he looked at the car's fuel gauge: the vehicle may or may not make it Kurtzville on this tank but what the hell-- he was out in the country and the crawl through the crash scene had eaten up a lot of gas. He pulled into the next station to refuel, piss and grab a couple brews from the cooler he kept in the trunk.
Pulling into the old filling station, he spotted the young, teenish and plump attendant sitting on an old iron chair under a bare bulb, under which flew about 200 moths. The kid was reading some sort of car magazine.
"Nice car, dude," the kid said as he walked toward the Davidson's Malibu, "what can we do for you? fill it up, regular?"
" Yep, you guys got a bathroom?"
"Around the side, it's open."
He went inside the men's room, pissed and checked himself in the dirty cracked mirror, splashing water on his stubble ridden face.
A quick scan of the landscape (illuminated by a strong, maybe near full moon) revealed the layout of Lehigh County: green-rolling hills filled with farms. Thousands of crickets chirped.
"Little late in the year for crickets isn't it?"
"Hadn't thought about it," the kid replied, "but yeah, I guess it is a little late." He shrugged. "You heading up to Jim Thorpe for the race?"
"Nah, I'm going to Kurtzville.
"What the fuck you going to Kurtzville for?"
I'm re-opening an old tavern. The place used to be a roadhouse-- used to be a speakeasy too.
I'd say that some parts of your story sound like good fun and all but the I don't think I like the Kurtzville part but me? You ask me I say stay away, cops pull everybody over in Kurtzville-- you drive a mile and a half over the speed limit and they are pulling you over. You can keep Kurtzville all to yourself.
Thoughtful nod.
The gas nozzle snapped, indicating that the tank was near full, the kid pumped some more in. Too much ... some leaked out.
I used to drive in Kurztville, the older guys told me it wasn't worth it but the town's got some good straight stretches of road where a guy can really get some speed going so I didn't pay attention to all those stories about witches and devils and such. Last year, right, I broke down one night and I had to walk back home; man, I heard sounds coming out of the woods that night that I never want to hear again. The kind of Roaring like a lion might make and someone screaming like somebody was trying to murder them.... scream sounded like a person to me but I can't say for sure. I don't know, it may have been the animals.
The kid wipes the windshield quickly and says blandly: twelve bucks.
Mark walks to the trunk, opens it and removes a couple of beers from the cooler. He gave the kid his Mastercard.
You want a few?
Sure.
He gave the kid four ice cold beers. The kid ran the card through ... it took a few seconds to verify and Mark was back on his way toward the town about which witch and devil rumors had been floating around for nearly three centuries.