Echoes of Élan

You're not supposed to go in there. That's what the sign says. The words are all caps, bolded, underlined for good measure. It's like God himself is warning you away.

A can of soda sits on the other side of the glass door, glistening with condensation. A certain chill fills the air around it, prickles your skin even from this distance. Goosebumps sprout up along your arms beneath your sweater as you watch sweat droplets form and fall from the can's smooth surface.

The refrigerator hums, low and steady, a siren song that tugs at some deep part of you where thirst resides.

Your mouth is dry enough to be a desert wasteland: sandpaper tongue sticking to cracked lips. You wonder how long it's been since you've had a drink—days? weeks?—but can't be bothered to keep track anymore.

On the other side of the door—a world away from where you stand—is everything you need: food and water, medicine and clothes. All just out of reach.

With every passing second, your resolve weakens. Heat seeps into your bones like liquid fire, making each breath more labored than the last.

What could it hurt? You ask yourself again (and again), hands already moving to push against metal. To give in to temptation.

In here—a dirty gas station off an empty stretch of highway—you've seen plenty worse. Dead bodies littering aisles torn apart by looters with nothing left but time on their hands; desperate souls who'd stopped at nothing to survive another hour or day or year in this godforsaken place.

But they're not here now. And neither is anyone else.

Just you and that fucking soda calling out to you like an oasis in a barren wasteland.

The glass is cold against your palms as you peer inside; fogged-up windows make it difficult to see what lays beyond. The hiss of the opening door is loud in the quiet.

You step inside, shivering as a gust of wind blows past you from somewhere deep within the building.

The shelves are mostly bare. What remains is rotting or spoiled or infested with bugs. But you've still got your eyes on that can, sitting all by itself on the top shelf of an otherwise empty cooler.

The rows of fluorescent lights above you flicker and hum in time to your heartbeat as you make your way down the aisle, each step creaking like a dying man's last breath.

A stench fills the air—something sour and rancid that makes your stomach flip—and you wonder how long it will be before this place smells like death too.

Your fingers graze the icy metal, trails left behind by others who'd tried (and failed) to claim their prize.

You wrap your hand around it, lift it up toward your face so you can read the label: sweet relief in bold letters across a familiar brand name that brings tears to your eyes.

Coca-Cola: The pause that refreshes.

Pop-top cans are a thing of the past; no pull-tab ring hidden beneath this one's cap. Instead, there's just a small red dot next to an arrow pointing skyward: push here for satisfaction!

You do as instructed. Nothing happens at first—just more frustration added to an already endless supply—but then comes a satisfying pop! followed by fizzing carbonation and liquid gold pouring out into your cupped hands.

It's colder than anything you can remember touching for longer than you'd care to admit. You lick at it greedily, grateful for even this small respite from the heat that threatens to consume you whole.

But something is wrong. It doesn't taste right—too sweet and syrupy—and when you glance down into your hands they're coated with something thick and dark. Blood.

You drop the can, its contents spilling out onto the dirty linoleum floor in a sticky red puddle that spreads like a wildfire.

Footsteps echo from somewhere nearby—soft but getting louder with each second—and you know without a doubt: You're not alone anymore.

Before you can react, before you can even think to run (or hide or scream for help), a figure steps into view from around the corner at the far end of the aisle: tall and shadowy, indistinct in the flickering light.

A voice—a man's voice—calls out to you from somewhere inside your skull. It's familiar somehow, like something half-remembered from another life lived long ago.

"You weren't supposed to do that," he says. And then again, softer this time as he takes another step closer, "You weren't supposed to go in there."

But how were you supposed to know? There was no sign this time. All you wanted was something to drink.

The figure steps fully into view now; it's him—that man who took everything from you without so much as an apology. Your stomach twists in knots at the sight of him: bald head shining under the fluorescent lights, sweat glistening on his hairy arms as he holds out his hand—a bloodstained knife clutched tightly within it—in offering.

"Thirsty?" He asks with a grin so wide it threatens to split his face in two.