Beyond the pumps, the main building appeared to have been assembled from the tumbled remains of several others. Timber boarding didn’t quite meet flush, no corner was quite ninety degrees, and the patterns of fading the sun had left on the wall were uneven and haphazard. Many of the boards had nail holes where there were no longer nails, and in some places the bent, rusted remains of a nail still protruded, as if someone had tried to fix the boards from within. The corrugated roof covering was uneven and rusting, holes punched in two places for small chimneys.
Windows were out of true, dusty glass hiding any view of the inside. Even in several panes where the glass had been smashed out there was nothing to be seen. Holden thought perhaps the building had been plucked from the ground by a tornado and dumped here from several miles away, and ever since it had been preparing for collapse.
Scattered around the building, like the detritus of that same tornado strike, were all manner of objects, whole and in parts. Oil or gasoline barrels, rubber pipes twisted like long snakes in the grass, a chopping block with piles of splintered timber and a rusted axe buried in its top surface, an old cement mixer, and the carcasses of furniture now devoid of upholstery, their springs and metal bracing joining the rest of the surroundings in rot.
“Well,” Curt said, stretching in his driver’s seat. “We still need gas. And directions.” “And I need to take a leak,” Jules said. She opened the door and stepped out, glancing back nervously as she did so.
Holden looked at Dana and smiled, pleased to see that her nervousness lifted as she smiled back.
“Maybe they’ll sell home-made jerky,” Holden said, and propelled by groans of disgust he followed Jules outside.
They stood close to the fuel pumps. The smell of fuel was almost reassuring, because it meant that they were still working even though they looked like they hadn’t been used in years. Holden scraped the dusty ground and shifted aside sand that had been scattered on places where fuel had spilled. Despite all appearances to the contrary, he thought perhaps this was actually a working fuel stop.
He just wondered what the insides of the building contained.
“Billa bing, bing-bing, bing-bing, bing-bing,” Marty said, playing an imaginary banjo.
“I’m thinking this place won’t take credit cards,” Curt said, touching a pump delicately as if afraid it would fall apart.
“I don’t think it knows about money,” Marty said. “I think it’s barter gas.”
Curt leaned left and right, stretching up on his toes, trying to see if anyone was around.
“Well, I need to pee,” Jules said again, heading around the side of the building.
“I’ll see if anyone’s home,” Holden said, looking across at Curt. His friend nodded, then glanced back at the Rambler. I’ll keep watch, his look said, and Holden nodded once. He was on edge… but not quite nervous enough to not watch Dana as she followed Jules around the side of the dilapidated building. She was wearing a fitted blue jacket, but it only came down just past her hips, and he could still admire the way her butt moved in her jeans.
As they disappeared around the corner he headed for the front door. It stood ajar, and looked as if it could never close all the way. The door didn’t quite seem to fit the frame.
It scraped across grit on the floor as he forced it open. He saw curved scrape-scars in the timber floor boarding.
“Anyone here?” he asked. But the building’s insides swallowed his voice, offering no echoes at all. He left the door open behind him to provide more light, and because he didn’t want to hear that pained scraping again, ventured inside.
“Hello?” Curt called outside. There was no answer from anywhere, inside or out. And as Holden’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, his sense of unease only increased.
“Holy shit,” he muttered. It seemed as if he’d landed in redneck heaven.
He thought that perhaps it had once been a shop, but he couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to buy anything from this place anymore. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to stand in here, for more than a couple of minutes. The smell was rank, a spiced blend of fusty age and progressing rot, and flies buzzed here and there. Why are the flies in here? he wondered, and he had a sudden image of finding the proprietor dead and decaying on the floor somewhere, maggots crawling in his eye sockets and rats gnawing at—
“Hey!” he called, looking for movement, listening for acknowledgment. There was neither.
Wooden shelving and tables provided perimeter storage, and there were also two island units. Tinned goods were stacked here and there, the labels so faded by damp and age that he couldn’t make out most of them. Tomatoes, perhaps? Corn? From metal poles braced across the ceiling hung several animal pelts, and one table seemed to be taken with various experiments in taxidermy. Several boxes and glass jars held what might also be a part of the experiment; in one glass jar something floated, its shape and origins vague in the opaque fluid.
There were meat mincers and slicers fixed to another tabletop, flies dipping in and out of both, dark speckles marking the hardened remains of old meat. One shelving unit in the corner was stocked with glass jars, some containing pickled vegetables of some kind, another holding what appeared to be boiled animal bones. It was as if the shopkeeper had suddenly tired of selling food and fuel and taken to stuffing animals in his spare time.
“Gruesome,” Holden said to no one in particular. He walked to the rear, where a glass counter displayed a selection of hunting knives. He drew his finger across the counter, leaving a clear line of glass in its wake.
Well, this is nice, he thought. All we need now is some old fuck warning us not to go any further.
“Thar’s danger in them thar hills,” he growled, then he laughed, but the giggle he emitted was too high and nervous for comfort.
Fuck it. Time to go.
“Why here?” Dana asked.
“Because I hate going in the Rambler!” Jules replied. “And besides, the keg’s in there. I can’t piddle next to what we’re drinking. It’s just… euch.”
She shivered. This place was spooky and grim, but exciting too. There was something about it that had her blood flowing. It was almost… exotic.
“You think the toilet here’s gonna be any better?” Dana asked.
“I don’t like to pee when all my friends are two feet away from me,” Jules persisted. They’d passed around the corner of the building now, and were threading their way through a scatter of old stuff lying all around. Leaning against the building’s wall to their left was a large roll of barbed wire, with some dried husk tangled in it. She tried to persuade herself it was a mass of old plant, but the tiny splayed claws testified otherwise. To their right a camper van was all but buried in a large bank of bushes. Its color was no longer discernible, the tires were smothered beneath plant growth, and the rear window was obscured on the inside by drawn curtains. The thing that spooked Jules most about it was the open side door. If it had been shut she’d have thought no more about it, but open seemed to suggest that the thing was still in use. That there might be someone in there.
Hello? she tried to say, but no noise came from her mouth.
“So you’re gonna pee in the Toilet From Out of Nowhere,” Dana said, a quaver in her voice.