Wickerman Cove

Part 10: Unrest Stop

The gas station was down a driveway that opened out into a forecourt, with room for a couple of coaches, or maybe trucks, and ten or so cars. Outside the asphalt, there were a few yards of wood chips, then immediate heavy woods. Overhead, the gas station's lights burned blue-white into the treeline, washing out the colours and creating angular, jagged shadows deeper in the darkness. It felt like an outpost in the wild.

There was only one other vehicle, parked up in one of the coach/truck spots. They watched the hearse roll up to the pumps: two skinny girls in their late teens, either unhealthy or done no favours by the light; two men with long hair and full beards, like old time hippies. They all wore shapeless brown clothes, made from the same jersey fabric as a t-shirt. The van they leaned on was brownish white, with the side doors open. Cigarettes glowed from the darkness inside.

Steph had wound the hearse's windows down, and she half expected to be hit with the smell of weed as they went past, but there was nothing. She stared at the group as openly as stared at her. Mentally, she catalogued the weapons she could lay hands on. It was unlikely they were going to be trouble, but it paid to be prepared: there was a tire iron under the driver's seat, and a pretty heavy torch in the glovebox. She reached over the back of the seats as Penny came to a halt, and dug through her pack for her Ka-Bar.

Penny raised an eyebrow as Steph slipped the knife into her jacket pocket.

"It's okay," Steph said. "I'm sure they don't mean anything, but since we got attacked by a monster in New York, I'm not getting out of the car without something to defend myself."

Penny rolled her eyes and turned the engine off. Getting out of the car involved swinging her legs completely out of the vehicle and levering herself up with her arms, somehow not accidentally headbutting the doorframe on the way out.

The closest of the men – skinny-fat, with sandy blond hair and a wavy beard – shoved his friends into silence as Penny emerged. Steph did her best not to read too much into it. Travelling with a hyper-goth in the ass-end of nowhere was probably going to be like this. Maybe it was why Hitch thought she needed a bodyguard.

Renard hopped out, wriggling through the gap behind Steph's seat and out into the forecourt. He watched the tan-clad onlookers with catlike disdain, before trotting to wait next to Penny as she filled the tank.

Half the gas station was a diner, although it was dark and closed. It had to be after two AM, although Steph's watch was still on Parisian time. It was a shame – the little diner looked like it would have been cool, especially with a huge rear window that looked out into the woods. Art pieces stood around the café – carvings that looked Native American to Steph's untrained eye: stylised animals, geometric patterns, primary reds, blues and yellows. Some had prices, others were marked not for sale.

She stretched her back and legs, almost throwing her jacket – and the knife – into the back of the car by reflex. It was cool here in the woods, probably because the trees stopped the sun getting in too much, but it still felt too warm to wear a jacket.

The van people switched to watching her. It was a good thing she'd changed, since the colour the weirdos were wearing was almost the same as her fatigues. They'd assembled now – with two more emerging from the van – so they could stare at Penny as she busied herself, seemingly oblivious, putting a frankly problematic amount of gas into the hearse's tank.

The gas station's forecourt store was open. A possibly Native American guy watched them through the window, his long hair tied back and a Kindle in one hand. The store was big – then again, it was probably the main source of goods for some people. It had a wall of refrigerators on the far side, filled with dairy, desserts and meat. There were aisles of other stuff, including what looked like a whole section full of camping supplies and cookware.