YOU ENTER THE GAS STATION

You stare at that glowing 3 MILES REMAINING on your dashboard. Information won’t help if you’re stranded.

You pull up to the gas station next door. The pumps look normal enough—digital displays glowing, card readers waiting. You slide your credit card and select regular unleaded, trying not to think about what gasoline-addicted squirrels might do to a gas station.

The pump clicks to life and you start filling up, eyes constantly scanning the area. The abandoned cars at the grocery store sit silent in the late evening light. No movement anywhere.

That’s when you notice it—scratches. Deep gouges in the concrete around the pump bases, like something with claws had been digging. And there’s a smell in the air, faint but unmistakable: that same gasoline odor you detected in your garage, but stronger here.

“But it’s a gas station,” you tell yourself. “It’s supposed to smell like gas.”

The pump handle clicks off—tank full. As you’re hanging up the nozzle, you spot something that makes your blood run cold:

One of the other pump stations has been completely torn apart. The hose is shredded, the metal housing ripped open like a tin can, and there are dark stains on the concrete that definitely aren’t motor oil.

You hurry back to your car, tank full but nerves frayed. At least now you have options—you could drive for hours if needed. But as you pull into the grocery store parking lot, that evacuation notice is still on your mind.

Where did everyone go? You pray the store will provide answers.