Алан Дин Фостер - To the Vanishing Point

"Bet this was here on the old highway before the interstate was put through," Frank commented as he pulled across the access road and up to the pumps. "We need some gas anyway if we’re going to run the rest of the way straight through to Vegas."

Alicia checked the gauge and frowned. "But we just filled up back in Barstow. We haven’t come anywhere near far enough to burn up that much gas."

Frank put the transmission into park. "We’ve been climbing all the way and running the air conditioner on high. It’s a lot hotter here than it was in L.A. You know how these things burn fuel."

"I didn’t think we’d come up that far, but you’re right. What do I know about motor homes?" She leaned forward and studied the station through the window. "Doesn’t look like it’s been very well kept up."

"Ahhhh, c’mon," he chided her. "You’re intrigued and you know it." He leaned close, trying to see past her. "I’ll bet whoever runs this place has rattler skins on the walls and a stuffed deer head over the cash register. I could do with a cold beer."

"We have a whole refrigerator full of beer," she reminded him.

He sat back, disappointed. "There you go, taking all the romance out of it. Anyway, we do need the unleaded. Then it’s a straight shot all the way across the border and into Vegas. I promise. This is my last chance to show the kids something different, the last time we’ll stop."

"Not if we keep gulping gas at this rate," she pointed out as she moved her legs so he could pass.

It was pretty run-down, he had to admit as he stepped out of the motor home and into the heat. One of those ancient old gas stations that used to line the state highways of the Southwest made redundant by the bypassing interstates. This one had managed to hang on because it was fortunate enough to sit next to an off ramp. Closer inspection confirmed his initial appraisal.

It was all dark volcanic rock and cement, the pitted round stones garish in their setting of faded concrete. The twin gas pumps looked brand-new, though, in striking contrast to the cracked cement island on which they sat. Whoever owned the place had enough sense to maintain his equipment if not his home. The neglect could be intentional. The thick stone walls probably stayed cooler during the day than modern slat and steel. He didn’t see an air conditioner. Probably in the back.

Poised atop the station was one of those flame-red flying horses that had been common in Frank’s parents' day. Like the pumps, it looked new. It was also probably worth more than the station. He sensed movement behind him, glimpsed his children filling the doorway.

"Check it out, kids." Shading his eyes with one hand, he used the other to indicate the flying horse. "Major-brand gas and a real antique."

Wendy had slipped off the earphones, proving anew they weren’t rooted to the bone. "Why are we stopping?"

"Because I thought this would be an interesting place to stop."

"Looks like trash to me."

Frank tried not to growl. "It’s not trash. It’s history. We’re going to get something cold to drink, and we need to get some gas."

"We just filled up in Barstow, Pops."

I don’t even have to watch the gauge, he told himself sourly. The women in this family monitor everything for me. "In case you haven’t noticed, young lady, this ain’t exactly a compact wagon we’re driving." He let out a sigh of resignation. "If you don’t want anything you don’t have to get out. Steven," he asked, none too hopefully, "you coming?"

"Sure, Dad." To Frank’s surprise his son hopped out and scuttled past him, heading for a high chain-link fence that enclosed a small area between worn house trailer and station.

"Hey, Dad! They got snakes in here, and I think I see a Gila monster, and a chuckawalla, an' a…!"

The attendant or owner would probably want a dollar in payment for Steven’s looking. Frank would gladly fork it over. At last his son was showing some real interest in something besides billboards.

"Look all you want, kiddo, but don’t touch. And keep your hands outside the links, okay?"

"Okay, Dad." Steven quickly and guiltily withdrew his fingers from one gap.

Frank checked the pumps. Somewhat to his surprise he found premium unleaded. Considering the location, the prices were quite reasonable. He unhitched one of the pumps, glanced toward the station office. No one had appeared to greet them. The door that secured the repair bay was closed.

Surely the place wasn’t deserted, as Alicia had suggested. The door to the office was ajar and there were no padlocks on the pumps.

"Anybody home?" he yelled.

There was no response. Not even wind to reply at midday. He shrugged and turned to the motor home. No doubt as soon as he started pumping gas someone would show up fast enough. He flipped the pump switch up, saw the digital readout on the machine’s flank flop to zero, and unlocked the motor home’s filler cap, setting it carefully aside. The nozzle rattled its way into the tank. As he squeezed the trigger, gas began to flow.

The digital readout counted the cost silently. He missed the friendly musical ding gas pumps had made when he was young. Steven was walking slowly around the chain-link enclosure, intently surveying something inside.

"Fingers!" Frank shouted.

"Sure, Dad," his son replied in that special tone children utilize for acknowledging parents' admonitions without actually devoting any attention to them.

The sharp, vaguely threatening aroma of gasoline stung Frank’s nostrils as he topped off the tank. Except for the gurgle of gas it was silent outside the motor home. You could hear a mouse gallop out here, he mused silently. Not a leaf stirred on the salt-tolerant trees that shaded the old station. The petals of a single paralyzed fuchsia drooped tiredly in the sun. Listen hard enough and you could hear ants scurrying underfoot, the slither of a king snake off in the bushes. And one other sound.

Frowning, he slipped the pump back in its steel saddle, then bent to check the tires. An intermittent hissing sound. The tires on this side looked full. Bending toward the ground he spotted a pair of legs walking past the wheels on the other side of the motor home. Rotting dirty denims were stuffed into scruffy brown boots. Boots used for work, not dancing. He still didn’t know the source of the hissing, but at least he’d located the station’s attendant. The legs kept coming. Frank straightened.

"Howdy."

"Howdy yourself." Frank returned the appraising smile.

The old man was tall, well over six feet, and thin as a fencepost. A weathered scarecrow, Frank thought. Shaving was a casual affair and he had stubble the consistency of beach sand. Bright, unblinking eyes stared out from beneath brows fashioned of steel wool. Perched on his head was a filthy baseball cap with a John Deere emblem sewn to the front. Like its wearer, the cap’s original color had been overwhelmed by generations of fossilized grease and oil stains. As threads had broken and unraveled, the torso of the jumping deer had parted company from its legs.

A short-sleeved work shirt was loosely tucked into faded coveralls. Gloves concealed both hands. Frank decided this emaciated ghost of the modern West was old enough to have preyed on migrating Okies back in the thirties, before the interstate had usurped old Route 66.

"Glad to have your business," the relic declared cheerily. "Most folks go on through to Baker. Got three stations there now. A real metropolis." He chuckled. Maybe he’d gone batty living alone in the desert, but he’d retained a sense of humor.

"We thought your place looked interesting. I like stopping off the beaten track." Frank nodded at the sky. "Thought we’d make a stop before sundown."

"Glad you did." The old man was standing close now. A soiled handkerchief protruded from a pocket of the coveralls. For a change the stains weren’t from oil or grease. Red or maroon paint, Frank decided.