The Black Seas of Infinity by Dan Henk

thought the same thing
every fall. Moods seemed to flow with the seasons. And weren’t
moods chemically based? So they should have simply been dying
vestiges of my human body. Or maybe that was partially mental as
well? Perhaps a bit of both. I kept driving.
    At first this form had seemed alien, like
something I controlled from within, but a slow change had crept
over me while my attention was focused on escape. I couldn’t
explain it, but this frame felt like me now, as if it was all I had
ever known. My instincts and emotions seemed heightened, as if
boosted by some neural stimulant, yet they remained uncomplicated
and tranquil at the same time. Maybe this body was adjusting to me?
Trying to match my native environment? For the moment I was
overanalyzing this. I could work on it once I was in the clear. My
gas was low and I needed a change of pace. I pulled over at a small
station. It looked like a mom and pop joint, the peeling tan paint
revealing the white bricks beneath. Pumps that looked like refugees
from the ’60s, bubbly and weathered, with exposed blotches of metal
emerging through a brittle ocher enamel. A rust-stained oval sign,
the red lettering cracking with age, marked the plot as “Tom’s
Gas.” A fatigued brown pickup, a good three decades old, stood in
the packed yellow dirt that served as a parking lot. The ripped
screen door flew open and a man in his fifties burst out. Faded
overalls surmounted a white T-shirt, a worn mesh hat advertising
“Milemarker” curbing his greasy salt and pepper mane. White strands
of hair jutted haphazardly from his neck, lavishly contrasting with
the sun-burnt leather of his skin. He looked distracted. Paying no
attention to my Mustang, he locked the door in a flurry of jiggling
keys and ran straight to his pickup. Scrambling in, he slammed the
door and tore out of the lot, barely missing my car as he headed up
the road. Twin clouds of dust flew up in his wake, billowing past
in hazy rolls of yellow smoke. As they melted away, the old man and
his beater were long gone. Strange. I got out and tried the pump.
Nothing. I wasn’t sure how to turn the pump back on, and I didn’t
want to break in and risk attracting attention. Crawling back in
the Mustang, I spun out of the lot.
    I was riding on fumes when I spotted another
station, a small, decrepit store built of rotted wood and faded red
paint. I pulled into the gravel lot, next to the single ancient
pump, and opened the door. Stepping out, my boots crunched loudly
on the sun-bleached rocks.
    No one came out to greet me. I walked up to
the grime-encrusted office window and peered inside. It looked
deserted. The shadows harbored a small, beaten wood desk. A rusty
fan sat atop it amidst a blanket of papers strewn about
haphazardly. The rolling stool was pushed back, its rusty wheels
askance, as if someone had exited in a hurry. Beyond it were notes,
photos, and newspaper clippings pinned to a pockmarked bulletin
board. The edges of the trapped papers rose and fell slowly in the
breeze. The garage gate was open, and rusty tools littered the
floor, battling the oil stains and crumpled towels for space. An
old, battered red pickup, probably a late ’60s model, was parked
alongside, the butt end sticking out beyond the garage wall. I
wandered back over to the pump and lifted the worn metal handle.
Pointing the nozzle at the gravel, I pulled the trigger. Gas gushed
out. A stroke of luck! Unlocking the gas cap, I filled the tank.
Finishing up with a tap of the lever, I headed back toward the
building. I tried the office door, but to no avail. The dented
brass knob moved loosely in its socket, refusing to twist fully. I
could probably get in through the garage door, but why bother. I
had what I needed. The only thing pushing me to explore was
curiosity, and I didn’t really have the time.
    Heading back to the car, I ducked in and spun
out onto the road.
    More of the same panorama overtook me as I
rolled down the rustic byways.