Matthew Costello - Vacation

“Jack, do you really—”

Simon turned again to the QuikMart. “You mean, we can’t go in there, Dad? Why not? Looks like—”

Kate leaned close to her brother. “’Cause there are Can Heads inside and they’ll eat you right up!”

“Kate—” Christie said.

Jack popped open his door. “Locked. Windows up tight. Got it?”

Christie nodded.

Steady, Jack told himself.

What the hell kind of vacation would this be if he drove his family crazy? He held the nozzle tight in the tank opening as it guzzled the ever-more-expensive fuel. Amazing, that with fewer people going anywhere, still the OPEC nations could tighten supply and make the once prosperous nations of the West pay and pay.

Just as they would squeeze every last drop of oil out of the deserts, so they would squeeze every devalued dollar and pound and yen from the countries that still desperately depended on their oil.

And while the gas chugged into the tank, Jack kept looking at the rest stop station.

He saw someone sitting at the checkout counter.

But no customers came by to pay for whatever pretend-food items the place sold.

No movement at all.

And the cars remained there.

Funny, he thought. Shouldn’t someone have come out by now?

The gas stopped. Jack looked down at the tank opening and squeezed in a few more bursts. Should be enough to get us the rest of the way , he thought. No more stops.

He pulled out the nozzle and placed it back in the tank. He heard Christie’s window whirr as she lowered it.

“Jack, Simon’s gotta pee.”

“He always has to pee,” Kate said.

The window open, Jack looked around quickly. The whole place was like a still life.

“Okay. Right. You sure he doesn’t just want to see what goodies they have for sale?”

“I got to go, Dad.”

“All right, all right. Listen, I’ll go check out the restrooms. I’ll give you a wave and then everyone”—he leaned down so he could see Kate—“and I do mean everyone can come in. This will be our only stop before the Paterville Camp. So, make use of it.”

Then back to Christie.

“But not until I give you a wave.”

“Aye, aye, Captain. We’ll wait for the official wave.” Christie said.

Jack grinned at her. She had every right to be pissed at him, scaring the kids; instead, she cut the atmosphere with humor.

“Okay. I’m off to take a look.”

Jack made a signal with his finger—rolling his finger to indicate that the window should be rolled up.

When Christie had done that, he turned and walked to the QuikMart.

Jack pushed the door open.

Couple of cars outside. Got to be some people in here , he thought.

But the aisles were absolutely empty.

Can’t all be in the john.

He saw someone manning the cubicle where people could pay for their sodas, the gas, some smokes.

The man had his head down, as if staring at a newspaper.

Jack spotted the way to the restrooms to the right, a corridor with the universal male/female sign hanging above it.

Jack started walking down an aisle of snacks.

What the hell do they make this stuff out of?

Salt was still plentiful. There were new sweeteners that replaced the suddenly, improbably rare high fructose corn syrup. The packages all in screaming colors, as if promising insanely good taste.

As Jack moved down the aisle, he kept looking at the cashier. Not even a look up.

Not like the place was exactly swarming with customers. Not like the guy didn’t hear Jack, see Jack.

Once again, he reminded himself to maybe—just maybe—stop being a cop. He was just here to scope out the restrooms for the kids.

No need to engage the guy.

No need to ask him how things have been.

Quiet on the highway?

Business kinda slow these days?

These weeks… months… years…

Feet away. Still, the guy didn’t look up.

“Hey. Um, the bathrooms. I mean, do I—” Jack pointed to the corridor to the right “—need a key or something?”

And that’s when a different tumbler clicked in Jack’s brain.

Guy didn’t move. Didn’t fucking move.

Jack didn’t bother with another greeting.

In a reflex, he bent over, his hand sliding down to unholster the revolver strapped to his left ankle.

No more words as Jack moved around to get a good side view of the cashier so engrossed in his daily news. So engrossed that he couldn’t move his head from the paper. Or flip to a new page.

Until Jack got a good side view of the grizzly-bearded man sitting on a stool. Perched on it.

More like placed on it.

Because now Jack could see that a good portion of the man’s lower body had been chewed down to the bone. A pool of blood, dry and crusty, gathered below the man.

No two-way radio with police backup waiting, this time.

Jack was on his own.

He looked right. No movement. But he could see an open door, leading to a back area—storerooms, maybe—behind the counter.

Jack took a few steps in that direction.

An open door in the back, only a quarter-way open, but enough so that he could see the outside. The brightness of the day, the sun, and even—beyond the tufts of grass overdue for a mow—the fence that girded the rest stop. The tall electric fence topped with curlicues of razor ribbon.

Except he could see that the fence had been cut, a triangle of wire pulled back.

So much for the electricity.

He didn’t give that view another look. Not when he imagined that whatever came through that hole could still be here.

He spun around, his eyes darting, looking at the silent aisles, over to the restrooms, and then—as if catching on to the game way too late—to the tinted glass windows facing outside.

“Shit,” he said, moving quickly now.

Something smacked into him from the side, sending him flying against a rack of newspapers and magazines. He tumbled awkwardly, falling, and despite his grip—so tight—a metal spoke of the rack jabbed his hand, forcing his fingers to loosen.

His gun slipped away as he fell backward.

Unarmed, as something—and he knew, of course, what it was—jumped on top of him.

He wished time slowed, the way they said it did.

But after so many raids, so many times fighting Can Heads, he knew that was all a bunch of bullshit.

“Mom, I really have to go!”

“You really want to buy some of that junk they sell,” Kate said.

“I do not. I—”

“Simon, Kate—can you guys just cool it a minute? Dad will be right back. And we can go in.” Christie turned to the QuikMart. She had seen Jack in there a minute ago, but now he wasn’t there. Maybe checking out the restrooms? “He’ll be right back. Just…”

Just what?

Come on. What are you doing in there?

Christie waited.

Jack felt the body on him, then smelled the breath, the mouth close to his head. Classic Can Head strategy. Go for the neck. Like any feral creature, any trained predator.

Immobilize your prey. Bite down.

The attack in Red Hook all over again.

Jack’s head turned to the side, meshed in the wire newspaper rack. He could see his gun, so close, but it lay feet away, an impossible distance with this thing on him.

Normal human-body vulnerabilities supposedly didn’t apply to them. Too amped up on whatever drove them to feed off their own kind, it was hard to cause any distracting pain when they were attacking.

Hard. But maybe not impossible.

Jack shot his right hand up to grab under the chin of the Can Head trying to chomp its way up to his neck.