Pump Three

“You’re listening to WTFM, eastern Georgia’s classic rock station.” At this time of the night, the DJ would be Maya’s only outlet to the rest of the world. Maya didn’t mind the boredom and isolation, it was the only way for her to get some peace and quiet to finish her assignments. The cashier’s counter spread with paperwork, she was hard at work trying to finish her art assignment. “Only two more years, and these working long nights will pay off. I’ll have my degree and I’ll be free of this bullshit town.”

The pop of a florescent light broke her hypnotic concentration. “Shit,” Maya sighed and grumbled as she headed to the back to replace the light. “One more twist and there!” The tube flickers to life, its light blinding for a second causing Maya to wobble a little. Something felt off when she was climbing down the ladder, a shadow that wasn’t there before. As she placed everything up, she shook her head telling herself that it’s late and she’s just seeing things.

Maya settled back into her coursework when bass thumped through the walls, that unmistakable rattle of a cheap sound system pushed beyond its limits. She winced as the music grew closer, distorted and aggressive. “Really? You put a cheap ass sound system in that car?” A black Jaguar pulls in to the station aggressively, the brakes screeching as the driver pulls up to the pump. Maya rolled her eyes, “another limp-dicked loser trying to get laid, I bet.” Two men and a woman got out the car, all clearly drunk.

As they approached, a knot grew in Maya’s stomach, her hands became sweaty. At first, she dismissed it as a bad hot dog off the roller earlier, but the figures were becoming humans. Maya was about ready to throw up when she saw who it was.

Her mind raced back to five years ago this exact night. They were heading home from Atlanta, while they were dead tired, both kids were still buzzing over a wonderful weekend. Their mother took them inside the store to buy their favorite drinks, a vanilla Coke for Maya, Sunkist Orange for Tommy. As they were headed back to the car, the headlights came from nowhere.

In those headlights, Maya could hear it all: the screeching tires, the thud of Tommy’s body hitting the ground. Maya would look back to try to get the plates, but it was too late. She looks back down, Tommy’s soda slowly rolling away, the contents emptying on the ground mixing with his blood pooling on the ground. Tommy’s limp body lay there, his chest barely rising. Her mother’s screams were back to haunt her, they were raw, almost primal. She had been going to therapy to help get over that night, but everything was coming back to her hard.

“ARE YOU DEAF, BITCH?”

Maya blinked hard, the flashback dissolving. A woman with smeared mascara and gin-sour breath leaned across the counter. "Where the fuck is the bathroom? Jesus, it's like talking to a brick wall."

Still shaking from the memory, Maya pointed toward the back corner. "There." The woman rolled her eyes and stumbled away, muttering about "useless small-town trash."

As Maya tried to steady her breathing, the radio crackled. The DJ’s voice faded out, replaced by Rush's Freewill. The volume seemed to climb on its own:

You can choose a ready guide in some celestial voice
If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice
You can choose from phantom fears and kindness that can kill
I will choose a path that's clear, I will choose Freewill

Maya's hands trembled as she reached for the volume knob, but stopped. The lyrics hit different tonight. “Kindness that can kill.” Five years of therapy, of trying to forgive, of being the bigger person, but where had that gotten her?

The song continued, but now it felt like a message. Like Tommy was trying to tell her something. “Kindness that can kill?” A loud, unmistakable voice began dictating in her head. “Kill them with kindness, you know what I am talking about, sis.”

Maya caught her breath, but suddenly she could hear Tommy’s voice in her head. Was it really him, or did her grief hit her hard enough to make her think he was talking to her? Either way, she formulated a plan of minor inconveniences. She slipped her hand under the counter, and flipped the switch that controlled the pumps.

Outside, the two men stared at their pump in confusion, then irritation. One of them was a taller man with an expensive looking leather jacket. She’s seen that walk dozens of times, that walk of an entitled Karen about to go ballistic because they can’t get their way. The chime’s greeting gave a sinister tone. Meanwhile, Hotel California by the Eagles starts playing in the background.

The man slammed his palm on the counter, “The fuck is wrong with the pumps?”

“Oh, we must be out of gas. Let me check the machine.” Maya turned around, pressed a few buttons, then turned the switch back to the on position. “Huh. Must have been a glitch,” she rolled her eyes, “marvels of modern technology, am I right?” Without anyone touching the radio, the lyrics began blaring:

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.

“All you small town hicks are the same, shit better be free for the inconvenience.” The man turned around to leave, but slammed in to the glass. Maya chuckled under her breath as he hit the door. “The fuck? You lock this door, asshole? Unlock this shit right now, or so help me god, you will live to regret this.”

Maya became slightly irritated. “Not my fault you don’t know how to work an automatic door.” As she approached the door, she tried everything to get the sensor working. Nothing. She checked to make sure it was still plugged in, and then used the manual override. Nothing. Maya, then the man, both tried to push the doors open, but they wouldn’t budge.

“Hang on, the repairman lives up the road, he’s on call twenty-four-seven. Give me a sec, and I’ll get him here. Look, the gas is on me, and anything you get in the store too.” She started dialing the number, but no signal.

“Well, what’s taking so long?” The man impatiently snapped, “if you don’t call him, I swear I will call the cops.”

Maya looked at her phone, the zero bars mocking her. “I had service ten minutes ago. Hey,” she looked at the man, “check your phone.”

He takes his iPhone out of his jacket pocket, and starts tapping the screen. “What the hell? I charged it all afternoon. How is it dead now? Hey, don’t you people have an old-school phone? You know, the ones you plug in the walls? How about get him on that?”

Maya rolled her eyes at “you people”, but calmly walked over and called the repairman. “Earl, hey, it’s Maya over at the station. No, I’m okay, it’s just the damn door is stuck. Yeah, I tried all the tricks, nothing’s happening. I hate to bother you this late, but I have customer stuck inside. Can you come look at it? Thanks! You’re a lifesaver.”

“Alright, fifteen minutes, keep your shirt on.” But even saying it, Maya knew something was wrong. The air tasted thicker, it was harder for her to breathe. Her stomach ached again, but this time, she could feel the lump in her throat. Her mind just won’t get off the night Tommy died, she was standing mere inches away from his murderer. She fought to suppress her rage, she could hear Tommy’s voice clearly telling her he was the guy.

Maya went back to the safety of her counter, but all the time staring at the man in the leather coat. The anger inside Maya seemed to come alive. The lights in the coolers began to flicker. “Oh, you got to be kidding me,” Maya thought, “I don’t know how to fix that, guess I could ask Earl when he comes.”

A loud thud broke the silence of the store, the man in the leather jacket turned around, “what the hell was that?” Maya was already studying the security cameras, but saw nothing out of place, even in the back. Then she remembered, “hey, your friend has been in the bathroom for quite a while. I’ll go check on her to make sure she’s alright. Cocaine by Eric Clapton begins playing on the radio:

If your day is gone, and you want to ride on, cocaine

Don't forget this fact, you can't get it back, cocaine

“Mam, are you okay?” Maya pounded on the door, but there was no answer. “Mam?” A sense of dread washed over Maya, “it’s happened before, but please don’t be dead in there” she thought while grabbing the master keys. Her hands shook as she tried to unlock the door. She turned the handle, but it only moved enough to reveal a cocaine vial sitting on the sink, and white powder mixed with some blood in the basin.

“Oh fuck.” Maya muttered as she pushed the door open enough to get inside. The young woman was curled up on the floor, blood streaming out of her nose. Her breathing is shallow, and her lips were turning blue.

“Call an ambulance!” Maya exclaimed, her breathing heavy again, “she’s overdosed!” The man ran towards the phone, but he trips over a snack display, his head smacks the linoleum with a sickening slap, rendering him unconscious.

The third man pounded against the glass, his screams barely audible as the radio suddenly roared to life. Hendrix's Fire blasted from the speakers, the volume climbing impossibly loud:

You don't care for me, I don't care about that
You got a new fool, I like it like that
I have only one burning desire
Let me stand next to your fire

Maya lunged for the volume knob, twisting it all the way down. Nothing. She jabbed the power button repeatedly, then ripped the cord from the wall. The music kept pounding, Hendrix's guitar screaming through the store as if the radio had a life of its own.

Outside, the man's mouth moved in silent terror, his fists bloody from beating against the unyielding glass. The Jaguar's flames reflected in his wide eyes as smoke billowed around him. The song's lyrics seemed to mock his situation, each word perfectly timed with his desperate attempts to escape.

Maya backed away from the radio, her hands shaking. This wasn't grief or stress or her imagination anymore. Tommy was in control now.

Behind her, she heard a low groan. The man in the leather jacket was stirring, pushing himself up on his elbows. Blood streamed from his nose and a gash on his forehead where he'd hit the floor. His eyes struggled to focus as he looked around the chaos—the blaring radio, the smoke seeping in, his friend trapped outside.

"What... what the fuck is happening?" he mumbled, touching the blood on his face. His voice was slurred, dazed.

Maya watched him try to stand, his legs unsteady. Part of her wanted to help him—the old Maya, the one who'd spent five years in therapy learning to forgive. But that Maya felt very far away now.
The radio's volume seemed to pulse with her heartbeat. Tommy's presence filled the store like static electricity, making her skin crawl with anticipation.

"You're getting what you deserve," she heard herself say, though her voice sounded strange, distant. Suddenly, the base thumps the familiar chords of Talking Heads’ Psycho Killer fills the station:

I can't seem to face up to the facts

I'm tense and nervous and I

Can't relax

I can't sleep 'cause my bed's on fire

Don't touch me I'm a real live wire

Psycho Killer

Qu'est-ce que c'est

Fa fa fa fa, fa fa fa fa fa far better

Run run run run, run run run away, oh, oh, oh

Maya's vision blurred as something cold flooded her mind. Tommy's presence pressed against her thoughts, drowning out her own voice. When she looked down at the injured man, her face had gone completely blank.

"Five years ago, you killed my brother." Her voice was flat, mechanical. "Then daddy's money made it all disappear. Tonight, you pay."

The man blinked through the blood, trying to focus. "What... what are you talking about?" His words slurred from the head injury. "We never killed anyone."
Maya walked to the counter with deliberate steps and wrapped her fingers around the aluminum bat she kept for protection. The weight felt right in her hands. She turned back, and something that wasn't quite a smile crossed her face.

"Please," the man whispered, finally understanding. "The little kid? We were so fucked up that night. I didn't see him until” His voice trailed off, weak and broken, “God, I'm sorry. We were scared, we panicked."

Maya raised the bat, but something in his broken voice made her hesitate. This was what she'd wanted to hear for five years: an admission, an apology. So why did it feel so hollow?

We are vain and we are blind

I hate people when they're not polite

She began to rain blows until a mixture of skull fragments, brain matter and blood pooled on the floor next to him. Her wails and sobs could be heard several counties over, she had no control of herself. Only the sound of the door opening broke her out of the grief filled trance.

“Maya! Maya! Wake up.” Her mother's voice cut through the haze like a blade. Maya blinked hard, the bat heavy in her trembling hands. For a moment, she saw her mother's face—worried, desperate—superimposed over the fluorescent-lit store.

"Mom?" Maya whispered.

But when she blinked again, she was still standing in the gas station. The injured man still cowered on the floor, blood streaming from his nose. The radio still blared. The smoke still seeped through the walls.

Her mother's voice echoed in her memory: "Don't let anger consume you, baby. That's not what Tommy would want."

Maya's grip on the bat loosened slightly. Was this really happening? Or had grief finally broken her completely? The line between memory, hallucination, and supernatural revenge blurred until she couldn't tell which was real anymore.

The man on the floor whimpered, and Maya snapped back to the present moment. The store was empty. There was no injured man, no dead girlfriend, and the gas pumps are in perfect condition. The drawing was finished, a perfect rendering of that dreadful night five years ago. The radio continues to blast I Thank You by ZZ Top. Maya then looked at her phone, three missed calls from her mother. Maya quickly calls her back, “mom, I love you, more than anything in this world.”