Petrol Wonderland

Fourteen | Fashionably Late

As the police car swung into the carpark, the passenger in the backseat peeled away the warm fabric of her coat to reveal an expensive-looking watch. Appearing rather bored, she checked the time before hiding it under her sleeve again. It was half-past three in the morning. Great, she thought, immediately conjuring up an image of all the things she'd rather be doing at such an hour: namely sleeping.

"We're here," said the driver gruffly as be brought the car to a gentle stop. His figure was enshrouded by darkness but even in the low light, it was obvious he was a large man. She'd be glad to get away from him, his aftershave was way too strong.

"Thank you," she replied and immediately set to swinging open the door and striding out into the early morning for a breath of fresh air.

As soon as her boots hit the tarmac she was greeted by a chill. It wormed its way into her core and made her almost miss the humidity of the car. Almost. She pulled her long coat closer to her body and continued towards her destination.

The petrol station was an awful sight. Not just from the way the paint peeled from its walls and scraggly clumps of ivy clung to it as if the fingers of Burstein Woods were reaching out to claim it as its own. No, the thing was in ruin. Torn bin bags lay strewn around the outside of the building and products lay strewn around the inside. She turned up her nose at the sorry sight. It probably would've looked slightly better if the shop window wasn't lying in pieces on the ground.

Her boots crunched over the furthest-thrown shards of glass. At the same time, a small man dressed entirely in black with a bullet-proof vest and a gun hurried up to her.

"Mrs Levosky!" he called out, sounding rather out of breath. He reached her. She stopped. "I'm Peterson," he said, offering out a hand to her. "I'm the leader of this operation."

She nodded to him, eyeing the silver badge on his chest and ignoring his extended hand. "Peterson. Am I the first on site?"

Seeming wary, he nodded and lowered his arm. There was a terrible look on his face like he'd seen a ghost or perhaps worse. In fact, he was so red that he resembled a tomato. It looked quite unprofessional.

"Did Jameson radio you the details?" he asked.

"Yes. He did."

He sure as hell had. It had been a strange tale to listen to. At such an early time it'd taken the police squad a little longer than it would to assemble for a daytime call out, and so the ambulance had arrived first on the scene. When they did, they found their path blocked by spikes and a large caravan on its side. An unsuspecting Porsche had collided with the vehicle, oblivious to what it was about to crash into just around the bend. When the emergency teams had finally run their way down the neverending, windy lane to the petrol station, they'd witnessed a bizarre sight indeed.

She gestured to the station. "Shall we head inside?"

"Of course." The two crunched towards the vast open space which would've once been a window, away from the reaches of the darkness and into the bright shop light, in near-silence. As they stepped over the threshold between outside and in, Peterson (who seemed very fidgety) began to talk again in a rushed tone. "I should warn you before I show you this, it's very um... It's a little... It's a bit much."

Her face remained a mask, yet the woman still raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Whatever it is, Peterson, I can assure you I've probably seen worse. It's never clean, this job. There's always a mess."

"I know. I know. I've seen some stuff myself but... she's young. It just reminded me of my own teenage daughter, I think. Don't mind me."

Julianne Levosky's boot brushed against a soda can and sent it flying across the tiles. She paused for a moment, taking in the chaotic sight. The shop looked like it'd been through a magnitude seven earthquake and then some. Men who appeared twin to Peterson, with bulky frames, black clothing, helmets, and guns patrolled the site with dark circles under their eyes and unenergetic paces. There was a string of purple handkerchiefs tied together snaking around one of the isles. An office chair was lay on its side. Some dents in the wall signified a gun had been shot several times. There was blood pretty much everywhere. Small specs of it were dotted about like stars in the night sky and one wall was pretty much caked with a thick, sticky layer of the stuff as well as some ominous red chunks.