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Out of Gas 
by Rie Sheridan Rose 

There’s a subtle beauty to this desolation, though it takes a jaded soul to see it. This used to be a thriving waypoint on the road to somewhere. Now, it’s empty bays and empty pumps on the last road to nowhere. 

I remember the day I arrived here. The sky had much the same look—clouds gradating from blinding white edges to black as coal masses hulking over the town just waiting to throw a tantrum. But doors covered the service bays of Johnny’s Service Center, and the gas pumps out front wore a coat of cheery cherry red. 

Johnny mirrored the pumps, being cheery red himself. Flaming red hair, sunburnt red cheeks, and a red corduroy overall zipped to his waist, letting the Yankees T-shirt underneath peek out when he moved. Ah, Johnny. He was a delight. 

“What can I do you for?” he asked as my car rolled to a stop beside one of the gas pumps. 

I had feared it would stop miles before and had made it to the station by sheer willpower. “Out of gas,” I replied.

“Good thing I got some, then.” He flashed me a grin, and my heart was his.

And so it began.

At first, this was a vibrant little town. Maisie’s Diner down the way made a mean pecan pie, and you could always find a decent night’s sleep in a clean bed at Betty’s B&B. But at the next full moon, things changed.

About three weeks after I arrived, the first full moon rose behind the station like a golden coin tossed by a god. I had decided to stay awhile, here in this haven. 

Johnny had proven good with his hands in more ways than one, and I hadn’t felt a man’s touch in far too long. He had a cozy setup in the furthest service bay, and I moved from Betty’s to his bed by night three.

Three…a telling number.

Most everything in this story relied on threes. If I had stopped for gas three miles earlier at the big chain station in the next town over, I would never have landed here, out of gas. If I had been three months older—or three years—I might have had better control of myself. If this, if that… 

The moon rose, and I shifted. Not into something as tawdry as a wolf. My curse is dragon blood. I soared into the sky—and Betty’s went up in flames.

Something had to burn.

I never got caught. No accelerant turned up. No footprints led to the crime scene. No clue what happened.

Johnny suspected I had something to do with it, I think. I know I returned to his bed smelling of brimstone and ash. But he never mentioned it in all our time together.

One by one, the buildings burned. Always at the full moon. Maisie moved away before the diner went. Others opted out of town too. 

Soon, all that remained was the station. Johnny sold the service equipment to buy us food. He never complained.

I flew further and further afield on the full moon—should have done that from the start. One night, I returned home to find a sign on the front door of the station. OUT OF GAS.

Johnny lay inside—what remained of him. Shotguns give a messy death.

Next full moon, the station will burn. And I, with it. I am also out of gas…

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Fiction © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

More from Author Rie Sheridan Rose:

Overheard in Hell:
Dark Poetry

Poems exploring hell and damnation. Tales of sorrow, vengeance, betrayal, and redemption. Ghosts, ghouls, and demons stalk these pages. Don’t read in a lonely house…in a darkened room by a single candle…

…unless you like the touch of an icy finger up your spine.

Available on Amazon!