After pulling into so many service stations Sam had developed a rhythm. As the motor coughed to silence he would tumble out to use the toilet, splash the stickiness from his face, and check his stoma in the mirror, trying to clean the uncomfortable redness that was steadily expanding around his vent. He would then head inside, out of the heat, to check the magazine stands for another issue of the zombie story. There would usually be a glass refrigerator stacked with colourful drinks to lean against for a moment and feel the chill through his shirt. There would always be some kind of fan or, if he was lucky, a rumbling air conditioner, churning the air. And there would be men’s magazines, with waxy-looking women in bikinis and high heels draped over motorcycles that he would have to push aside to find the comic books.
This station was different, though. They had just pulled up in a place called Caiguna, at the only building visible in any direction: a structure standing alone beneath a span of blue sky that had steadily widened the further west they travelled, and that to Sam now seemed to envelope his entire vision. There had been no more police breath tests, and hardly any traffic at all. As they parked at the pumps, the building appeared lopsided, one corner of the corrugated roof sagging by the toilets. As Sam entered he could see that the walls had been built from thin wooden planks that had shrunk, letting the sunlight slip between them. The whole place, inside and out, was painted a bright yellow and looked as though it could crumble in a strong gust of wind. The only reading material for sale was a pile of old car magazines stacked near the door, and everything was covered in dust. The doorways were hung with plastic streamers, and when the shopkeeper emerged from a back room she was wearing a faded blue singlet and guzzling from a beer bottle.
Dettie was outside wiping the windscreen and Jon had opened the boot to pull a change of shirt from his bag. Nailed to the wall above Sam’s head was a two-year-old calendar with curled corners. It looked brittle, flecked with the sunlight streaming through the walls, and in its photograph—a faded image of the ocean—a thin yacht was sailing out towards the horizon. He heard the shopkeeper behind him sorting her papers as she drank.
Dettie had started to fill the car with fuel, watching Katie and Jon make barnyard noises at one another. Katie was a pig, pushing up her nose and snorting, and as she ran past, Dettie watched her, pulling the petrol hose out of the car and holding it limp in her hand. Jon clucked like a chicken as he closed the boot, and Katie mimicked the noise, giggling as she ran. On her way past Dettie, Sam saw his aunt lift the nozzle and very quickly spray Katie across the back with petrol.
Katie stopped. For a moment she stood frozen, her mouth agape, eyes wide. She lifted her wet arms, tugging at her clothes. Then she screamed.
Jon, who was doing up his shirt buttons, looked over. Dettie dropped the hose, ran towards Katie, and grabbed her shoulders.
‘What happened?’ Jon’s voice was almost a shout. ‘Are you all right?’
Dettie was crouching beside Katie, trying to hush her.
The shopkeeper rounded the counter and stepped through the doorway, shielding her eyes. ‘What?’ she grunted.
Sam followed her out.
Looking up at them, Dettie rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, the girl here was flapping about,’ she said. ‘She knocked me and got a splash of petrol.’
‘Petrol?’ Jon knelt. ‘Where? On you? On your skin?’
Katie was howling, wriggling under the damp patch on her shirt. ‘I didn’t touch anything,’ she whined.
‘We just need to wash up.’ Dettie had to wrestle a better grip to keep her niece close.
The smell had already hit Sam, and Katie was gagging, trying desperately to pull off her top.
The shopkeeper shrugged and waved them inside.
Dettie pushed Katie along, her fingers clamped tight on her shoulders. ‘We’ll try not to be too long, Sammy,’ she said, rolling her eyes and tutting. And as they disappeared through the streamers at the back of the store he heard Katie’s moans as Dettie chastised her for ‘mucking around’.
From behind him, Sam heard a scrape as the petrol hose was lifted from the ground. Jon washed off the nozzle and finished filling the car. He looked at Sam and exhaled loudly. ‘That aunt of yours, eh?’
Sam scuffed his feet, watching as the breeze raised wisps of dust from the ground. He wanted to talk to Jon about Dettie. To tell him he was worried. To explain why he was so scared.
Jon screwed the petrol cap on and slid the nozzle back in its pump. He ran his nails through his beard and stretched. ‘If all the excitement’s died down, I might take a stroll,’ he said, leaning into the car and pulling out a cigarette and a lighter. ‘Will you be good here for a minute, matey?’
Shrugging, Sam stared at the car’s bumper.
Jon wandered down the road to light up, but Sam stayed standing where he was, his eyes still unfocused on the car. He heard a muffled yell from inside the store, then quiet. The car sat in place, encrusted with dust, and a familiar sensation crept over him. There was something wrong with it. With the car. Something was different. Not with the colour or the shape. It was smaller than that. But it was wrong. His eyes flashed across the wheels and the lights and the wipers. Everything appeared fine. Then he settled on the numberplate.
It was wrong. The plate was wrong. They were supposed to have his uncle Ted’s initials, but these letters were different. Unfamiliar. Even the numbers didn’t seem right, though he couldn’t remember what those should have been. He scanned the car again, checked both front and back. It was definitely Dettie’s, but the plates weren’t what they were supposed to be.
He thought about the lurching shadow of the zombie. How it had tugged at the car. At the bumper bar. The scraping sound of metal. He remembered how Dettie had been gone. How she’d disappeared. He remembered the screwdriver in her handbag. His temples throbbed. His mouth was dry. Dettie had changed the numberplates. For some reason she’d swapped them with some other car’s plates. They were the same colour, the same state—but more scratched up and bent. Jon had even noticed that they were loose. He’d tightened them up before they’d fixed the fan belt. Sam’s eyes were stinging but he didn’t want to cry. He heard his vent whistle.
From somewhere inside the store there was a gush of water and more of Katie’s shouts. Tentatively, he crept back through the doorway, inching closer to the back room to try to see what was going on. The shopkeeper stood behind the counter, clearing her throat. She was tidying up, gathering handfuls of paper, scrunching them together, and tossing them into the bin. Behind her, Sam could see a telephone hanging on the wall. He needed to call someone. He needed to get the shopkeeper to call someone. His mother. His father. Anyone. Someone needed to know how Dettie was behaving. The talking to herself. The sneaking around. The spraying Katie deliberately with the petrol hose. That she was back there now, clawing at her, washing away the proof and blaming Katie for playing up. He needed someone to know where they were—wherever Caiguna was. Jon was just a silhouette, too far away to help, and Dettie would be back any minute, so Sam stepped across the store and approached the counter.
The shopkeeper’s skin was leathery. Sam could see old tattoos, wrinkled, on her arms. As he stood across from her she sorted a stack of receipts into a drawer under the register.
Sam tapped on the counter and waved.
The shopkeeper stopped, looking up at him. She offered a tight, quick smile, and then went back to her papers.
Sam knocked again.
The woman exhaled. ‘Yes. Hello,’ she said, keeping her eyes down. ‘What do you want?’
He pointed at his throat, right at the strap around his stoma. He shook his head, and then gestured to the phone.
The shopkeeper glanced at his neck, her eyes widening in surprise, then blinked and sipped her beer. ‘Your grandma will be out soon,’ she said.
Mouthing the word, No, Sam mimed Katie being sprayed with petrol. He squeezed his finger like he was pulling a trigger and pointed it at his clothes.
The woman blinked. She tapped her foot, frowning. ‘Yes, I saw,’ she said, monotone. ‘Very exciting.’
Sam knocked. He was bouncing on his toes. He pointed out at the car. The numberplate, he thought, hoping she’d understand. He tried to shape the words with his lips.
‘Look, little fella, I don’t have time to play games.’ She rolled the bottom of her bottle around on the cash register.
Sam searched the counter for a pen. There was nothing. He mimed scribbling something in the air.
The woman pretended not to see and stared over his head. One more muffled shout echoed from behind the streamers. It was Katie.
Sam slouched, feeling the breath in his chest slip away. He mouthed, I need to call my mother, but the woman was intentionally not looking now. He signed, Mother—three fingers slapped twice on his other palm—then mimed the handset of a phone up to his ear.
Mother. Phone. Phone Mother.
The woman nodded and looked away.
‘Hmm. Yep,’ she said.
He banged his fist on the counter.
Help.
He made a thumbs-up sign and slammed it on his other palm, just like Jon had shown him.
Help. Help.
His left hand stung. His whole body was clenched, pricked with sweat.
‘What? Do you want some chocolate? Here.’ She pulled a Mars Bar down from a shelf on the wall and set it in front of him, pushing it closer. ‘Now go away. I’m busy.’
He kicked the counter, ran around to the phone on the wall and lifted the receiver. He held it out to the shopkeeper.
‘Hey! Stop messing around! That is not a toy, damn it!’ she said, snatching it out of his hand and hanging up. As she shoved him back around the counter, she noticed something outside, and sighed. ‘Go play with your dad out there.’ She was waving towards the doorway, and as Sam turned, he saw Jon strolling back to the station, peering out at the horizon.
Sam felt himself smiling. Fine. He could explain to Jon. Get him to make the call. But just as he started to jog towards the entrance, the plastic streamers scattered and Katie returned, stomping her feet, with Dettie behind her, puffing and flicking her hands dry. Both of their faces were flushed.
‘Well, that was an adventure.’ Dettie scratched through her handbag. ‘Sammy, I hope you didn’t get into any mischief.’
The shopkeeper grunted and dropped the Mars Bar back into its box.
‘How much do we owe?’ Dettie asked, waving her purse.
Leaning in the doorway, Jon told her the final price and Dettie started counting out the cash. There wasn’t enough. The stack of notes was depleted. She was seven dollars short. With her face suddenly tense, she fished out her chequebook.
Katie’s clothes and hair were soaked, and she still smelt strongly of petrol. She was shivering, and when Sam touched her arm she choked and ran out to the car.
The shopkeeper punched the price into the register as Dettie wrote out the cheque. With it signed and dated, she slid her license from her purse and set it down on the countertop.
Jon stepped forward. ‘Huh,’ he said. ‘There’s your licence there.’ He pinned it to the wood with his finger. ‘Guess it wasn’t lost after all.’ His expression was blank.
Dettie paused, staring down at it. She opened her mouth and closed it again. She narrowed her eyes.
They watched each other a moment, neither one moving, until the register dinged. ‘That’ll do,’ the shopkeeper said.