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“Happy New Year!” Yuki and her assistant shout in unison.

Confetti is thrown, kisses are shared, glasses clang, Champagne is consumed, and the distant sound of fireworks boom somewhere in the night. The small gathering breaks out with Auld Lang Syne.

When the revelry slowly fades, Yuki takes the spot in front of the crowd once again. “Well, since this party is going to go for a bit, why not continue with another excursion?”

“Do we have enough power for that?” the assistant asks.

Yuki smiles. “Of course! Far less outings during the year means we can break out with another one. Especially for a short duration. This one is interesting as it also takes place around this same time. It concerns a man, not one for confrontations, on a drive to his friends’ place to ring in the new year. His trip goes much longer than expected, however, and a foreboding menace follows him no matter the path he takes. I call this one…

***

The day had been long and grueling, one in which night hadn’t come nearly fast enough, James Craven thought to himself. Ever since he was pulled into his boss’ office no more than an hour into his shift time refused to move at any rate but sluggish. On a typical day, he would not mind at all sitting behind his desk with three walls around him, gone from the world several hours at a time, assisting clients with the fundamentals of their accounts, nothing usually stressful for either party, and almost always a string of ‘thank-yous’ from the caller before they hung up. Today, they had to let a few of the non-committed drones go from the floor below him—Collections. James’ supervisor noted his superb track record with handling their clients and therefore decided to put him down there for a day or two while human resources tried to fill in the vacated positions. Despite being uncomfortable with the proposition and putting in his two cents about the whole deal (no real fight against it was put up), James had reluctantly agreed.

The elevator might as well have dropped him to hell.

Clients screamed and threatened and cried no matter how gentle he put the scripted material and now matter how much he offered his sympathies. He did what he could to end the conversations quickly and as painlessly as possible. None of which worked. Not even an hour in and eight calls later he could feel his blonde hair turning white—what was left that hadn’t fallen out in that span of time.

By the end of the workday, His skin had an unnatural pallor, one that only he seemed to notice. He took care of the last bit of paperwork at his desk, punched out, and broke for the nearest exit.

The moon was on the rise and the stars glistened in the cloudless skies as he reached his Chevy Cavalier, all by its lonesome in the expansive parking lot. It would have been a pleasant walk, but the bulk of the day had taken its toll. He genuinely thought of calling in sick the next time he worked, in the event they hadn’t found anyone to work Collections, but thought better of it, knowing it couldn’t last forever.

There would be some solace soon enough for him, however. Two of his closest friends had moved back in the area after living up near Kent, Ohio for a few years to finish up some much-delayed schooling. They’d just settled into their townhouse about half an hour south in Kentucky, almost a straight shot from downtown Cincinnati. All three would catch up until the wee hours of the morning and he would stay the weekend for New Year’s before heading back to work on Monday.

Ten minutes later James was on southbound I-75 and just passing the Queen City. He glanced from the snow-plagued roads to the crumpled piece of paper with a MapQuest printout. He’d never been down that far into Kentucky—only right along the river that divided the states, in Newport—and he had never been particularly good with directions and easily got turned around, especially when a good deal of urgency or stress kicked in. It was well after dark and he’d no idea where he was going, so nervous glances to the sheet came once every few seconds.

His exit was coming up, number 178: KY 536 West/Mt. Zion, at which he would need to hang a left at the end of the ramp. It wasn’t until he sat at the red light that he discarded this page, face down, on the passenger seat atop the three other sheets.

The expressway traffic had been notably sparse even with two lanes blocked off for miles, he was willing to bet these back roads in this particular city would be even less populated. Once the light hit green he took the left and followed Mt. Zion road through a few more intersections, passing by Shell and Sunoco stations; a string of restaurants over to his left which was capped off by an almost deserted Kroger.

The lights from the businesses and street lights faded and his car was surrounded in darkness, no more than a few seconds going at forty-five, but enough to confirm he was officially out in the sticks (miraculously, these were cleared of snow and ice). He approached the fourth intersection on his map. The lights of another building came into view as the car went around the bend, a third service station sat unoccupied on the opposite side of the four-way, sitting in nothingness. The traffic lights were frozen at yellow but casually flipped to red just before he was able to cross. James rolled his car to the white line and waited. He checked the road signs in front of him. The road running perpendicular was U.S. 25 (with north to the left and south to the right); the MapQuest route took him straight through for several more miles. His eyes wandered down to the dashboard clock, it was almost half past eleven. Then they shifted over to the fuel gauge.

Oh hell…

The low fuel light was blinking. He’d forgotten all about filling up once he started keeping an eye on the maps. Lucky for him the United Dairy Farmers appeared to open still. After the light change, he crossed 25 and turned left into the parking lot.

Immediately, he noticed this particular station was well past its prime. The florescent tubing for the signs displaying the fuel costs and the ones above the convenience store entrance were flickering or had shorted out completely; the diesel and super grades’ pricing were missing digits and while the regular unleaded retained it’s full price of 3.58, the latter digit had fallen sideways. Even the pumps showed their age—not one of them had a card reader mounted to them.

Really, still?

He tucked his wallet back into his pocket for the moment and hit the regular grade button and began filling up. The clerk inside took his time hitting the switch to allow the pump to function, which soon laboriously chugged out the gas.

He stood there listening to the the wind howl and looked off down southbound 25. There was a small congregation of buildings that appeared to be an old eatery and derelict gas station. To the north, he couldn’t quite see anything other than snow piles and outlines of evergreens, but there was a plot of land filled with…something. Again, the lack of streetlights kept him from taking in much detail. Once he turned back to the machine, the total surpassing fifteen dollars, he heard the rumbling of a beat-up engine cruising from the north, a beam of light shone off the leaves and road, and swept across the parking lot and pumps. James pulled back slightly, keeping himself hidden behind the pump and the service area’s support pillar. It was an unconscious action that kept him planted against the machine until he heard the rusty squeal of the car door and the jingle-bells of the store’s entrance. A combination of curiosity and the feeling of being safe let him lean forward to peer around.

An old hatchback (a Dodge Omni, according to the logo) sat idling two spots to the left of the entrance. A good portion of the dull black exterior had faded into large patches of gray, spots of rust ran along the bumper—which was also dinged up badly—and door handles of this tragic clunker. His eyes turned up to the windows of the building; the car’s driver had his back to him, rooting through the coolers for a soda. All he could see was that he wore a white hoodie. The pint-sized aisles in front of him blocked out the rest of the view.

Not that it mattered, the pump was still going at such a sluggish pace that by the time the man inside bought his drink and drove off, he would just be topping off—what perfect timing indeed.

BLAM. BLAM.

The shots came from the store. James’ head whipped around the gas pumps again and caught the briefest glimpse of the clerk’s body dropping to the floor. The man in the hoodie jumped the counter. To steal money from the till? He wasn’t sure and he didn’t stick around to find out. Craven jerked the nozzle from his car, forgetting to lock the gas cap, and dove for the door. Shaky hands jabbed the keys into the ignition and put the car into a screeching start before the man inside could react. His car tore off and hung a left briefly onto 25 and turned another sharp left at the intersection, flying down Mt. Zion Road in his intended direction.

Or at least he thought it was the right direction. He didn’t have time to consult the map after jumping into his car. Visibility was even worse out this way so he put on the high beams. The road shot out several yards more in front of him. The twin trails of light spread well past the boundaries of the rolling asphalt, reflecting off the weeds and grasses along the curb, yet bounced off nothing more—no trees, mailboxes, or driveways. An ugly glob of dread piled up in the pit of his empty stomach. James knew he couldn’t drive on forever, he’d get lost for sure. And even if he wanted to turn back now, he couldn’t. The road was too narrow and he hadn’t a clue what was on either side of the street. The piece of shit would most likely get stuck—

—Light! Light from some building out in the void grew steadily.

Please let whatever this place is be open.

If he were lucky he’d be able to go inside and find out where he was and ask for directions to his friends’ place. He could feel his heart slow down to the point where it ceased to crack against his ribs. The urge to vomit settled itself. As the light grew brighter his foot pressed down further on the accelerator. In no time at all he’d be in the company of his friends. He could see part of the building itself! His foot was on the floorboard now. Two red, glowing orbs floated in midair off to the right of the building. The pair disappeared and green ones took their place. Home stretch now! There were gas pumps—another service station…fair enough.

The lights flickered.

James’ pulled the car into the parking lot and his elated grin disappeared as quickly as it first crossed his face. What the hell was this? He pulled into a space on the far—right side of the building and put the car in park. After a moment to think everything over, he jerked the keys out of the ignition. James ran out to the edge of the pavement near the pumps. The same abandoned buildings out to the left, U.S. 25 ran in front of him, and the same sideways ‘8’ rested above him. Strangest of all, there was a glow of distant light from the direction he’d just driven from. What in the name of Christ was going on? He looked down the eastern side of Mt. Zion road, where he started off and back to the western side where he’d come from. It didn’t make any sense. Back at the front of the station, the piece-of-shit Omni was no longer there. There wasn’t the slightest sound of another vehicle anywhere nearby.

His unhealthy heart rate and overall uneasiness crept back ten-fold. There was still one thing he hadn’t checked yet: the clerk’s body on the inside. James hoped to hell that the store at least had working security cameras. If the guy was dead he would be in a world of shit being the only one around with a fresh corpse on hand. No way in hell did he want to be pulled down to the station to be interrogated and intimidated.

These paranoid thoughts continued for the length of the hundred mile walk on lead legs to the store’s entrance. A few deep breaths at the door and he walked in.

Jingle-jingle.

“Need a fill—up, sir?” a chipper voice greeted him from behind the counter.

James turned. A young man, probably in his early twenties, much like himself, with ragged black hair and heavy bags under his eyes smiled at him—almost trying to convince him that he had been awake the whole time and not sleeping on his feet.

No…there was no way this could be. Okay, maybe he did get turned around out there somewhere in all his panic, maybe somehow looping around and ending up back here, but he knew what he saw. There was no doubt about that.

But the man was standing right there in front of him.

Could he have imagined all that, daydreaming on the way down or dozing off in the lot? He nodded inwardly, that had to have been it, there was no other explanation—that was logical anyways.

“—help you with anything?” the young man’s voice snapped him out of his train of thought and into the present.

“Sorry, no,” came James’ reply, “I’m fine on gas. Just came in for a few snacks. Oh, umm, you have a restroom I can use?”

“Yeah, sure,” the boy turned to his right and pointed down a corridor between the shop and dining area he hadn’t noticed from the outside, “right down there, it’ll be the second door on the right. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll be fine, thank you. Some water on my face and some sugar in my blood and I’ll be fine.”

“Be careful out there, these roads can be murder at night, all kinds of twists and turns.”

“Thanks.” James nodded and offered a smile in return.

Locking the door behind him, he placed his palms on the rim of the sink and leaned down trying as hard as he could to get a grip on reality. He conceded that he did have a rather long and awful day at work and might as well chalk up the strange happenings to nerves and nothing more. No point in turning around now and going home to sleep, it’d be faster and safer to crash at his friends’ for the night as planned.

Jingle—jingle.

James froze in place; his muscles tensed, stomach lurched, and his heart lodged itself in his throat. He found himself no longer breathing, but listening intently to what was going on out there.

This was crazy. Further out than the rest, of course, but this was a gas station still, one just off a heavy trucker’s route. Someone like him coming in for a spot of fuel and——

BLAM. BLAM.

A dull thud followed seconds later with the sound of clambering and the painfully sharp racket of someone having a go at the cash register. There was a spot of silence; he forgot he was no longer breathing.

Jingle—jingle.

James dared not to move until he heard the old Dodge tear off and reverse out and speed off into the night. His trembling hand reached for the door handle and lethargically pulled at it. His muscles were Jell—O now. He dragged his feet to the lobby, never putting his eyes fully at the scene. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the spray of blood and brain matter against the wall behind the registers, barely to the left of the front door.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the police. No service. He crept to the counter, still averting his eyes from the grisly sight, and picked up a cordless resting near the mangled register. He punched in the three digits again…and there wasn’t even a tone coming from this one. Wonderful.

A laugh managed its way from his throat and through his lips. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy—he apparently hadn’t been dreaming. How could this be happening, why was it happening, he could have asked himself. He could have waited around to try and think of a logical way to sort out his otherworldly situation.

But, no, his response to dealing with such a thing was to just take off. Get the hell out of dodge (ha) and let someone else take care of the mess. James had nothing to do with any of it.

To hell with it. He turned off his cell and tossed it into the backseat before taking off. He pulled out of the lot, this time taking the road back to the interstate, completely ignoring the red light—it wasn’t like he’d hit anyone or get caught by a cop, which would be a blessing at this point, really. The speedometer clocked at sixty just past the intersection, his car whipped out into the darkness—that unusual darkness he knew wasn’t there this long the first time he cruised through. Where the hell were the other gas stations, the grocery store and all the eateries? Again the nothingness that had swallowed his car whole spat him out a few minutes later. An all too-familiar light came in, this time from the right. His foot stomped on the brakes. He could feel his heart throbbing in his temple—he was staring at the rear of the UDF this time.

Curiosity tugged at his collar yet again and led him down to the side of the convenience store. The large windows allowed him to clearly see the attendant asleep at his post. James was also able to see out of the windows in the front: the Dodge Omni found its way over to the parking space in front of them.

The tires spun out on his little Cavalier and threw up smoke, the sounds drowned out by the engine as it raced to the intersection yet again. He took a sharp left that nearly spun him out and careened down southbound U.S. 25—which he came out from, a short time later, on the northbound side. The flickering neon to his left taunted him, along with the clerk, who was just leaning against the counter.

Flustered, James tore through the maps of the Mt. Zion/Independence area. No way in hell did he hit any roads that could have linked him to where he ended up—not without driving a few more miles and veering off on no less than four different streets. There were no offshoots that he had seen. He threw the papers next to his cell phone.

There was much temptation now to beat his head against the steering wheel, but instead he pulled a u-turn and raced to the north and came back from the southbound side, where he expected he’d end up. The station fell off-center to the right with Mt. Zion and the road to Independence on either side.

He pulled the e-brake and let the car screech its way to a fishtailing halt. Stubbornly, he put the gear into park and let the engine idle.

He waited…and waited…and waited. The Omni refused to make an appearance in the hour (at least) he sat there, staring down 25. The dashboard clock read 11:25——the exact same time he pulled into the station the first go around. His eyes wandered next to his fuel gauge. Despite flooring the engine constantly for minutes on end, there wasn’t the slightest dip of the needle.

The excitement and adrenaline that had been coursing through his system was now running on fumes. Out of habit, James put on his emergency blinkers, turned the air on, and leaned down on his steering wheel. So much he had taken in. So absolutely tired was he that just after closing his eyes he nodded off.

With sleep coming rather easily to him, even hunched over in the driver’s seat of a Chevy Cavalier, it wasn’t really a surprise that it didn’t last too long. He stretched, arching his back and putting his arms into the air as far as he could, a thin strand of saliva tapered off from his lower lip and the middle of the steering wheel. James took a moment to wake himself up and get his bearings, he felt much more refreshed and had briefly forgotten about all his worries. That ended when his gaze fell upon his clock; the digits were still frozen on 11:25. His eyes darted up to the sky; the moon hadn’t shifted at all.

So this was how it had to be. He’d never get to leave as long as he let the thief get away. That had to be it. Why else would he be stuck in this endless loop?

Without another thought, he readied himself at the wheel and took the car one last time to the gas station. He hid the car on the right side of the building where the other driver wouldn’t be able to see it.

The other car would be along any minute now that he was on the property. From the time the other guy walked in there would be a thirty to forty-five second window for James to disarm him before the clerk ended up dead. Should he go in there now? Otherwise, the bells would alarm the thief, then who knows what would happen? He only knew what would happen if he didn’t figure into the equation. Cold sweat beaded along his brow. His mouth dried out. He couldn’t chicken out now, he couldn’t bear to see the boy die again—and it was somehow his presence that allowed the young man to get caught up in this mess.

A pinprick of light shot out from the unknown on U.S. 25 again. The ugly rumble of the Dodge echoed through the night air. It was time. James braced himself against the brick wall. The car turned into the predestined spot while the brakes squeaked. His fingers clutched tightly to the side of the building as the moment drew near, any second. The engine idled. The driver’s door creaked open.

Things didn’t go according to plan at that point. His gut told him to stall no longer and to take the man out before he could even get near the boy. He complied. The other man had his hand on the door handle and hadn’t the time to even shift his head ever so slightly to the right when James lunged forward and hit him in the lower ribs with his shoulder. The pair landed painfully on the cement; the other guy winded with no clue what the hell just happened. Again, James made the move first and landed a punch on the man’s jaw, then reached for the gun, presumably in the man’s hoodie pocket. He felt cold steel and tore it out from its cotton holster. He trained the gun to the other man’s head.

James stepped back and put some distance between himself and the downed man. He turned his head slightly to tell the boy at the desk to call the police, but he had already beaten him to it. The cordless phone was already pressed to his ear and he was hidden mostly behind the counter.

“It’s okay,” James managed after a second’s thought, “he was carrying this in—he was gonna rob the place.” He turned back to the robber, on his back still and hands up in the air. The pair never moved until the red and blues flashed in from the Mt. Zion area.

The headlights hit them both, orders came from the officers to raise their hands and put the weapon aside. He did as he was told and the police made their way to the men.

The next several minutes went by like a flash, James and the would-be thief-slash-murderer were separated and tended to by the two first responders, while another appeared shortly thereafter and took a statement from the clerk. They checked on the man James ‘attacked’ and took his story next, after which he was patted down, cuffed, and placed into the back of the cruiser—the other guy put in the second car. Another pair of officers had joined somewhere in the mix of things and all five appeared to corroborate on the matter at hand. A couple of them spoke into their shoulder-mounted walkies and, eventually, one made his way over to James. They confirmed ownership of the gun belonged to the individual he’d attacked, that he did not have a concealed weapons license, but did not suggest in any way (according to outdoor camera footage) that the man did not pose as an immediate threat to anyone. Everything considered, both men would be taken in that night.

James nodded in silence at the news. He settled his back against the squad car’s backseat and checked the clock on the dash; it read 12:17. Time was on the move again.

A few minutes after that, all the cops pulled their vehicles from the UDF. James looked back at the boy standing at the front of the store, visibly shaken, but alive.

***

“That’s all for us now,” Yuki says with the hint of a slur to her words. “We’ll see you all in March with our next trip through the Void.”

“Take care during the final hours of your holiday,” her assistant adds. “Enjoy the time with your friends and family! Happy New Year!”

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