Len reached the door a moment later, and was starting to pull it open when his friend came running back outside. He looked at Len, opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then quickly bent over and threw up on the asphalt.

Len jumped back. “What the hell? I didn’t know you were sick.” As soon as his friend seemed to finish, he said, “Are you all right?”

Chuck breathed deeply, but said nothing.

Len could see his friend’s face was a mess, so he said, “I’ll get some napkins.” As he reached for the door, Chuck grabbed his arm.

“Don’t go in there!”

“Why not?” Len asked.

“The guy’s dead. Somebody shot him.”

“What guy?”

“The attendant! He’s slumped over the counter, blood all over the place.”

“Is the person who shot him still there?”

Chuck’s eyes widened. “I…I don’t know. I didn’t hear anybody. Jesus, do you think maybe he is?”

Len glanced around. The only other car he could see was an old truck parked against the side of the store, right where someone who worked there would probably park.

“I doubt it,” Len said. “I’m going to go take a look, okay?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Did you check his pulse to make sure he was dead?”

“No,” Chuck admitted. “But he looked dead.”

“We should check to make sure, don’t you think?”

Reluctantly, Chuck nodded.

“Why don’t you call the police while I go inside,” Len suggested.

“Okay. Good idea.”

Len pushed the door open with his shoulder in case there were fingerprints on the handle the police could use, and stepped inside.

Immediately, he covered his nose to block out the overwhelming smell of blood. The counter was just inside on the left. Lying face down across the top was a man with gray hair. There was no reason to check his pulse, though. He was dead for sure. Len could see two bullet wounds: one between his shoulder blades, and one in the back of his head. The cash register was open, and whatever money had been there was gone.

A robbery, out in the middle of nowhere.

“Len,” Chuck called from outside.

Grateful for a reason to leave, Len rejoined his friend.

Chuck held up his phone and shrugged. “I still don’t have a signal.”

Len pulled his cell out. No bars for him, either.

He looked back at the store. There was probably a phone inside, but chances were it was on the counter next to the body, which would mean stepping on the bloody floor to find it. Beyond the fact that doing so wouldn’t make the police happy, the creep-out factor was way off the scale, so as far as he was concerned, it wasn’t an option.