The door to Raine’s Market in Eureka, Nevada, is locked at eleven o’clock in the morning. I peer into an unlit interior and tap on the glass. A woman in an apron comes from the back of the store.
‘Power’s out. We’re closed.’ She shrugs and gives me a weak smile.
I was hoping to grab an extra bottle of water and granola bars or something to stash in the car just in case. Then I’d continue on my way west to Austin, a town an hour or so down the road, the next pearl in the long, scraggly necklace of the Lincoln Highway.
I shrug back. Oh well. As I turn away I notice a sign in the window welcoming gun carriers – which also states that, should the occasion arise, ‘judicious marksmanship is appreciated.’
On the other side of the highway, which doubles as Main Street, there’s a Chevron, the only gas station in town. It’s the only gas station for eighty miles in either direction. You need gas? You best get it here.
Maybe the Chevron has a food mart but my view’s blocked by an RV at the pumps with a nozzle lodged in its side. Power must have cut out in the middle of filling up. At least those folks can sit in their RV and play cards until the electricity returns.
Six or eight cars and a couple of motorcycles have trickled into town in the meantime. They line up neatly along the roadside, engines off. People get out to smoke cigarettes, walk tiny dogs or wander up and down the sidewalk just for something to do.
I walk across Main Street. As soon as I reach the gas station I hear shouting. It’s muffled and I can’t make out what’s being said. I go around the RV and see that the sliding doors to the Chevron shop have been stuck in the open position.
Two women run out, yelling there’s someone in there with a gun. People milling around outside stumble back to their cars but no one gets in and drives away.
I stop in the doorway and lean in. Lights are off but it’s easy enough to see what’s going on. A few people are still inside, cowering behind shelves.
The angry words become crystal clear.
‘Last warning, asshole! Put the money in the fucking bag or I fucking kill you!’
One guy nudges the gym bag on the counter. The other points a gun at the clerk – arms outstretched, one hand cradled in the other, cop-show style. The gun, which everyone fixates on, is almost comically small. But it’s still a gun.
Once I tear my eyes away to look at the clerk, I see that he’s a lanky peach-faced kid, eighteen if that, his eyes wide in terror.
‘But I can’t open the register. Power’s out.’ The kid gestures helplessly. ‘Only my dad – I mean the manager – only he has the key.’
The guy with the gun steps closer. ‘Open. The fucking. Drawer.’
‘Please!’ The kid trembles. Clear snot streams from his nose. ‘I would, honest, but—’
Bang!
It’s not a particularly loud gunshot but we all jump. Did he actually pull the trigger on purpose? Or did his finger twitch?
Anyway, the kid drops.
The two guys leave the gym bag on the counter and push past me in the doorway like I’m invisible. They hop on bikes and peel away, heading east, before I’ve had a chance to swallow.
An old man in pajamas hobbles out of the RV with a silver pistol that looks too heavy to lift much less shoot. What’s all the commotion, he wants to know.
I imagine the inevitable questions. Sorry, officer, I didn’t get a good look at the perpetrators. All I saw was the little gun, like I mentioned. They were just, I dunno, just two guys on motorcycles.
Wait – there is one thing. They both smelled like passionfruit. Like they used the same shower gel this morning or something. I don’t know if that’s a clue or – oh, you’re welcome, officer.
I start thinking about how I don’t have the slightest idea what a passionfruit looks like or tastes like, or even if it’s something you eat.
Then another smell makes itself known. The kid must have shit himself as he stood there quivering, unable to open the cash drawer, a gun in his face.
Call it perverse but I decide to take a closer look.
I step around the end of the counter and see the kid on the floor, his eyes and mouth open, looking every bit as surprised as I am. The hole in the center of his forehead is tidy and perfectly round. He’s dead alright but I don’t see much blood, not really. I guess once a bullet gets past your bony skull it’s game over. It doesn’t need to spray your brains across the room.
The father arrives. His legs are barely able to carry him to his son’s side. He kneels by the body, stroking the boy’s hair and sobbing into his chest. The thick ring of keys dangling from his belt no doubt holds the one that could have saved his son’s life. There’ll be no way to stop him from blaming himself.
First, the overhead fluorescents blink back on, followed by the click and whir of refrigerators. The automatic doors slide shut. Cash register stays closed.
Outside, the gas pumps reset to zero. Still, people wait.
Soon the cops will set up a roadblock outside Ely. No need to chase those guys. No need to ask anybody any questions. No need for passionfruit. They can lean on their cruisers, chew gum and talk football until motorcycles come round the bend.
This road’s like a wild river. There’s no escape once you’re caught in the flow of it.
Paul Ruta was born in Niagara Falls, Ontario and now lives in Hong Kong. He wrote a children’s book under the pen name Andy Spearman which was published by Penguin Random House. His writing has appeared in books and journals in North America, Britain and Singapore. Find Paul at @paulruta and www.paulthomasruta.com. The image used to illustrate this story was supplied by the author.
