Eppers looked around inside the Fuel ’N Snacks. He saw the head of the clerk on the counter, undisturbed. There were no aisles now. An earthquake of food, cheap gifts, and auto supplies, a landslide of junk junked. The plow entered the store while he watched from across the highway, crouching behind a mailbox. His brothers in blue lay scattered, dead. The bodies were twisted around, broken and unnatural, limp as rag dolls. He saw faces in the rubble. Eppers looked away. The plow hit the pumps first. Momentum brought it inside. The blade stuck up through a hole in the ceiling; the hood buckled. Gallons of oil, antifreeze, and wiper fluid; paper towels, squeegees, trash; shattered glass and posters from the windows; tiles gouged from the floor—all pushed forward into a massive heap. He listened to the plow motor’s dying hiss.
No driver behind the wheel.
He knew it! The guy jumped.
Someone was moaning inside the Fuel ’N Snacks.
Eppers didn’t have his flashlight, but with the fire he didn’t need any. Billows of boiling fluids, a cloud of poison hovered. Tainted heat touched his face. Eppers blinked and saw a hand lift from a pile of fallen shelves. In the burning, colors changed. Flesh roasted. Peach to red, bubbly brown, then black.
Eppers backed out of the ruin.
The hand was still there and still waving.