MARCUS

He was the first.

He was also the last, most likely. But he knew that going in.

Marcus descended from the cab of his truck in almost complete darkness. The moon was partially obscured by clouds, making the night feel even darker. His boots were the only sound disturbing the still night as he made his way across the small parking lot, which sat empty except for his truck.

The scene itself felt decades older than it was. Even in the soft moonlight, he could see the small parking lot was in desperate need of resealing. The single building before him, once bright and glorious in its prime, now sat aged and gave off a haunted feel.

Marcus let his eyes wander across the aching bones of the diner. Despite its unwelcome exterior, a warm glow spilled from the interior. The only light on the outside was the neon sign high above, broadcasting the name of the old diner.

Glory Days.

As Marcus approached, the second neon word flickered and then went out completely, leaving only the former.

Glory.

He stopped. Just for a second. Stared at the word.

The second half of the sign flickered back to life.

Marcus approached the door of the diner and walked in. The warmth of the interior of the diner stood in stark contrast to the cold bleakness of the night outside. The diner had a classic feel. Booths lined the exterior walls with windows right above them. The classic color scheme of red and black and stainless steel had been somewhat overused, but was comforting in its familiarity. A bar was set up around the kitchen area with vinyl red-topped metal stools surrounding it. A bell above the door dinged as Marcus entered.

A cook came out from the back of the kitchen. Dressed to fit the scene, he wore black slacks, and a white shirt, and a white apron over it. His nametag read Charlie.

Charlie smiled with recognition. “Marcus!”

Marcus returned the smile. “Hey, Charlie.” He walked to the bar and took a stool. He raised his hand, made a fist like he was grabbing something in the air, and waited for Charlie’s response.

“Really?” Charlie asked.

“Really.” Marcus kept his fist in the air. Charlie returned the fist bump and Marcus dropped his hand. He looked around the diner. “It’s slow tonight.”

“You say that like you don’t know what’s coming.”

“Did you clean the place just for this?”

“This place is always clean, Marcus.” Charlie threw a rag over his shoulder and walked to the coffee machine. He pulled out the decanter to see how much was left inside. “Got a little bit still warm from this batch and I’m about to start a fresh pot. Will that work?”

“That sounds great.” While Charlie got his coffee, Marcus glanced around the empty diner. The bell above the front door. The last seat at the end of the bar. The center booth at the wall of windows. He closed his eyes for a long second.

“You okay?”

Marcus opened his eyes to see Charlie setting the cup of black coffee in front of him. Charlie turned back to the coffee pot, picked up a bowl of sugar packets and a pitcher of creamer, and raised them toward Marcus in question. Marcus waved him off. “Just black, thanks. And I’m okay. It’s just going to be a tough night.”

“You sure you want to involve them?”

“They can’t really choose if we don’t offer them a choice, now can they?”

“They won’t understand.”

“Not yet. But they will eventually.”

Charlie started wiping off the bar. “Well, we’ll be here for them. We always are.”

Marcus nodded and blew across the top of the coffee. He slowly sipped the liquid.

“There are those who would… oppose this type of situation,” Charlie offered.

“And I’m sure that opposition will announce itself soon.”

Charlie finished wiping the section of bar in front of him and threw the rag back over his shoulder. “How long before the others arrive?”

Marcus turned on the stool to look at the clock across the room, hung right above an old-fashioned jukebox. He turned back to Charlie. “The second is already on his way.”

***

DANIEL

I was so wrapped up in rehashing the details of the Hudson case that I completely missed my exit. I came back to reality in just enough time to see the green sign for Highway 91 pass by on my right. I instinctively tried to turn, subconsciously thinking I could still make it. The rumble strip shook my car as I ran over it and the headlights illuminated the guardrail I was headed straight toward. I immediately overcorrected, swung back onto the road, and into the line of oncoming traffic. Thankfully, there was no one else out in the late hour. I finally settled back into my lane.

I sighed in frustration with myself and wondered how long I would have to remain on 23 before being able to exit and turn around. I didn’t come this way much, and out in this barren part of the state, interstate exits were hard to come by. I settled back into the seat, surrendering to the fact that I would be on the stretch of road for a while. It was nothing more than a two-lane road cutting through an empty desert with nothing but dirt and dunes for miles. It was boring. Which was why the Hudson case had returned to haunt me.

“Did you check the house?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

But I hadn’t. Not all of it. I’d missed one incredibly important detail that turned the entire case on its head. And when I had time and space to think, the ghosts of recall took the stage in my mind, glad to act out the replay of my mistakes.

I shook my head, hoping to clear away the cobwebs of regret. I reached down and adjusted the radio setting, searching for an occupied frequency. Clear radio stations were also hard to come by out here. Most people preferred their phones and playlists, but I still clung to the radio. I was able to catch a few brief seconds of something, likely a country song, before the station faded into loud static. I hit the seek button again. The next station was the same kind of bizarre static. I’d never heard interference like it before. It was loud and sharp. I winced and turned down the volume. The third station held more of the same. So did the fourth.

Weird.

I was still messing with the radio when I saw lights up ahead. At first I thought it was a car pulled over with its headlights still on, but as I closed the distance I realized it was an old-fashioned diner. I wasn’t even aware there was something like that out here.

My stomach rumbled at the sight and I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten. I wasn’t the world’s poorest eater, but every once in a while only grease could hit the spot.

I instinctively turned on my turn signal, even though there was no one else on the road. I pulled into the parking lot of the diner and was greeted by the neon words Glory Days emblazoned across the top. A navy blue pickup was the only vehicle in the front lot.

I turned off my car and out of habit made sure I had both my badge and my gun. I was off duty, but those two went with me everywhere. I walked inside the diner. Soft light greeted me and the scent of grease hung faintly in the air. A man occupied a stool at the bar. Years of law enforcement kicked in, and I assessed him without trying. Mid-thirties, medium build, dark hair. I put him at about six foot even, a couple inches shorter than me. He turned and nodded. I returned it.

The cook came out from kitchen in a stained apron. He was also shorter than me, a little heavier, and far more cheerful. He offered a friendly smile and told me to sit wherever I wanted. Made a joke about me possibly having to wait because the place was so full. I thanked him and took a seat at one of the booths. It was far enough away from the men that I didn’t think they would disturb me, but I could still keep an eye on the door.

The cook, who introduced himself as Charlie, handed me a menu and took my drink order. I started scanning the menu but didn’t make it very far before I was interrupted.

“Hi.”

It was the guy from the bar. White t-shirt and jeans. I looked at him and suspiciously returned the greeting.

He held out his hand in front of him in a fist. It floated in the air.

“What is that?”

“Fist bump.”

I paused. “Isn’t that what children do?”

“We all need to be children sometimes. I’m Marcus.” The hand was still there.

I hesitantly returned the fist bump and felt my irritation rise. “Can I help you?”

“May I sit? I need to talk with you.”

“Look, man. I don’t know who you are or what this is, but I’d really just like to eat my food in pea–”

“It won’t take long. It’s important.”

I stared at him, silently trying to measure a person who would interact with a complete stranger like this. I shifted to make sure the gun on my hip was visible. “Fine.”

Marcus sat. “I know you may not remember all this, especially with what’s coming, but I at least want to say it. You’re really important to all this, Daniel. You’ll feel like you’re not. Like you can’t do anything to stop it. But you can. This isn’t like the Hudson case. This is different.”

The air froze around me. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. “How do you know my name? And how on earth do you know about the Hudson case?! Who are you?” I moved my hand down to the seat of the booth. Closer to my gun.

Marcus watched the movement. Then he turned to look out the window. He stared out for a long time, almost as if he could see something I couldn’t. As if he were waiting. His eyes returned to my gun. “When the time comes, follow your instincts. You know what to do. Don’t talk yourself out of that.”

The entire exchange was bizarre and I was starting to think the man had some sort of mental illness clouding his reality. I glanced toward the kitchen to see if the cook was watching, but he was nowhere to be seen. Marcus’s first sentence finally registered with me. “What do you mean, ‘with what’s coming’?”

He looked out the window again. Nodded this time. Rose from the booth. I followed his gaze to see another vehicle pulling into the diner lot. The bright headlights obscured the details of the vehicle from view. I turned back to Marcus.

He looked me in the eyes with the same intensity he had before. “It’s going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better.”

© 2020 Andy Brodrick