The Black Seas of Infinity by Dan Henk

assemblage of wooden slabs nailed
together. The register looked too ornamental for the crude table,
its gold and silver carvings reflecting a bygone era. On an
unpainted shelf in back, a low-wattage bulb glowed dimly through a
stained ocher shade. A white plastic shelf, maybe five out of the
thirty slots filled with packs of cigarettes, was nailed crudely to
the wall. I rounded the short counter, turning sideways to squeeze
through, and glanced under the register. A single shelf harbored a
crumpled dirty rag, a couple of quarts of Quaker State, and a rusty
hacksaw. I wondered what the hacksaw was for. Feeling around the
underside of the counter top, my fingers bumped into a rocker
switch positioned directly beneath the register. Flipping the
switch, I circled back around and strolled out to the car. Whipping
off the gas cap, I plunged the nozzle in and filled up the
tank.
    It was then I had another idea. There was no
mini-mart here, but there was a garage, and it might have gas
containers, or at least something that could be used as such.
Replacing the nozzle, I headed back. The garage door was down, and
when I grabbed the latch and pulled up, it moved less than an inch
before hitting an internal lock and jarring to a halt. The handle
was a rusty steel T- bone, and when I tried to turn the lever it
wouldn’t budge. Wedging my fingers under the lip of the garage
door, I jerked up on it. The door hit the crossbar, creaking with
the strain. I applied a little more pressure, and the metal gave
way, buckling noisily on the inside as it shrieked upwards and
curled into a roll.
    The gaping maw beyond was a black void,
lacking enough ambient light even for my eyes. Stroking the inside
of the doorframe, I felt nothing but a strip of wood, the metal
railing straddling it in a narrow ridge. I stepped in and turned to
face the wall, gently guiding my fingers up the rough concrete. My
hand bumped into a jutting piece of plastic, and with a flip of the
finger the garage came to life. A single bulb dangled on the end of
a long cord, a half-dismantled black muscle car commanding most of
the space. Its open hood entertained a huge air filter, the chrome
disc sitting atop a freshly painted electric blue big-block. A
couple of black hoses snaked out from under the gleaming Holley
carburetor, joining more tubes emanating from the water pump and
shooting straight back toward the firewall. Eight millimeter wires
flowed in perfect rows of bright red toward a distributor
protruding from the intake manifold. This was obviously the garage
owner’s project, in far better repair than the entire domicile that
housed it. Glancing around I saw not one, but two beat-up red metal
cans clearly marked “gas” lying against the far wall, along with a
few quarts of oil and a plastic tub of antifreeze. The latter was
buried amidst a greasy mound of cloth, a pair of crescent wrenches
jutting out. I brushed aside the rags, scooped up the gas cans with
my left hand, and grabbed the oil containers and antifreeze with
the other. Awkwardly juggling the slippery heap, I hauled them out
to the pump. Dropping everything in a chaotic jumble, I sorted
through the containers, flipping each one over and dumping out
whatever fluid was left inside. The whole mess oozed into a
swelling puddle of black muck, the morass slowly spreading across
the packed dirt. I washed out the containers with gas, the milky
fuel mingling with the black oil in glistening swirls. One spark
and I would be in the midst of a seething inferno. I filled the
containers, popped the trunk, and stacked them neatly inside. It
was more than enough to get me to NY. I replaced the nozzle,
climbed into the Mustang, and peeled out, diving back into the maw
of capricious blackness.
    The rest of the drive was uneventful, the
dark sky slowly paling into a bluish gray. I stopped a few times,
pulling over onto the shoulder and digging through the containers,
refueling tensely as I glanced around for passing cars.