With a growing sense of practice that disturbed eve her, Marisa scanned the horizon then made a perimeter search around the old gas station. A jackrabbit skitted off into the bushes as she rounded the back but little else broke up the monotony of desert landscape. As encouraging as that was her assessment of the station was less than thrilling.

No power. Water tinted with rust. Empty pumps.

As far as she was concerned light was only a give-away, a beacon as night’s blanket of indigo was quickly overtaking the sky. Letting the water run seemed to clear the worst of the color, though the taste remained. A bit of ingenuity and a salvaged hand pump got her a few gallons out of the underground resevoir.

The roof and four walls tempted her for a moment, a night of actual sleep on something other than dust and rocks. One wary eye to the road behind her, and she made her decision. Shotgun stashed, she kicked the hog to life, ready for a hard night’s ride.

The road beckoned, and Hell clamored after her.