Let me tell you about a little land called Nowhere.

It is a land of disparity. Where the morning singes down the charred I-205, where cracks run along once teeming river beds, where shrivelled saguaros sway in the sweltering heat. When day fades, night arrives to take its place with its maddening void and burning chill. The frost sinks its teeth into the lifeless dirt and where the moon, merciless, looks from above as an eternal witness. Life is transitory and fleeting in these lands for it arrives and leaves at the same moment, tire markings and distant headlights the only sign of its passage.

In the night, it is a land of discord. Where things from beyond, below and above come to haunt, dwell and dance upon those unfortunate themselves to be within Nowhere’s borders. There is no discernable pattern to its madness, no theory can prove its eldritch behaviors, no science can explain its weirdness. Nowhere is simply what Everywhere else has rejected.

It is a land of the luckless. Construction projects gone awry. Attempts to open residential villas gone wrong from faulty accounting. From eons, from the Civil War to Vietnam, no one has managed to tame it. Businessmen, oil tycoons, settlers, all fell victim to madness, malady or worse. All attempts at creating something of Nowhere have all been failures.

Well, all except for one.

In this miserable land lies a miserable oasis: a single Gas-Way petrol station accompanied by a long stretch of tarmac carved out through Nowhere. Nowhere somehow grudgingly tolerates its existence. For now. Over the years, it has served as a nexus to the strange forces that inhabit Nowhere, much to the detriment of the many employes that serve it. For years, they have sacrificed their body, mind, spirit or all to the forces of the Night. Those who survive who attempt to tell the world about Nowhere’s true nature have been met with contempt, disbelief and laughter.

This is where our story begins. With four lives.

Four days.

Four nights.

---

LOCATION: The Gas-Way Express

TIME: 8:30 PM

When you work a minimum wage job as a cashier in Nowhere, the task is on you to keep yourself busy when there’s no customers. There’s the classics such as counting the number of cars that pass by on the I-280, spinning nickels and trying out obscure cocktails from the soda machines outside. Then, there’s the ones you invent for yourself. Counting the number of scratches on the old brick walls, mentally playing all the songs in your head and observing that one fly in the corner of the room that’s just concerned with reminding you of its wretched existence.

Shawn briefly considers that he may be bored.

Stifling a yawn, Shawn rubs his eyes blearily, elbows leaning on the countertop, trying to stay awake enough to make sure some nosy customer doesn’t tell him off to Al’s suck ups.

A loud bang of something hitting the countertop jostles him from his stupor. The heavy tang of cheese and meat follows after, burning a memory into his senses. “ Sorry ‘bout that, Shawn,” His co-worker, Robert, murmurs as he nudges the pastel green cardboard box with his oil speckled palms. Adjusting his collared shirt, he produces a box cutter from his pocket and slowly pushes out the blade.

“ You just had to do it now. ” Shawn grimaced. “What’s that smell?”

“ New product, man.” Robert replied back, slicing open the cardboard and spilling packaging peanuts everywhere. “ Must be because of that new deal Management made.” He nudges his head back towards the delivery truck outside, other members of the “ You wanna lift a hand and help?”

“ Sorry.” Shawn lazily pointed his thumb back towards the clock. “ I get early leave today at 9.” His eyes lighted up when he looked back at it, the hands perfectly aligned at freedom o’ clock “ Speaking of which, it’s time for me to clock out.”

“ Dick.” Robert simply grunts as Shawn walks into the break room, sliding his work ticket through the time clock. While he waits for it to punch in the time, his co-worker takes a moment to peek through the open door at him.

“ Excited about your final week, aren’t you?”

“ What can I say?” Shawn cockily replied back, hoisting his duffle bag over his shoulder and storing his punch card back into a hanging “ Can’t wait to get out of this dump.” With a smile, he punched Robert’s shoulder playfully, his co-worker returning back the favor as he makes his way out of the store.

“ See ya, Shawn.”

“ See ya, Rob.” Shawn does a little mock-salute before barging his way through the store doors, Nowhere’s familiar barren expanse laid in front of him. Evening shifts in any business are expected to have low activity but in a place like Nowhere, it’s deserted. There’s only one Toyota that’s currently standing by the pumps as Shawn walks by, the driver whistling one out of the billion cookie cutter advertising jingles on the radio.

He makes a straight beeline to the left towards the Parking Lots, walking fast as he can in short, hurried breaths, cursing Management for not having the decency to put a parking space that isn’t miles away from the store. There are barely any streetlights to illuminate Nowhere. What you’re left with is a blanket of black smothering the sky and land. All Shawn can do is continue to walk at a steady pace and ignore the sinking feeling of the darkness trapping him in its cold maw, travelling further and further down its gullet.

That was when the first raindrop of Nowhere hit his shoulder. It’s enough to make him stop, pause and touch the damp fabric of his uniform to make sure he isn’t dreaming.

Strange. It was just clear just a minute ago. The weather predictions in Nowhere were always the same. Hell, they couldn’t even be called predictions since Nowhere had nothing to predict. It was always the same. Hot in the morning and cold in the evening. Until now. As he neared his car, the drizzle became a downpour that eroded away his vision, turning the contours of the parked cars blurry. Spitting out the iron tang of rainwater in driblets, his right hand rifles through his pockets for his keys.

The shriek, like a cat clashing against a blackboard, pierces the endless cacophony of the rainfall.

Then, he hears it. Something wet smacking the pavement sluggishly behind him. He turned his head around and wished he hadn’t. It was one of those sights where your body accepted your truth but your mind didn’t, a kind of dissonance that almost pushed you outwards until you were seeing yourself. He had already lost the battle to convince himself

It was a deer.

It was an abstract painting come to life. The antlers were like white tree branches, colossal and cracked like old weathered marble. Pocketed all over its body were gaping wounds where mud-thick blood oozed out and clotted. Its crooked hoofed legs sprouted from its trunk-like body like an demented octopus. Across its face, the fur peeled away from the snout and mouth to reveal a skull, barnacles of jaw meat and viscera glued to the bone.

“ Good _morning, son ” the deer crooned. It’s voice wasn’t a voice but a blend of man, woman, old, child, animal in unison. Every syllable that it uttered sounded like it had been spoken by an out of tune orchestra.

“ What the - “

“ _Hush now. ”

Suddenly, there was no noise coming out of his mouth. Shawn could have sworn that its empty sockets were looking straight into its own.

“Why _leave so soon? We’ll take good care of _you. ” The deer opened its mouth, a craggy cave of teeth and fangs and then leapt, the howling wind and pitter-patter of the raindrops a substitute for his screams.

Several seconds later, the rain dies down. Tatters of Shawn’s uniform were left, sogged in the rust-colored puddles, along with his employee badge. night wind to sweep them away into the gutters.

---

LOCATION: The Gas-Way Express

TIME: 10:00 PM

“ C’mon, I thought this was supposed to be 24 hour service!”

“ I need some more of this goddamn nacho cheese!”

“ TACOS MENOS! TACOS MENOS!”

When you first applied for a graveyard shift at Gas-Way, you expected isolation, loneliness and death from an acute case of boredom. What you didn’t expect was the conga line of customers complaining and swearing at the beleaguered cashier at the counter. The crowd is made up of a menagerie of people from truckers, road-trippers and bikers. Something's different about them this time. There's a certain fire in their eyes, a hunger in their eyes that can only be satisfied by the consumption of high-cholesterol convenience store snacks. The cashier withers underneath their shouts, meekly protesting to each customer that tries to cut line.

His eyes, a tunnel of dark rings around them, perks up when he looks at you like you're the messiah. Before you can say anything, he waves his arms around to get the attention of the crowd." Sorry, folks. Counter's going to be closed temporarily for a moment!" A loud groan of disappointment follows as he pushes through the turnstile and runs towards you. Up close, you can get a better look at him. He looks more like he ran a 10-mile marathon. He's wheezing, his throat seemingly hoarse from hours of having to placate angry customers for hours, as he tries to gather up the muster to talk to you.

“ Are you the guys manning the new shift?” He doesn’t wait for your reply as he continues forth, more than eager to pack up and leave. “ If you are, try and handle these guys, will you? Al’s gonna have my ass if he gets a customer complaint letter.” His eyes shift back to the seething crowd of customers and then, towards you. " I'm telling you man, they've all gone loco for this new Tacos Menos shit. Just as we're trying to find out what happened to Shawn - "

He shakes his head and sighs. " Oh, what am I telling you this for! I've got better things to do tonight than stay here!" Grabbing a crinkled yellow piece of note paper from his pocket, he slaps it against your chest. “ Oh, by the way, before I forget, Al told Dave who told Mars who told Jennifer who told me to give this to you.”

---

MEMO FROM MANAGEMENT

To: Rory McShan

Subject: Notifications for 10:00 - 4:00 AM Shift

Please be aware of the following:

Please ensure that the slushie machine is refilled before tomorrow. [NOT DONE]
In accordance with Gas Way’s recent deal with Alamos Rancheros, their newest product, Tacos Menos, are now for on-shelf distribution to the public. [DONE]
There have been reports of a minor pest infestation in the Parking Lot. From all reports, it’s nothing so serious to warrant deterrence measures. Please send one of our employees to rectify this issue. [NOT DONE]

Albert Ernesto,

Gas-Way Co Management

---

Just as you finish reading, he's already at the door, pushing past you in a hurry. You can barely catch his last words from all the screaming and shouting in the store as he sprints off, the darkness of Nowhere slowly enshrouding his retreating form.

“ Good luck.”

@Atrophy @Rapid Reader@RedVII@Firecracker_

Cast amongst the bluish pink sky, the stars were slowly becoming more brilliant as day moved into night. Underneath, an ugly and unwelcoming landscape stretched on for eternity. Miles upon miles of sand, dotted intermittently with craggy rocks and sickly looking, lanky saguaros. Despite the picturesque sky, the lands surrounding the lonely highway that Rory was traveling on were completely inhospitable, almost alien in the level of hostility they resonated. Even inside the Gas-Way work bus, the biting cold and bitter hatred that constantly blanketed his new job site was tangible.

Just as readily apparent was the trepidation worming its way through Rory’s body, as he fidgeted in his seat, mindlessly fiddling with his necklace. Normally someone ready to take a foolhardy, headfirst rush into any new challenge, his nerves were unexpectedly getting to him. Much of his anxiety was seeping in through his skin, as it permeated the empty bus from the air outside. The rest of it was mostly first day jitters, something any new hire would understand.

Out of the ever darkening horizon, the station was finally in view. Rory perked up, stretching his arms out, getting one last yawn out before the bus came to a hissing stop. He stood, straightening out any wrinkles the bus trip had set into his shirt. He further stuffed the loose fabric into his waistband, and put his jacket back on, zipping it about half-way up his body, straightening up his collar as he walked towards the front of the bus. His legs carried a strange sensation, the usual weakness that one felt after a long car ride, but something else slithered under that. A strange heaviness, as if his feet would sink with every step, afraid of what lie ahead.

”Thank you!” Only empty eyes with dark circles surrounding them greeted Rory’s smile right before he stepped off the bus. The driver simply stared at the man, even after he’d started his descent down the stairs and off the bus. Those same soulless eyes returned to the road, and the bus continued down the highway, on his way to drag another unsuspecting soul into this wasteland which would eat it alive.

His first steps onto the pavement surprised him, as they greeted him with a small splash. Looking down, he lifted a shoe to find himself looking into a black puddle, the only thing letting him know there was water was the reflection of the station’s sign. His gaze turned upwards. Thousands of stars greeted him, with nothing obstructing his views of the cosmos. Where could rain have come from?

An unreasonably brumal breeze wafted the acrid smell of gasoline over Rory, bringing his focus back to the Gas-Way. Through the glass, he could see a large crowd of clearly upset customers, all taking their turn airing out their grievances as the poor cashier, who’s frantic movements and red face made it clear, even from out in the parking lot, he was overwhelmed. The entire line, from front to back, oozed anger. Rory was surprised a fight hadn’t broken out as much as they seemed to mosh together. One particularly angry customer slammed his money on the counter, yelling at the cashier about how egregious the wait was, and something else about nacho cheese. Whatever the rest of the sentences was, Rory didn’t hear it. He’d fallen into a bit of a trance, daydreaming about the bliss he’d feel were he behind the register. His fantasy was very quickly broken when the cashier made eye contact all the way from inside. It was time for Rory to play manager.



As the young cashier fled into the darkness, every set of eyes followed him out. Darkness enveloped the man completely, and then every set of eyes in the store turned to Rory, who replied in kind with his own bewildered stare. Snapping glances to his left and right confirmed what he feared, that he was the first one in the store. Or, last one, depending on how you looked at it. Without speaking, he quickly ran into the breakroom to pin the grease stained notice to a crowded, dusty corkboard, and tossed his jacket on the rack on his way out.

”Alright, let’s get this line moving again! Sorry about the wait guys!” The same crowd that had nearly torn the building down mere minutes ago seemed to be completely pacified. A scattered group returned to a neat, single file line, and the customer that was next in line greeted Rory with a smile, as opposed to the beet-red face washed in rage that he’d given to the previous man in his place. Inside the station, separated from the rest of Nowhere with just 4 thin walls and a few windows, the atmosphere had completely warmed up. A stark contrast from the pure nihilistic loathing the hopeless desert held for anyone that walked out the set of dirty glass doors.

Rory did his best not let the overwhelming warmth from the crowd sour his mood. After the years he’d worked at his previous store, he was used to vitriolic crowds very suddenly simmering down in his presence, a strange talent that had ruined a few good days in the past. Rory was almost a cult celebrity amongst cashiers and baggers around his town, known for his talent in quelling even small scale mutinies with a single smile. More a curse than a talent, Roroy thought.

Alongside his creeping desire to be abused, there was something fun about the absolute entropy that could be a crowded grocery store on a Monday evening. After church crowds on Sundays, the massive rush before federal holidays, the moments before calamatic weather. Grocery stores had the unique talent of being small, insulated capsules of pure rage, of animalistic fury, surrounded by eggplants and half off lawn furniture. Being able to have fun in the pan means being able to thrive when thrown into the flames.

Except Rory was fucket of bucking water.

The line quickly disappeared, and Rory left from behind the counter. He checked the Alamos Rancheros display to be sure that it still had enough product left on it, and then walked up to the window. He watched the last set of tail lights leave, sitting and people watching those few left pumping gas for a moment. His gaze shifted towards the road, as he waited eagerly for the Gas-Way work bus to show its face amongst the pitch black horizon once again.

July Welch had a thought once. Actually, July has had many thoughts in his twenty-seven years of breathing, eating, and sleeping, perhaps even up there in the few dozens. Still, only one of those thoughts came back to him now as he pushed his Honda Civic up to almost sixty miles per hour, the engine screaming for an oil change that’d be pushed off for a few thousand more miles still. The thought had been born back in his touring days with his band, the Mothers of Babylon. They’d piled into Stew’s old Astro Van and had taken a pit stop at some random gas station along the stretch of a highway for a leak and a spicy chicken sandwich when July made the astute observation that unless the workers had a bungalow outback then they actually were willing to make the drive out here every day to sling chicken sandwiches to road randos. He’d laughed at the thought back then. What kind of loser would choose to work in the middle of nowhere for barely more than minimum wage?

The thought still made him chuckle as he drove to his job in the middle of Nowhere where he was making barely more than minimum wage. The key difference between July and those other losers was that, unlike them, this loser hadn’t made a choice. His mom had. Besides, this was just a transition period . Today he’d be running a register, tomorrow he’d be registering for a spot in an art gallery. Ignoring how he’d also need to make art, he just needed to find a gallery. All the ones he had checked out so fair were commercialist bullshit fronted by wannabe hipsters that only signed on their friends. They were the kind of place to hang up posters of future Hallmark cards, not a place for his true art that was still only in his head.

A psychopath in a big rig driving seventy passed him with their horn blaring, although July didn’t notice it over the sound of a distorted guitar holding a sustain continued to rattle the life out of his speakers and his eardrums. So he was a bit of a slow driver, so what? He wasn’t late and bad driving had put an end to his aforementioned tour. It hadn’t been five hours before Stew had wrecked the van, effectively killing the tour that was going to last one more hour getting there, plus thirty minutes of playing, and then six hours back to their hometown. July may have left over creative differences, but the death of the van killed what momentum they had and made it so that leaving was the only smart option. Who knows where he would’ve been if the tour had gone off without a hitch. Perhaps he’d be playing right before the headliners instead of being the opening act.

The foreboding note ended and was immediately followed up by the exact same chord that was somehow darker sounding. It was the kind of note that evoked images of pagan sacrifice on the darkest nights of the coldest winters. July felt a chill run down his spine. This music right here was the exact kind the world would hear when the trumpets were blown to call forth armageddon. Pure, earth-shattering doom. What a jam! He had been dreading it earlier, but the tunes had absolutely energized him for the night shift. Between bites of burger and sips of a flat Coke he shrieked along with the guttural vocals in perfect disharmony.

The Gas-Way Express appeared on the horizon, the ever slight haze of leaked gas making it shift like a mirage. The gas station was a shining beacon in the cold darkness of the I-205, the last bastion for all things human, inhuman, and automobile to refuel. The sight of it made July’s face sour, or perhaps that was from the dirty bomb of odor that was released through his car when he tossed the burger wrapper into the mass grave of wrappers, for some reason saved as if they were the skins of an animal from a great hunt, in the backseat and had managed to knock free the one wrapper that was keeping the rot contained. July was thrown into a coughing fit as he turned into the Parking Lot, the ghosts of burgers past assaulting him for his food crimes.

He parked next to another car, cracked the windows, and killed the engine. The screaming drone of music died in the arms of the Civic as July stumbled out of the car while coughing into his hand and looking like a man possessed. July took a moment to catch his breath and then, upon realizing that he didn’t really enjoy having it, lit up a cigarette. There were still a few minutes before his shift according to the slow clock on his dashboard, so he wouldn’t have to bother himself with taking care of the tiny dolls in line he had spied through the windows just yet. He sucked in on the cigarette and then exhaled the cloud of smoke. He tapped his black fingernails against the filter, sending red embers that drifted through the Parking Lot like will-o’-the-wisps. July reckoned he was far enough away from the pumps to be safe from sparking a gas fire. If not, he was close enough to his car to save himself.

The cigarette was on its last legs and the line had only just begun to move, but July was unconcerned with the present. Like any man who found themselves in a dead-end job, he was looking for a way to give himself a brighter future. Namely, he was looking for a way to not have to drive home in a smelly car. The solution was a simple one. July opened the back doors of the Civic, drew in his breath, and gave the mountain of wrappers a massive shove. They surged forward like a tidal wave and poured onto the pavement like an avalanche. A few more shoves and the backseat was clear, and a couple of deft kicks shimmied a majority of the balled-up wrappers into the free parking spot next to July. His problem was now the Pump Attendant’s problem. It was the way life should be. He craned his neck to see if he had gotten away with his crime and smiled. He was truly a mastermind.

Except there was one small problem. July’s eyes widened in horror as he realized the one hitch in his perfect plan and looked through the cracked window of his car to the red Gas-Way vest that had been stewing inside of the biome for days now. It’d smell like old burgers for sure. A dead giveaway to the yokels who worked here, where playing What’s That Smell? qualified as entertainment. He tugged at the collar on his black button up shirt. Crap. July did some quick thinking and came up with a plan. He hurried to the front door, stopping only for just one more cigarette break as he reached the side of the building, and then rushed inside.

July almost bumped into the happiest looking trucker in the world who, upon seeing July’s post-modern vampire cosplay, instantly shifted his face towards disgust. It happened again as he dipped between a middle-aged woman waiting in line. She looked as if she had just been told the most wonderful and earnest of compliments in her life, but when July quietly apologized the look she gave him made him feel as if he had been the root cause of everything she hated about herself. As he ducked around a display of jerky he saw the woman’s gaze turn back to the front of the line and her face return to a state of serene bliss. July followed the look and saw that Rory was running the register. He smiled and forgot all about the dirty looks those squares had given him.

Wait, why was he standing around? Rory was too busy being amazing to even notice that July had slipped in like a shadow. July turned on his feet and entered the breakroom. His eyes scanned the coat hangers like an owl on the hunt for a field mouse and he charged forward like a bull at the sight of the red vest. He ripped the article of clothing off of the hanger, threw it on over his clothes, and took a quick look at the nametag still pinned to the chest. Jenn? He could live with being a Jenn. Jenn probably had a savings account. He ran his fingers through his hair and took a look at the note pinned to the corkboard. Refill the slushie machine before tomorrow? Tomorrow as in the tomorrow after today, or tomorrow as in the tomorrow after their shift? It was a confusing note. Unclear. He could probably use that as an excuse not to do it.

July punched the clock like a happy worker drone, cocking an eyebrow at the timestamp suggesting that it was already after ten. The clock must’ve been broken, because he was certain that he wasn’t late. July strolled out of the breakroom like a man marching to his own grave and shuffled behind the counter towards the register like a mummy. The employees only spot was his sarcophagus, the wall of cigarettes were the canopic jars full of his useless organs, and the take a penny, leave a penny was his faithful cat that his followers had seen fit to also kill for some religious reason instead of just taking it to an animal shelter.

Rory, Anubis, the one who could free him from what would be a night of suffering by sending him home early, was looking wistfully out the window. What was he looking for? Past the pumps was only the dark void of Nowhere. Before he could think to clear his throat to not startle the man, July’s face appeared in the reflection of the void looming over Rory’s shoulder like Nosfreatu about to bite down into the neck of a young, pretty actor. July halted at the sight of his own face which, when compared to Rory’s angelic features and handsome jawline, needed to have a bag thrown over it, ideally one without any holes and made of plastic. God, life was truly unfair. July felt terrible that Rory would even have to look at him.

“Oh, hey, sorry if I scared you, boss,” said July, his voice surprisingly soft and sweet for a tall man who heavily smoked cigarettes and used to regularly destroy his vocal cords through guttural screams. He smiled as the lie came through his lips so naturally that it felt like July was telling Rory how nice his hair looked today. “Do you know who’s on lot duty tonight? Some customer dumped a bunch of trash in the Parking Lot and just the thought of all that litter ruining the environment makes my heart break. I would do it myself, but...” He gestured to the register and the empty line. “Well, you know, gotta be here for any of our wonderful customers.”

Ada emerged into the gas station proper from the Stockrooms, where she had meticulously hidden her sword amongst the dry goods. She felt naked without her sword on her hip, but she did not wish to anger Management. They had sent out several memos explaining that employees were in fact not permitted to carry out the solemn duties of their shift while wielding fully automatic rifles or battle axes. Customers had complained. Management had been angered. Grave policies had been etched in stone and she had been temporarily disarmed by a pen wielding lawyer.

She knew the workings of the strange clock that Management had seen fit to install. The clock could only generously be described as keeping an accurate count of time and Ada had begun to suspect that through some eldritch magic the clock revolved more slowly when an employee looking at it was on the clock and more rapidly when an employee had not yet punched in. She often marveled at the strange, alien powers that Management seemed to command. Where other employees despaired at the strange machinations of the company, Ada saw them as a challenge. A perennial series of obstacles for her to complete and quests to surmount.

To preserve her honor, Ada had thus made sure to clock in five minutes early. No one would judge her tardy if she could help it. She would not stain her reputation with unholy stain of slothfulness.

The newly minted Stock Room clerk had only managed some fifteen paces before she was interrupted by a booming voice and the familiar visage of the Earl of Pembroke.

"Sir William," Ada said, offering a quick bow.

The ghostly figure offered his own polite bow, no small feat in his mail hauberk and gambeson, "Sir Ada, what fool notion has possessed you to discard your weapon?"

"I have not discarded my weapon, Sir William, merely stored it for the moment."

"It is unseemly for a knight to be unarmed, Sir Ada."

"My Lord, I am afraid Management has been most particular. I cannot honorably refuse their most reasonable request."

"There are dark things at work here, Sir Ada. I can sense a great danger. Men of ill-repute and habit surround you. Monsters lurk in the shadows. Your must steel your sword and heart."

"Sir, I remain as ever ready to do battle in the defense of the weak and innocent."

"Well said, Sir Ada, well said," the ghostly knight said with a smile as he faded out of view with a nod of his wise head.

"Farewell, Sir William," Ada replied with a soft smile of her own.

"Phone call?" A customer interjected as he appeared next to Ada in a flurry of grime and the smell of old Doritos.

"Sure," Ada replied with a beaming smile.

"Say," The potbellied trucker began with a confused expression that suggested to Ada he was either deep in thought or close to having a fatal stroke. "Do you happen to know where I can find a copy of Big Booty—"

Ada interrupted the customer with a polite raising of her hand. She had spotted the Assistant Manager and one of her red vested comrades in arms. She had no time to discuss pornographic magazines with a customer. He would have to navigate the binary sea of pornography on his own. Ada resisted the urge to judge the man for his illicit request and readings. While no prude, she did not think that people still sought out their smut in print. The idea of the most honorable Gas-Way company stocking their shelves with vile pornography also struck her as unlikely.

"Forgive me, dear customer, but I must go speak to the Assistant Manager. No doubt he has received word from Management," Ada muttered leaving the customer shaking his head in her wake.

---

With the deft movements of a professional dancer, Ada ducked between departing customers, now sated in their lust for meat, and approached the counter where Rory and July.

"Gracious Assistant Manager, I am at your service," Ada said, placing a hand dramatically over her heart as she bowed low.

The knight turned her gaze thoughtfully over July. She had not met him before, but she thought he seemed like a Jenn. She smiled briefly at his hideous visage before returning her full attention to the angelic Assistant-Manager who's divinity she felt certain stemmed from his close relationship with Management, "Respectfully, my Lord, I ask permission to address the pest problem plaguing the parking lot. I would not wish to see our customers injured or inconvenienced by the vile creatures that hide from the light."

TIME: 11:00 PM

LOCATION: The Gas Way Express

Slowly but surely, you work your way through the horde of hungry customers one at a time. Somehow, you manage to whisper to the spark of humanity left in their black, materialistic hearts and convince them to walk up in an orderly fashion. The crowd, once seemingly unassailable, has now dwindled down to a steady line, thanks to your help. Unfortunately for you, Management doesn’t give any bonuses for your patience. After the hullabaloo of the crowd dies down, the Gas Way settles back into an uneasy detente, left with only a few truckers filling up the tanks of their semi-trucks.

All that you’re left with now is the quiet. A silence that hangs in the air like a stretched rubber band.

Well, almost.

In the middle of your conversation, the automatic doors slide open and a liver curdling stench wearing three coats wades into your nostrils. Bloodshot eyes separated by a bulbous nose squint, shadowed by the wide brim of a boonie hat pocketed with holes. His face and two thirds of his chest is covered by a blonde bush of tangled knots. His ratty boots leave prints on your immaculately mopped floor. You can swear you can even see rats scooting in and out, poking their tiny heads out of his pockets.

You’ve heard about him multiple times in earshot, from Al, from other employees. They call him the Squatter. During your online orientation, Al sent you warnings about beggars and vagrants loitering around the Gas Way premises. The Day Shift employees have a betting pool about how long it’ll take for Al to call the cops on him. Perhaps, you’ve seen glimpses of him begging for spare change near the pumps or dozing off in a cardboard box near the Dumps. This is the first time you’ve seen him up close and personal. Maybe, there's some part of you that remembers official Gas-Way policy on dealing with unruly customers but the Squatter's overwhelming perfume of cheap beer and pickled anchovies erases any thought of it from your mind.

He sways drunkenly in one spot for a moment, pawing the bubblegum rack as if it was a religious idol, before he turns on the three of you. He waddles over, knocking over Snickers and candy bars from the bar register, two hands holding onto the side of the table like a lifebuoy. Once he’s close enough that you can smell spirits in his breath, he points one twitchy finger towards Rory.

“ I see what you’re all doing! You’re all fools.” His eyes shift wildly around as he continues to rant in a drunken stupor. “ Best get going from this place if you all know what was good for you. Seen the rainbow butterfly, I did yes. Flapping its wings oér here from the south.” He giggles a little. “ Oh yes, it is real. I saw its babies ice-skating in my brain.” He taps the side of his skull twice. “ Yes….yes...oh, we’ll all witness its birth…..” Without warning, he grabs Rory's shoulder, leaning into his face close enough that you could count each individual wart on his cheeks. " Yes....soon, you'll all regret eating Mexican......mexican....mexi-"

Mid-sentence, he freezes, drawing out the last syllable and stopping completely as if someone hit pause on a TV remote. His eyes glaze over, his drunken mania simmering down into a sober depression. His knees crook over, wobbling as the full nature of gravity sinks into his muscles.

“ Ughhhhhh…..that was a bad trip….” He groans, gripping his head. He looks up at you blearily and then, yawns like he's come out of hibernation. His left hand wanders over towards one of his pockets, searching for something. Sighing in disappointment, he looks at the three of you with a small smile of embarrassment. “ Any of you youngsters got a spare buck for a Yoo Hoo?”

Out in the distance, you can see faint flickers of orange light glimmering in the dark like fireflies. Eyeballing it, they appear to be on the outskirts of the Parking Lot. What’s even more stranger is that you can swear that they’re moving slowly. Purposefully. As if something living is causing them in the first place.

You should probably go investigate it before you're forced to by whatever is out there.

@Firecracker_@Atrophy @Rapid Reader

“I guess a litterbug could be considered a type of pest,” muttered July under his breath as he gave Ada a once-over, not realizing that she was actually going to do the work that had been assigned to them. If it wasn’t for the overalls, she looked like she would’ve been pictured in a stained glass window with a radiant halo surrounding her choppy hairstyle. Truly, she was a saint if she’d offered to clean up the parking lot. He returned her smile with the tight-lipped smirk of a garter snake. His plan, which wasn’t a plan so much as it was just a lie, had worked. He glanced sideways at Rory and then quickly averted his eyes. A wretch like him should only be allowed to catch glimpses of something so heavenly in the reflection of the half-dome mirrors hiding security cameras.

“Problem solved then, my Lord,” said July to Rory. The my Lord was supposed to have been a sarcastic dig at Ada’s weird choice of words, but when he said the phrase to Rory it just sounded natural.

Before July could fully pledge his fealty to the assistant manager, a pot-bellied trucker approached the cash register. Although Ada had denied him her aid on his quest, he was beaming as if he had managed to find his own personal holy grail. In a way, he did. July glanced down at the magazine called Big Booty Pirates. It was strange for a treasure hunting magazine to be in a blacked-out bag to prevent browsing, and then it clicked inside of July’s head as he scanned the other choice items the trucker had purchased. He was both mildly disturbed and deeply intrigued to discover what exactly “The Jolly Rogers Edition” meant. It was the kind of self-discovery that’d haunt him for the rest of his days, assuming he made it past the first night shift.

“Let me bag that up for you,” said July after ringing the man out for his smut. He wished he had forceps to handle the items, or at the very least a pair of gloves.

“No need,” said the trucker, grinning. “You got bathroom keys?”

Oh god no. July sometimes went into that bathroom. Rory sometimes went into that bathroom. He was pretty sure Ada was the one stuck cleaning that bathroom, which was already a herculean task that didn’t need to be made any worse. He couldn’t let the trucker perform his dark rituals in their already debased sanctuary. July glanced behind him at the pair of keys attached to a piece of wood with the grimy effigy of a man carved into it. He looked back to see the trucker eyeing the keys with the same lustful look that he had thought people would give him when he’d started playing guitar (but never did).

“Oh sorry,” said July, sucking in air between his teeth as if to express true regret. “The bathrooms are currently out-of-order. Both of them. Some kid flushed a bunch of M-80s down the toilet and what came up with the explosion still keeps me up at night. Unfortunately, until the HAZMAT team arrives we’re stuck using nature’s toilet.”

July jerked a thumb out the Expanse.The trucker grumbled under his breath and took his goods. July sighed in relief as the man left the store and climbed back into the cab of his truck. July put a hand to his beating heart. Not all heroes wore capes. Some of them wore another person’s name tag and a crappy vest. With no more customers, the night shift entered a kind of state of stasis where he couldn’t tell if one minute had passed or one hour. The speaker he’d so graciously left for the other employees was dead, murdered by their own hand’s inability to plug in the charger, so he couldn’t even enjoy the sounds of the inner circles of Hell as he stood around the register and attempted to open his body and mind up to becoming possessed by the spirit of someone who knew how to look busy.

Wait, didn’t someone have to take care of that slushie machine? Should he actually work?

The devil and the angel that warred upon his shoulders soon laid down their arms and sought shelter from the smell that had wafted into the Gas-Way as the door ring-a-dinged open. July tucked his nose into his elbow, looking somewhat like Dracula who had forgotten his cape, as he tried to avoid staring at the Squatter. He had been warned about the man. All of them had. However, only July had been warned about the man by his mother. While she didn’t even know of the Squatter’s existence, she’d often threaten him that if he didn’t start acting like an adult that he’d one day end up becoming a vagrant like the Squatter. At least his mother thought he’d become something. It was a nice thought. July stepped away from the register and tried to disappear behind the display of keychains as the Squatter approached.

“I see what you’re all doing! You’re all fools.”

Damn it, he should’ve just ducked under the counter. July stepped back out onto the worn-down mat in front of the register and sucked in his lips as the vagrant began to rant and rage. If the smell wasn’t so bad July might’ve appreciated being in the company of someone who looked as ghoulish as himself, but with the stink the best he could do was try not to appear horrified. However, he didn’t have to attempt to hide his horror for long as the man continued rambling on like an English rock band that had stolen it's riffs from old American blues artists. July’s face softened as he realized the man wasn’t speaking gibberish. He was reciting poetry. Shit, they could make some pretty killer lyrics, too.

July grabbed a pen and a pad and began jotting down whatever he could about rainbow butterflies in the sky and ice-skating worms of the brain. This man was a poet! A fellow artist! Here, in Nowhere! July had truly not expected to meet a peer. His pen halted as the vagrant mentioned how they’d regret eating Mexican. What? Oh, it was a dig at how American corporations “eat up” the cheap labor force of migrant workers and then pin the blame on the needy workers instead of the greedy bosses that hired them. July definitely didn’t expect the thought provoking social commentary from the Squatter, but all art needed meaning. Now they just needed a platform to spread the message. Maybe he knew how to play drums.

“Ughhhhhh…..that was a bad trip….”

Oh.

“Any of you youngsters got a spare buck for a Yoo-hoo?”

Right.

Sometimes the insane ramblings of a homeless man were predictions of encroaching doomsday or the fall of society brought upon by its own hand, and sometimes they were just insane ramblings. July frowned and rubbed his chin. If screamed, they would still be good lyrics. That was the beautiful thing about screaming in songs—no matter how asinine the lyrics were, nobody would be able to call them meaningless since nobody would be able to understand the words anyway.

He looked at the Yoo-hoo can on the counter, and then at the flickering lights outside. Fireflies? Weird. July thought they were going extinct. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually seen some. Then he breathed again and was laser-focused back on the Squatter. Okay, this chemical warfare had to stop. It was like they were being kept hostage by his stench, the Squatter being a biological terrorist whose list of demands only included a watered-down chocolate milk. Fine. He’d buy the guy a Yoo-hoo if it meant that the Squatter would leave. Only he was as broke as the Squatter himself. Hell, he’d love a can of Yoo-hoo too. Was his mother right? Was this a vision of the future?

“You know what, man?” July leaned in to whisper to his future self. It was a big mistake, but he kept his composure as he powered through the smell. He slid the bottle closer to the man. “It’s on me. Just make sure to drink it out back so I don’t get chewed out by management.”

And so that he’d stop poisoning the air. And so that he’d stop terrorizing poor, lovely Rory. July glanced over at the orange lights again. The little burning embers reminded him of the tip of a cigarette, which further reminded him that he was in need of a smoke break. Once the Squatter left, it would be nice to get some fresh air while he propped the door open and let the odor out. The dancing lights were taunting him. Yeah, he definitely needed a smoke break after this. He turned back to the Squatter.

“What do you say. Deal?”