A/N: Reviews are, as ever, most welcome.

Disclaimer: still don't own.

There were many criticisms that could be made of the aging Pontiac Marissa Benson and Spencer Shay had "borrowed" for their road trip. It handled with all the precision of a double-decker bus, it had no shock absorbers to speak of, its headlights were sporadic at best; it was, to put it bluntly, a gas-guzzling, pollutant-spewing monstrosity. But all those shortcomings were outweighed by one great advantage: the damn thing was durable.

It had sustained all manner of damage since they left Seattle. Bad roads were less of a problem in the open country than in the city, but the acid rains that now fell periodically had dogged them for days; wolves and coyotes, driven berserk by hunger and thirst, laid siege to the car at night, and even more deadly human predators popped up now and then. The doors were pockmarked with bullet holes, and a piece of wood was still lodged in the front bumper from when Marissa had been forced to run an impromptu roadblock set up by a group of water-thieves near the Montana-Idaho border. Yet, somehow, the car still ran. It was a miracle for which both adults were more thankful than words could express.

Gibby had been taking his antibiotic regularly, and showed no signs of infection, to Marissa's immense relief. Still, it pained him just to move, and she had strictly forbidden him from any physical exertion for the foreseeable future.

As they made their way through western Wyoming, both their gas tank and their water jugs were running low. Most of the small towns through which they passed now were utterly deserted, save for the occasional feral dog; dead cattle littered the brown grass of the countryside, filling the air with their toxic stench. The August sun beat down on them mercilessly.

Spencer, still riding shotgun, looked back to see that Gibby was dozing. He turned to Marissa, deliberately keeping his voice low so as not to wake the injured boy.

"How much longer can we keep going?"

"I can't say," she replied, similarly muted. "This thing's practically running on fumes as it is. Maybe three, four miles?"

Spencer groaned. "God, I wish we could find an open gas station…hey, what's that?"

A few hundred yards down the road, a man stood in the road, waving a handmade red flag wildly back and forth. When they drew within earshot, they heard his increasingly hoarse shouts: "Gas! Gas and refreshments! Over here!"

He pointed to the side of the road. There stood a Shell gas station-cum-convenience store, with a second story containing what looked to be apartments. Newspapers were blowing about, trash and broken glass littered the parking lot – but, to the two adults' amazement, the pumps were lighted up, and apparently working. A short, heavyset middle-aged woman in an apron stood next to the nearest pump, looking eager to please.

"Could be a trap of some kind," Marissa muttered, when her initial shock had subsided.

"Yeah, but can we really afford to turn down an opportunity at this point?"

She sighed. "I suppose you're right."

As she eased the car to a stop near the pumps, the man approached them, a friendly grin plastered on his face. "Sorry for the dramatic welcome, but it's so rare that we see other people nowadays, I didn't want to take any chance that you would keep going and pass us by."

"We appreciate it, believe me," Spencer answered. "This is Marissa Benson, Gibby Gibson –" he indicated the now wide-awake boy in the back seat – "and my name's Spencer Shay."

"Nice to meet you." The man shook Spencer's hand vigorously. "I'm Max Dirshlitt, and this here is my wife Vesta. We run the place, and live up on the second story."

"Dirshlitt?" Spencer said uneasily. "You wouldn't happen to be any relation to a Nora Dirshlitt from Seattle, would you?"

The man's face instantly darkened. "Do not speak that harlot's name in our presence! We will have nothing to do with her!"

Seeing Spencer draw back in confusion and fear, he softened his tone. "Sorry about that, Mr. Shay. It's something of a sore point with us. The girl you're talking about is – or, I should say, was – our daughter. After she shamed us by that horrible incident with the iCarly crew, we disavowed her and moved out here to start over fresh."

"That…seems awfully harsh."

Max Dirshlitt smiled – or rather smirked, in a distinctly off-putting way. "It's always difficult for outsiders to understand the ways of us Dirshlitts. Trust me, what we did was for the best – for us and for her. But enough about us – you folks need tending to. How about some iced tea?"

Those five lovely words were enough to suppress all of Spencer and Marissa's qualms about the situation for the time being. They eagerly began to follow the Dirshlitts through the sliding glass doors of the store.

Spencer realized that Gibby was hanging back. "What's the matter, Gib? Don't feel up to walking around just now?"

"It's not that. I just…something's not right here."

Spencer lowered his voice. "Look, I know that the Dirshlitts are a little…odd. But the fact is, beggars can't be choosers."

"I know, but still…" The pudgy boy's face contorted in a fit of indecision.

"I tell you what, Gib. You stay here, and I'll bring you down a cup in a second, okay?"

"Yeah." Gibby relaxed, but only slightly. "Yeah, that sounds good. I'll just wait outside in the car." Spencer turned to go.

"Hey, wait!"

The force of Gibby's cry startled him. "What's wrong?"

"Leave me the keys, will you? I'd like to listen to some tunes – if I can find any."

Perplexed by the urgency in the boy's voice, Spencer tossed him the keys. As he entered the store and mounted the back stairs, he heard the engine start – but no noise from the radio, curiously enough.

The Dirshlitts' living quarters were grimy and dim, lit only by candles in the corners despite the presence of working electricity. A bed stood against the far wall, a rough-hewn table with low chairs in the center, a potbellied stove, ancient fridge and sink behind them. The only decoration in the room was a curious brick mantel with a statue atop it of some dreadful, four-eyed deity, his muscular body wreathed in flames. Inanimate object though it was, its horrific grimace and broad fangs repulsed Spencer. He was happy to see that the only unoccupied chair faced away from it.

Marissa was sipping her tea decorously, though the wolf-like appetite in her eyes told Spencer that it was all she could do to keep from downing the entire pitcher in one gulp. He knew the feeling. Max and Vesta watched their guests, that same insufferable smirk on both their faces. Had Spencer not been so grateful for that hospitality, he would have had the urge to smack them for their smugness. What the hell do they have to be so pleased about, anyway?

But first things first. He drank. The tea was strong and rich – flavored with lemon, a dash of mint, and something else, an acrid tang that he couldn't place. It made him cough a little, but no matter; it might as well have been the nectar of the gods, he was so thirsty.

At last he set down his empty glass. Never had he known such contentment. He was refreshed, relaxed – almost ready to lie down and go to sleep right then and there. In fact, that was a very tempting idea. There wasn't really such a rush to get back on the road, was there? They could spare the time for a nap. So nice – to rest his head – to slip into oblivion…

Why was his vision growing blurry?

Marissa spoke, her words slurred and difficult to understand. Her head swayed from side to side. "Whasinthis? Somethin'…somethin' kinda funny tastin'…"

"Cyclobenzaprine and clonazepam," Vesta Dirshlitt replied, her smile seemingly glued onto her face. "My personal recipe."

"But…but thassa mussel…muscle relaxant, anna…a…"

"Sedative? Right you are, dearie! Are you in the medical profession?"

"Imma…Imma nurse…" Marissa keeled forward, her forehead striking the table, then slumped backward and fell from her chair, landing in a heap on the floor. Spencer tried to rise and help her, but his legs buckled beneath him. The whole world spun.

"Help…" he managed to vocalize. "Help us, please…"

"Oh, we'll help you," said Max, nodding vigorously. "We'll set you free."

"I don't…dontunnerstan…"

"Your souls are trapped on this earthly plane. Once we liberate them, our Master will show us mercy. He'll undo the blight upon the land."

"Wha…?"

"Don't you see?" Max reached behind the statue on the altar – for that, Spencer realized with the last of his fading powers of concentration, was what the "mantel" really was – and picked up a black stone knife. "All this destruction and suffering – the demons in the water – it's because we offended our Master. We broke our oaths to Him, we didn't raise Nora in His ways. But now we can make it right. Our Master will accept your souls into His bosom, and in return for that gift He'll lift the curse."

My God, Spencer thought. He's utterly mad. They're both mad. He summoned every ounce of strength and tried to get to his feet, but it was useless. He began to crawl to the door instead. Marissa showed no signs of life at all.

"Why do you seek to flee?" asked Vesta, genuine puzzlement in her voice – and disappointment as well. "Why would you reject our gift?" She planted her booted foot between Spencer's shoulder blades, pinning him down.

Max approached with the knife. "We'll set you free first, then your lady friend, and then go down and attend to the boy. You can all go to the Master together!"

"No…no…" Spencer gasped.

Ignoring him, Max began to mutter to himself in a strange tongue. With both hands wrapped around the knife's hilt, he raised it high to strike.

A crowbar slammed into his rib cage. He howled in pain and crumpled.

Spencer's muddled vision could just make out a shirtless, stocky figure standing in the doorway.

"Gib…Gibby?"

Vesta Dirshlitt shrieked like a harpy and leapt at the interloper, but Gibby was too fast for her; he swept his impromptu weapon around in an arc and struck her in the back of the knee. In an instant she was lying beside her husband, cursing Gibby roundly but unable to stand and make good on her threats.

The boy hefted Spencer and Marissa up. Spencer was reminded that he concealed considerable muscle behind his pudgy exterior. "C'mon, guys. We have to get out of here. Now."

Marissa had regained consciousness, barely. "Huh? Whasgoin' on?"

"No time to explain." Gibby slung her over his shoulders fireman-style and hustled her down the stairs to the car, its engine still running, then returned and did likewise for Spencer. Once they were safely in the back seat, he shifted gears, pressed the accelerator to the floor, and sped away.

"I knew something bad was going to happen," he explained, his eyes glued to the road. "Never trust a Dirshlitt, that's my motto. Well, one of my mottoes, anyway. That's why I wanted to keep the engine running, just in case."

"You're awesome, Gib," Spencer murmured through benumbed lips.

"Hey, no problem, Spence. Just watching out for you like you've been watching out for me-AAGH!" Gibby clutched his right side. The car swerved and nearly left the road before he was able to right it.

Both adults were momentarily shocked into full alertness. "What's wrong?" They exclaimed simultaneously.

"N…nothing," said Gibby. "Might have torn a suture or two, that's all."

He took his hand from his side and again clenched the steering wheel firmly. Before Spencer drifted back into a drug-induced haze, a last thought pierced his brain:

What's that on Gibby's fingers?

Is that blood?