2. Skeleton of a Supercenter

The highway east of Aurelia had a name the locals used like a curse. They called it the Old Mining Route, a two-lane scar that cut through the basin where copper and silver had once pulled wealth from the ground. The mines closed in the eighties, the smelters went dark, and the towns that had grown up around them shriveled into husks. Then BlueMart came, built its distribution hub, and for a while the trucks rolled and the paychecks cleared. But the hub closed too, relocated to a county that offered better tax breaks, and the Old Mining Route became a road to nowhere. Now it was a road for fugitives.

Lena drove through the night without stopping. The truck's engine had a knock that came and went, a dull metronome in the dark. Marcus had fallen into a fitful sleep, his head pressed against the window, his breath fogging the glass. Every few minutes his body would jerk, and he would mutter something unintelligible, trapped in a dream he couldn't escape. Lena did not wake him. She was afraid of what he might say, what she might say in return.

The gas gauge was edging toward empty when she spotted the sign. It was hand-painted on a sheet of plywood, the letters faded but still legible: GAS - FOOD - LAST STOP 80 MILES. Behind it, a single fluorescent light flickered above a cinderblock building. The place had no name, or if it did, the sign had been swallowed by the desert years ago. A rusted pump stood out front, the kind that still had rolling numbers instead of digital displays. Beyond it, a double-wide trailer sat in the dark, its windows dark.

Lena pulled in and cut the engine. The silence that followed was immense, broken only by the tick of cooling metal and the distant yelp of a coyote. Marcus stirred, his eyes opening slowly. "Where are we?"

"I don't know." Lena opened the door and stepped out. The air was cold now, the desert giving up its heat to the black sky. She walked toward the cinderblock building, her footsteps crunching on gravel. Inside, a single bulb illuminated shelves of canned goods, motor oil, and a glass case containing dried-out burritos. Behind the counter, a man sat on a stool, reading a magazine. He looked up as she entered, and Lena felt something shift in her chest.

He was maybe sixty, with a face like cracked leather and eyes that had seen too much sun. He wore a plaid shirt with a faded BlueMart name tag pinned to the pocket. The name read: WES. Beneath it, in smaller letters: 14 YEARS OF SERVICE.

"You're open?" Lena asked.

"Pump still works." Wes set down the magazine. His eyes moved over her, taking in the disheveled clothes, the dark circles, the tremor in her hands. "You running from something or running to something?"

"Just passing through."

"That's what they all say." Wes stood up, his joints popping like dry twigs. "I'll turn on the pump. You want food? The burritos are older than my divorce, but the chili's fresh. Made it myself."

Lena nodded. She wasn't hungry, but the gesture felt necessary, a pretense of normalcy. Wes disappeared through a back door, and she heard the hum of the pump coming to life. Through the grimy window, she could see Marcus standing by the truck, pumping gas. His posture was rigid, his free hand still jammed in his jacket pocket. He looked like a scarecrow that had been left in the field too long.

Wes returned with two bowls of chili and set them on the counter. "Your man out there. He okay?"

"He's fine."

"Didn't ask if he was fine. Asked if he was okay." Wes settled back onto his stool. "There's a difference."

Lena didn't answer. She picked up a spoon and stirred the chili, watching the grease separate and pool on top. After a long silence, Wes spoke again.

"I used to work for BlueMart. Fourteen years at the distribution hub over in Calder. You know Calder?"

"I've heard of it."

"It's a ghost now. When the hub closed, two thousand people lost their jobs. The town folded up like a cheap chair. My wife left. Took the kids, took the dog, took everything that wasn't bolted down." He paused, stirring his own chili. "I got this place in the settlement. Part of the severance package they offered to the employees who didn't sue. The ones who did sue got nothing. The ones who didn't sue got this." He gestured at the cinderblock walls, the flickering light, the empty desert. "Paradise."

Marcus came in from outside, the bell above the door jangling. He sat down heavily on a crate by the window, keeping his face in shadow. Wes looked at him for a long moment, then pushed the second bowl of chili across the counter.

"Eat," Wes said. "You look like death on a cracker."

Marcus took the bowl but didn't eat. His eyes were fixed on the BlueMart name tag on Wes's shirt. "You still wear that?"

"Habit." Wes touched the pin absently. "Can't seem to take it off. It's funny. You spend fourteen years in a blue vest, and eventually it becomes your skin. You forget who you were before. Then they peel it off you, and there's nothing underneath."

Lena felt the words lodge in her throat like a bone. She thought about her own vest, still hanging in her locker at the store, her name stitched in white thread. She had left it there. She wondered if the police had found it, if they were photographing it, cataloguing it as evidence.

"The radio's been talking about Aurelia," Wes said, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. "Shooting at the BlueMart. Manager in critical condition. Two suspects on the run."

Lena's hand moved toward her pocket, toward the phone. Marcus didn't move. His face was stone, but she could see the pulse jumping in his throat.

"You know," Wes continued, stirring his chili, "I heard that manager's name was Harlan. Denny Harlan. I knew a Harlan once. Transferred through Calder about five years back. Real piece of work. Fired a woman with cancer because she couldn't work weekends. Said it was a scheduling conflict." He took a bite of chili and chewed slowly. "I always wondered what happened to him. Guess I know now."

The silence stretched out, taut as a wire. Then Wes set down his spoon and looked directly at Marcus.

"I'm not going to call anyone. If that's what you're wondering. The cops out here, they're worse than the criminals. Last year, a trooper shot a man for stealing a loaf of bread. He was hungry. They called it resisting arrest." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Besides, I figure anyone who shoots a BlueMart manager probably has a pretty good reason."

Marcus let out a breath, a long, shuddering exhale. "I didn't mean to. I just wanted him to listen."

"They never listen. That's the thing about the machine. It grinds you up, and when you scream, it sounds like a motor running." Wes stood up and walked to the back door. "There's a cot in the trailer. You can sleep for a few hours. I'll keep an eye on the road."

Lena wanted to refuse. Every instinct told her to keep driving, to put as much distance between them and Aurelia as possible. But her body was failing, her eyes gritty with exhaustion. She looked at Marcus, and he nodded, a barely perceptible dip of his chin.

The trailer smelled of mildew and old cigarettes. A single cot sat against the wall, covered with a wool blanket. A hot plate and a sink full of dishes. A photograph on the nightstand: a woman and two children, their faces faded to ghosts. Lena lay down on the cot, and Marcus sat on the floor with his back against the wall. The gun was still in the glovebox of the truck. She had checked.

"She looks happy," Marcus said, looking at the photograph. "His wife."

"She left him."

"Yeah." He was quiet for a moment. "Everyone leaves eventually."

Lena closed her eyes. The guilt was a physical thing now, a weight pressing on her sternum. She thought about the phone in her pocket, the messages, the report she had filed. She thought about the HR coordinator's voice, oily and smooth, telling her she was the backbone of the company. She had wanted so badly to matter, to be seen as something more than a shelf stocker, a pair of hands that moved boxes from pallets to aisles. And now she was seen. The whole state was looking for her.

"Marcus," she said.

"What?"

She wanted to tell him. The words were right there, crowding her tongue. But fear closed her throat. Not fear of his anger, though she was afraid of that. Something deeper. The fear of being known, truly known, as the person who had sold him out for a promotion that never came.

"Nothing. Get some sleep."

He didn't answer. After a while, his breathing evened out, and Lena knew he was asleep. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind scrape against the trailer's metal skin. At some point, she must have drifted off, because she was jolted awake by the sound of voices.

It was still dark. The trailer's single window showed nothing but blackness. Lena sat up, her heart hammering. Marcus was still on the floor, but his eyes were open now, alert. The voices came from outside, from the direction of the cinderblock store. One was Wes, calm and even. The other was a stranger, a man's voice, high and tight with something that might have been excitement or fear.

"I know you got them," the stranger was saying. "The radio said a truck like that. I saw it parked out front."

"Truck's been here three days," Wes said. "Belongs to my cousin. He's inside sleeping off a bender."

"You're lying. I want to see him."

"Son, you don't want to do this."

There was a sound, a metallic click that Lena recognized. She had heard it once before, in the break room at BlueMart, just before everything went wrong. A gun being cocked.

Marcus was on his feet, moving toward the door. Lena grabbed his arm. "Don't."

"He's got Wes."

"Marcus, please."

But he was already out the door, and she had no choice but to follow. The cold hit her like a slap. Wes was standing by the gas pump, his hands raised. In front of him, a man in his twenties, skinny and sunburned, held a pistol in a shaking hand. He was wearing a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off, and his eyes had the wild, unfocused look of someone who had been awake too long on the wrong kind of chemicals.

"You," the man said, swinging the gun toward Marcus. "You're the one. The radio said—"

"The radio says a lot of things." Marcus's voice was calm, calmer than Lena had ever heard it. "Put the gun down."

"I'm collecting the reward. They're offering ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars, man. That's more than I made all year at the rendering plant before it shut down."

Wes moved, a blur of plaid shirt and old man's reflexes. He grabbed the kid's wrist and twisted, but the kid was younger and faster. The gun went off, a crack that split the desert silence, and Wes staggered backward, his hands clutching his stomach. Blood, dark as oil, seeped between his fingers.

Lena screamed. She didn't mean to, it just came out, a raw animal sound. The kid was staring at Wes, his face a mask of shock, as if he hadn't quite believed the gun was real until it had done its work. Marcus lunged forward and tackled him, and they went down in a tangle of limbs. The gun skittered across the gravel and came to rest under the pump.

Lena ran to Wes. He was on his knees now, his breath coming in wet, ragged gasps. "Should've stayed in Calder," he said, and tried to smile. Blood bubbled on his lips. "Should've sued."

"Don't talk. We'll get help."

"No help out here. No nothing." He grabbed her wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. "The truck behind the store. My truck. Keys are in it. Take it. The fuel pump is... it's rigged. The red switch under the dash. Don't turn it off, or the engine won't start again for an hour."

"Wes—"

"Listen to me." His eyes were glassy now, focusing on something she couldn't see. "My wife. If you ever... if you get somewhere safe. Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her... tell her the store was never worth it."

His hand went slack. The desert wind picked up, carrying the smell of sage and blood and gasoline. Lena knelt there for a long moment, her hand still in his, until Marcus pulled her to her feet.

The kid was unconscious on the ground, his face bruised where Marcus had hit him. Marcus was breathing hard, his knuckles raw. "We have to go."

"Wes—"

"He's gone, Lena. We can't help him."

They took Wes's truck, a battered Ford that smelled of tobacco and old coffee. The red switch under the dash was exactly where Wes had said it would be. The engine turned over with a reluctant growl, and they pulled out onto the Old Mining Route, leaving the gas station and the body and the unconscious kid behind them.

Dawn was beginning to seep over the horizon, a thin gray light that did nothing to warm the desert. Lena drove while Marcus sat in the passenger seat, staring at his hands. After a while, he spoke.

"When that kid had the gun on me, I wasn't scared. I thought, maybe this is how it ends. Maybe it would be easier."

"Don't say that."

"It's true." He turned to look at her, and his eyes were hollow, the eyes of the man who had stood at the door of BlueMart for eleven years and smiled while his spine crumbled. "I've been dead for a long time, Lena. I just didn't know it."

She didn't know how to answer. The guilt was still there, burning a hole in her gut. She reached into her pocket, feeling for the phone, and her blood went cold. It was gone. She must have dropped it at the gas station, or in the trailer, or somewhere in the chaos. The messages, the hotline records, the evidence of her betrayal, all of it was still in the phone. And now the phone was sitting in the desert, waiting to be found.

She didn't tell Marcus. She just kept driving, her knuckles white on the wheel, as the sun rose over the poisoned earth and the highway stretched on toward another nowhere.

Miles behind them, a pair of headlights appeared on the horizon. They were faint, barely visible in the rearview mirror, but they were there. And they were getting closer.