PUMP⛽THREE: ALMOST TAKEN
SHORT STORY: SUSPENSE | SURVIVAL | STRANGER | PSYCHOLOGICAL TENSION | ALMOST TAKEN
PUMP THREE: ALMOST TAKEN
A SHORT STORY | jarmagic
SUSPENSE | SURVIVAL | STRANGER
PSYCHOLOGICAL TENSION | ALMOST TAKEN
Click to listen to AUDIO narration instead: https://jarmagic.substack.com/p/pumpthree-almost-taken-audio-short?r=4n28xh
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Danger—you’ve heard the word before, haven’t you? Surely you have; everyone has, right? Why do you think that is—that so many are familiar with it? A pretty easy answer, if you ask me.
It's because most of us prefer to avoid it. It's instinct. Nobody likes it. To be clear, I'm not talking about the adrenaline junkies who confuse thrill-seeking for danger—no, I'm talking about real danger.
The kind where the ground beneath you suddenly disappears. You don’t even realize it until you're already falling with no warning. All your certainties vanish in an instant, leaving you grabbing for something that isn't there.
It’s a suffocating, restricting sensation. It’s a cold grip that has taken hold of your insides, tangling them up until you can't breathe. It's something that goes beyond simply being afraid; you're caught, trapped by something you can’t see, something you can’t escape from.
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Awareness is probably the most effective defense. But there's one problem. Danger has an excellent way of creeping in unnoticed, rendering your defenses useless. It doesn't follow rules or ethics. It doesn't play fair.
In fact, danger rarely reveals itself at all—often hiding in plain sight—especially in the places where we feel safest. And yet, it's that sense of security that can land us in the most unfortunate situations.
Instead, danger exploits our weaknesses, taking advantage of our vulnerabilities, striking when our guard is down. It shows no mercy, no remorse, never hesitating to drag you into its arena. Most of us fight back, but very few ever succeed. Because by then, it's far too late.
Your attentiveness, your defenses, your safety net—all disarmed. You mindlessly discard your vigilance, neglecting your qui vive, ultimately amplifying the threat, cementing yourself in a true state of vulnerability. Never knowing that these moments are the ones most likely to prove dangerous. Until, in an instant, everything changes.
And it’s these exact same unnoticed moments taking place, right under everyone’s noses. Horrific moments never to see the light of the press—never a target under the starved scope of a reporter’s all-seeing lens. No news articles will circulate to provide an explanation for the missing persons case.
The disturbing events that flew under the radar won’t be discussed by anyone. The details never drifting off the lips of the gossip-rings in town. Why? Because nobody pays any mind to their surroundings.
Unless, of course, a dramatic, action-packed Cinemark is at play—an amusement of sorts. The type of clamor too loud to go unnoticed, possessing too many crowd-calling qualities not to turn heads, something so extreme and so tragic it could easily headline billboards.
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I remember feeling lucky, seeing that no one else was there. I was at a gas station that night. I had just finished another overtime shift at the café. Dead tired, as usual. All I wanted was to get home, kick off my shoes, and sink into bed. To forget about the world for just a second.
I pulled up to pump three, a detail I'd normally overlook, but it was the only one that wasn’t taped off with an “Out of Order” sign. I threw my car in park, popped the gas cap, and started filling my tank.
The weather was calm, an uncomfortable stillness, a misty spray of acid rain sprinkling the night—just enough to add a layer of flashy polish to this shitty joke of a city. Stagnant, sticky, and sad. No hint of a breeze, no fresh air to ventilate the saturated stench of gasoline.
I folded my arms, leaning against my driver’s-side door, glaring at the fuel pump gauge. Sneering at the unhurried crawl of digital analog numbers on screen. I could swear the numbers were deliberately dragging along, like the slimy slink of a slug.
With one foot tapping heavily against the cracked, oil-stained pavement, I drew in a deep breath, rolling my head back. The rickety lights overhead rattled obnoxiously loud—the sounds piercing their way into my thoughts, pricking tiny holes in them, as if a sharpened dart sank into a bull’s-eye.
The hiss of a passing car on the highway drew my attention away, just long enough to force me to acknowledge my surroundings. I jolted when the gas handle's latch suddenly released with a bright, metallic click.
That’s when I noticed him—a middle-aged man diagonally across the lot, about twenty to thirty feet away. He had on an oversized, black hoodie with a pair of loose-fitting, dark wash jeans that pooled around his boots, ragged and damp. His posture was bent, unnaturally arched over the hood of his car—a worn-out, dingy silver sedan, beat up and rust-streaked.
My senses shift into high alert. I quickly fasten the gas cap, securing the cover.
“People break down all the time.” I thought to myself. But a strange feeling came over me, something like an all-knowing certainty, a sensation of danger.
I casually shot a glance at him again. This time I noticed something not quite right about the way he moved, or rather, the way he didn’t move—it demanded my attention. Despite my nonexistent educational background on cars, I could still tell he wasn’t doing anything specific. He was just fiddling with the hood latch. Clearly unaware that he looked like he was pretending to fix his car.
I told myself to stop being paranoid, to just focus on my own business. But my eyes moved on their own, refocusing on him, witnessing more bizarre movements that scream “deliberate.” It was almost as if he wanted me to notice him, but not blatantly.
Then he looked up, directly at me. I froze mid-stride, the nozzle still in my hand. I could see the details of his face now, partially obscured by his hood. Not a very good view, but I saw enough to know he was staring.
Goosebumps prickled up my skin. I fought to regain control of my body, then hung up the fuel nozzle. I turned, trying to convince myself that he probably just needed help. It made sense—people get weird when they’re stranded.
I slide into my car, locking the doors as soon as it was shut. Only then did I realize how much I was shaking, but I couldn’t explain why exactly.
I turned over the ignition and started pulling away when I felt the uneven pull of a flat tire. My stomach dropped as I hit the brakes. I put the car in park and stepped out to investigate. I nearly fainted when I saw the rear passenger tire was completely flat. “What are the odds?” I said to myself.
And then, wouldn’t you know it? I heard his voice invade the silence of the night.
“Hey,” he called out, waving, already halfway to me. The way he said it sounded almost scripted. Even to this day, I can still hear the sound of it in the back of my mind.
I tried to ignore him, act like I didn’t hear him, but when I turned, I could see him now standing only a few feet away, hands in his hoodie pocket, smiling under his half-visible face. “Looks like you’ve got a problem there.” He observes, hands moving to his hips now, slowly shaking his head.
“I’m fine,” I shot back, forcing my voice to sound friendly. “I’ve got a spare.”
He didn’t move.
“You sure? I’ve got tools in my car. Be happy to help.”
Am I sure? What an odd question, I thought. With the way he said it, too, like he was eager, almost like he wasn’t offering but inferring, was enough to engage my fight-or-flight instincts.
I shook my head, walking backwards toward my car door. “No, really. I’m good.” I said through a laugh that was obviously forced.
His smile shattered, revealing his crooked, yellow-stained teeth. His eyes narrowed. “It’s not safe to change a tire alone at night. Let me help.”
That’s when his hand moved to my car door handle. It was like my body reacted before my brain did. I yanked the door open, slammed it shut, and locked it in a single motion. His hand jiggled the handle. Then harder when he realized it was locked. My pulse quickened, hitting loud enough to muffle out all of the other sounds around me.
“Hey!” he shouted, now slamming his fist against the window. “You don’t need to be scared. I’m just trying to help!” He crouched down, peering into my window, his grin returning. He started to say more, but I didn’t want to hear it.
My foot hit the gas, and I sped off, the car jerking violently as the flat tire screeched against the pavement. I didn’t care. All I knew was I had to get away.
I didn’t stop until I reached a well-lit parking lot a few miles away. I hopped out to inspect the damage. As I got closer, I saw a knife lodged into the rubber of my tire, the edge of the blade positioned as if someone had stabbed it from a standing position.
He had done it. He had to have—while I was distracted at the pump, he had slashed my tire. If I hadn’t sped off when I did, I don’t even want to think about what might have happened.
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That night changed me. I used to think the world was mostly good, that people had the best intentions. But now, every unknown feels heavier, and every kind stranger carries a question mark.
I don’t stop for gas at night anymore. I don’t let my guard down either. Because sometimes, the mundane moments—the gas station runs, the flat tires—are the ones that remind you just how close danger can be.
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Decent story. Makes you think..