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passes out, and I try to help him. I think he’s had a heart attack, don’t I? He’s out cold and not breathing. Dead as a doornail. Next thing I know, he’s grabbing at me and trying to bite.” He gestures to my newly acquired weapon. “He kept the bat under the counter for late-night trouble. Never occurred to him that
he
might be the trouble. I smashed him to hell and back.”
    I look closely at the bat for the first time. There’s a red patch and a clump of hair stuck to the end. My gut twists.
    â€œWhat did you do to him?”
    Gareth taps a cigarette out of a packet. “Hitting him only made him angrier. Nothing much I could do . . .” He lights the cigarette, pockets the lighter, and exhales deeply. “Until I found this.” He picks up an object from the counter. It’s a metal spike attached to a small block of wood, with small pieces of paper skewered to it. Sales receipts. Gareth chuckles. “He never did like balancing the books . . . said they used to do his head in.” A gloop of blood drips from the spike. “Well, they did this time.”
    I gulp. “What happened?”
    Gareth fixes me with his dark stare. “He fell on it.” He thrusts the spike. “Up through the eye, popped like a grape.”
    â€œCool!” Smitty says.
    â€œNo,” I mutter. “That’s horrible.”
    â€œHey, it’s not so bad,” Smitty says. “We just ran over our teacher, remember?”
    â€œWhich one?” Pete asks.
    â€œMr. Taylor,” I say, numb.
    â€œYes!” Pete claps his hands in delight.
    I look at Gareth. “So what did you do next?”
    He shrugs. “Tried the phone. Line was dead. Went up to the café. Everyone was dead. Didn’t hang around to see if they’d come back to life. Came back here and locked the body in the storage cupboard.” He flicks a finger at a door in the corner. “Just in case.”
    â€œDidn’t you even think to look for a phone in the café?” Smitty’s face curls with scorn.
    â€œYeah, I hung around to go crazy like my boss,” Gareth says. “Great idea.”
    â€œSo we just wait here, right?” I say. “This is a gas station; people must be in and out all the time.”
    Gareth laughs. “This isn’t your average day, lassie.”
    â€œHe’s right,” Smitty adds. “Have you seen anyone arrive since we got here?” He looks up toward the café. “Either it’s the snow, or —”
    â€œOr whatever’s going on here is going on everywhere.”
    Nobody speaks. I think we’re all ignoring what I just said, but it’s out there all the same.
    I chance a smile. “Gareth, I’m thinking you’re about the same age as all of us added up. Do you have a car?”
    Gareth shakes his head. “Not today.” His face reddens. “I got a lift.”
    I brighten. “Fine. So they’ll be back to pick you up at the end of your shift, won’t they? We wait.”
    â€œOr we hot-wire a car,” Smitty says. “Or drive the bus.”
    Gareth looks exasperated. “Have you seen the weather?”
    â€œLet’s at least try!” Smitty shouts.
    Before Gareth can answer, an engine roars into life outside and a large shadow lurches around the trees, heading toward the gas pumps. It’s the school bus.
    â€œScore!” Smitty shouts. “Hello, Mr. Mean Machine All-Terrain Bus Driver!”
    We scramble to the window and watch as the bus leaves the road and mounts the bank. Narrowly missing the last of the sycamores, it careers down toward us.
    â€œHe’s going too fast,” I say. “Why’s he going so fast?”
    As the words come out, I see why.
    Following the bus are people, stumbling through the snow. Arms out, heads lolling, feet dragging . . .
    â€œAnd to complete the introductions, Gareth,” says Smitty, holding out