Almost Gone

Tires squealed against asphalt. Metal screamed.

The white van came out of nowhere, rocketing across the gas station lot like a missile. No brake lights. No warning. Just sudden, brutal speed.

The man saw it first. Eyes wide. One breathless second of recognition—then he shoved the boy beside him. Hard.

The child hit the ground just as the van tore through the space he'd occupied a heartbeat earlier.

The impact lifted the man, crumpling him against the hood before dropping him in a heap. The van didn't stop. It smashed into the gas pump with a sickening crunch. Through the shattered windshield, the driver slumped motionless, blood seeping from his brow.

A hiss filled the air. Gas pooled beneath the wreckage—thick, dark, hungry. The pump shuddered, metal straining.

The hiss grew shrill.

Then came the spark.

The explosion tore through the lot with a deafening roar. Fire bloomed—orange, furious, alive. Windows burst. Shrapnel scattered. The heat slapped skin and stole breath.

Staggering, the boy blinked through smoke and pain. The van was already gone—flames licking at its trail. The others were screaming. One dragged him by the wrist.

Figures moved at the edge of the trees. They'd been there—maybe always. Watching.

But something was wrong.

One limped with a twisted gait. Another's spine bent at impossible angles. Their heads jerked with unnatural rhythm, limbs moving like puppets without strings.

They came closer.

Under firelight, their faces came into view—half-missing. Eyes hollow. Mouths slack.

No answer—just that awful, sucking inhale. Like lungs forgetting how to breathe.

Then they lunged.

The kids ran.

Shouts. Scuffling feet. A dropped bag. Someone snatched it up mid-stride. They tore past the burning pumps, the motionless man, the place that used to be safe.

No one looked back.

* * *

The fire was dying as the sky paled behind the trees.

He stirred first, stretching, brushing ash from his boots. A crack of voice broke the morning air.

The kids emerged in waves. The oldest boy first, hair wild from sleep. Then the younger one, rubbing his eyes. The girls followed, one already folding her blanket with practiced precision.

he called, tossing a bundled sleeping bag toward the Bronco.

They moved easily, like they'd done this a hundred times—folding blankets, the younger girl giggling as the older boy jokingly tried to stuff her into a duffel bag.

The seafoam cooler went in last, wedged between a plaid sleeping bag and a dented lantern.

He slammed the tailgate shut and scanned the clearing one last time.

They piled in. The old Bronco rumbled to life. One arm slung across the wheel, he hummed something no one recognized. Wind slipped in through the cracked windows.

It was almost peaceful.

Until they saw the station.

It sat empty. No cars, no clerk, no sound. One door hung ajar. A shopping cart lay sideways near the ice machine.

The kids fanned out anyway, stretching legs, making jokes.

Inside, lights buzzed overhead. The register drawer sat open. A can of beans on the floor. A shoe, alone in the aisle. Everything abandoned.

He came back shaking his head.

Then metal scraped across concrete behind the building.

They ran.