Apocalypse Pending

The neon lights of the diner buzzed as dim and migraine inducing as ever, flickering with the occasional electric click, like a fly incessantly propelling itself into a window pane. Above the kitchen door, the hour hand of the clock inched over another notch, time trudging on at a mocking pace, dragging its feet all the way. It were as though it felt the loathing eyes that glared at it and adjusted the running of the universe simply out of spite.

“Hazel, table four is waiting to pay.”

Bored trance broken by the sound of her boss’s voice, Hazel blinked back to reality. Standing upright from the counter she lent upon, she smoothed down her blouse and readied her notepad in hand.

“Finally,” she muttered under her breath as she headed towards the only customer seated at the far end of the dining area.

Plastering on her best customer service smile, honed to perfection, she approached what must have been the only other person, besides herself and Samuel, within a two-mile radius. The trucks had stopped passing a few hours ago as the roads were not advisable to be driving at night, and anyone with half a mind would take a detour to stop in town rather than passing through the no man’s land she currently found herself in.

Nonetheless, Hazel rung him up at the register, maintaining her grimace even when he pretended not to see her empty tips jar, letting it drop once the doors closed. A car engine sputtered to life outside, choking and rumbling, growing distant then becoming lost to the breeze. Left in the hush of the place, she stared blankly through those doors, longing to be on the other side of them as the second hand counted down to the end of her shift.

Inhaling deeply in preparation of a tiresome sigh, it instead turned into a yawn that caught her off guard. She raised a hand to cover her mouth and wiped away the tears that had collected in the corners of her eyes with the heel of her palm then settled her chin atop her knuckles as she hunched over the counter.

“Hey Sammy, any chance of me getting out of here early tonight?” she called hopefully over her shoulder.

Behind her, the balding head of the establishment’s owner popped into view through the kitchen window.

“Your shift doesn’t end until half midnight,” he replied as though she had forgotten.

“Please?” she edged her bets, a dainty eyebrow raised, pink lips set into an endearing pout, “There’s no one here, there never is this late on the weekend.”

“You’re here until lights out,” the older man shot back, long beyond the age of being swayed by pretty girls.

Hazel knew this, of course, his answer never changed. In need of a break though, she stepped back from the counter, rolling her shoulders.

“Well, I’m going out for a smoke then,” she announced, pushing through the door that led to the kitchen before her boss could argue, not that he ever did.

“Ten minutes,” she heard barked after her in the man’s signature rasping growl as she stepped out of the back exit.

The door swung closed with a rusty groan as though picking up a casual conversation between colleagues about their mutual hatred for their work. Hazel’s only reply was a draining breath, however, as she attempted to flush the weariness from her body through her lungs.

Slumping down onto the cement step just outside, she ran a hand through the bush of blond curls that grew from her scalp and pulled free the band that held it back. A welcomed relief of tension. Forehead resting on her palm, she allowed her eyes to slip closed a moment as she sat alone between the overflowing dumpsters and the endless expanse of dusty, desert night that sprawled out of sight into the darkness.

Chilled air grazed her skin like the cool fingers of a tentative lover and she shivered, drawing in a juddering breath as she looked up. The only light came from the windows of the diner and beyond that was the void, soundless and staring.

Glancing up, the cosmos twinkled. Soft, pale rays illuminated the clouds from above but were too faint to combat the creeping shadow.

Choosing to look at neither, Hazel reclined uncomfortably against the wall and pulled at a loose string on her apron. She didn’t smoke but used the excuse a few times a day anyway. Anything to kill a few minutes.

She knew she shouldn’t complain about it, but it was hardly her desired career. She could have cried at the thought of another year spending her nights pretending to laugh at the dead eyed trucker’s crass jokes, apologising to every middle-aged housewife that thought they could do her job better than her, standing in silence while Sam mumbled to himself about some war or another. Apparently, he had been a navy seal, or so the other waitresses had whispered when they had a moment spare to gossip.

But another year it would be, at least, until she had that piece of paper, the value of which she was beginning to question. A better future didn’t come cheap, after all, and the graveyard shift at a shitty little dive was better than a life of soul crushingly menial labour and so, with one last sigh, she rose from her stoop and went back inside.

“Meant to be a storm coming,” Samuel’s harsh tone disturbed the air. He had a dialect that no one seemed quite able to decipher but that no one was brave enough to ask about it.

“I heard,” Hazel hummed in return, gliding back to her post.

As anticipated, the conversation ended there. The job wouldn’t have been half as bad had she had some company, but the place was so desolate that late at night that there was no need for more than two people, leaving her with him and her thoughts.

Pulling a magazine from under the counter, she flicked to the puzzle page. A flare of annoyance sparked when she saw everything but half the crossword puzzle filled in. Melony had been on duty before her and she had promised not to touch it. Must have been a slow day all around.

She took her time filling in what was left, all but number sixteen across; who the hell knew the name of Hitler's dog, anyway? She surely didn't. Perhaps Sammy did but she wasn’t about to ask, he was off grumbling about some government conspiracy and she didn’t want to interrupt. Instead, she flipped through the trashy columns, skimming over the words but not really reading them, gaze flitting to the clock, whose hands seemed to be glued in place, every now and again, heart sinking a little with disappointment each time.

Losing track of both time and the world around her before too long, she was startled by the chiming of the bell above the door as a person stepped through, hesitating on the welcome mat. Expecting a late-night driver, she was further taken aback to see a girl, short, slight and apprehensive.

It took her a moment to respond to the girl’s questioning look, lack of sleep and social interaction causing her communication skills to falter, but words made it out of her mouth as she switched back into service mode.

“Hi, welcome, take a seat wherever you’d like, I’ll be over with a menu in just a second,” she ran off her go to spiel.

The girl nodded, saying nothing, and strode over to one of the booths along the wall, heavy boots thudding dully against the tiled floor.

Quickly scraping back her abundant locks into a messy bun, Hazel grabbed one of the laminated sheets and went to see to the unusual patron. She sat with her back to the counter, facing through the floor length windows at the front of the diner, but turned her head to look at Hazel as she approached.

“Hey there, hope you’re having a good night, my name is Hazel, and I’ll be your server, should I give you a few minutes to decide what you’re having?” she rattled off as she set down the menu, trying her best to make her smile seem at least partially genuine.

Glancing at the plastic sheet then back to Hazel, the girl was quiet a moment too long for comfort, her eyes, the colour of weathered verdite and shadowed by purple rings, looking almost through her.

“Do you know what the time is?” she eventually responded in a voice that didn’t match her face, husky, a contrast to her feminine features.

A light frown quirked the bemused waitress’ brow but she flattened it down so as not to seem rude.

Checking the clock, she answered, “It’s, um, quarter to midnight.”

Again, taking a beat before she spoke, the girl’s expression remained blank.

“You’re open late,” she remarked.

“Most places around here are,” Hazel found her words came out in an odd, breathy laugh for some reason, feeling inexplicably awkward, “I don’t know why.”

Silence again, as those dishearteningly exhausted eyes shifted from her to the menu. Awaiting orders, Hazel caught herself picking nervously at her freshly manicured nails.

“You serve alcohol?” the girl questioned bluntly, the intonation of her voice barely changing.

“S-sure we do,” Hazel stuttered a little, “I’ll have to see some identification, though.”

A foreign drivers licence was held up for her to see before she could finish her sentence. Squinting down to read the date of birth it showed an appropriate age, claiming the stranger to be twenty-four, which she only half believed. The card was tucked back into a pocket on the girl’s oversized jacket before she was able to read a name, however, something that struck Hazel as a purposeful action, the whole situation becoming more peculiar by the second.

“I’ll have a double whiskey, please. Whatever’s cheapest,” the girl ordered, brusquely but not unkindly.

Hazel simply bobbed her head and, against her better judgement, said nothing more, offering an uneasy smile as she headed to the bar behind the counter.

Measuring out two shots into a glass with ice, she resisted the urge to check over her shoulder, afraid she may be being watched, and brought the glass to the table promptly.

“Is that everything for now?” she cautiously asked.

“Yes, thank you,” the girl murmured without looking at her, watching the liquid amber instead, sounding oddly resigned.

“Alright then,” Hazel’s smile wavered as she backed slowly away from the table, “Just shout if you need anything else.”

With no reply, she left the girl to herself and went back to her place at the counter. She was glad the strange customer sat with her back to where she stood, her gaze had been sad to look at.

However Hazel tried to focus her attention back onto her magazine, though, the printed words didn’t hold as much interest as the oddity that sat several feet away and she couldn’t help but watch, too curious not to.

Despite wearing clothes that were clearly several sizes too big for her, maybe in an attempt to appear larger like some kind of frightened animal, the girl was obviously small, wiry even. Her brunette hair was shoulder length, or was in places with some pieces of it growing longer or shorter than others in no particular style, and her skin was sickly pallid.

She sipped her liquor at a steady pace but didn’t seem to be enjoying it too much. A sliver of her haggard face was reflected in the glass she stared intently through and in it she seemed almost dead. Hollow cheeks, eyelids half descended, bruised lips drawn into a straight line. She was a pitiable sight and unnerving in a way.

Although rather dreading her obligatory return to the table, the girl knocked back the last of her drink with a clink of ice cubes after only ten minutes and Hazel stepped from behind her safe haven with her pad.

“So, is there anything else I can get you?” she reluctantly approached, hoping the answer was no.

A gentle breath blew from the girl’s slim nose as she continued to look through her own reflected image and out into the consumptive black of the world beyond.

“What’s the time again, please?” she answered the question with one of her own, eye-line fixed.

Glancing from the girl, to the window, to the clock on the wall, Hazel spoke uncertainly.

“It’s twelve o’clock,” she stated, a little of that anxiety lacing her words.

Her gaze finally dropping, the girl looked into the empty glass and bit at the flesh of her inner cheek before giving a subdued nod.

“How much do I owe you?” Hazel was relieved to hear her say.

“$4.99, please,” she gave a curt response, the tilt of her lips strained.

Rummaging through her pockets, the girl produced a twenty-dollar bill and left it on the table.

“Keep the change.”

Such generosity was unexpected but before Hazel could give her sincere thanks the girl spoke again.

“Do you have a bathroom in here?”

“Uh, yeah, upstairs, the door on the right,” she directed, taking the money, “and thank you, very much.”

“You’re welcome,” the girl muttered as she slid from the booth and began to walk to the staircase.

“Have a good night,” Hazel called after her, a reflex of the service worker but also, given the fatigue ingrained into every facet of the poor girl’s face, something she very much meant.

Over by the door, the girl paused, looking back and catching Hazel’s eye in such a way that caused her pulse to speed up a little. A darkness resided in those cavernous eyes, as though the night she had been staring at had been absorbed into them yet the chapped mouth below them managed to curl ever so slightly upward in a heart-breaking fashion.

“You too, Hazel,” she wished her, the tenuous smile twitching, gaze lingering as she pushed through the door.

Staring at the space the girl had been, a sinking feeling made itself known in the pit of her stomach, but Hazel ignored it. She had only a half hour left before she could leave and didn’t want to be kept cleaning up any later than she had to be and so rung up the last cheque of the night then went through to the kitchen.

Samuel was back there, already wiping down the surfaces, clearly eager to be on his way as well, and stopped to point at that days rubbish stacked by the door.

“Take out the trash and you can go once the dining room is cleared,” he delegated, leaving her to it as he went to count the register.

Whilst her least favourite job to be left with, Hazel got to it without hesitation, the promise of being in her warm bed a few minutes faster the best motivation she could have had. Throwing the bags of rotten scraps on top of the uncollected garbage outside, she cleaned the few dishes left by the sink and had wiped down every table in record time.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night then, Sam,” she bid him goodnight, going to get her things from her locker.

“You’re not done yet, you’ve got to do the bathrooms,” he dashed her hopes of a good night’s sleep without even looking up from his calculator.

“But you said-,” irritation got the better of her until a stern eyebrow was raised in her direction.

Seething within, she bit her tongue and gathered a mop and bucket to take upstairs. Water sloshing over the sides as she went, she hauled it up with both hands, panting by the time she reached the top where she paused to consider which to tackle first. The men's was usually worse so it seemed to make more sense to get it out of the way and so, taking a stabilising breath before she entered, she went to push through the door.

Her brow furrowed as she caught a scent, faint but distinctive, that hung thick in the air. A metallic tang that clung to the back of her throat and heated the back of her neck with the first inklings of fear. She prayed she was mistaken, but the smell of blood seeped from beneath the door of the women's bathroom.

Every fibre of her being telling her to make someone else handle the situation, some sort of macabre fascination had her reaching for the door handle. Trembling fingers grasped the knob, turned it and gave a weak push to reveal the scene within.

That cloying, musk flooding from inside tenfold might have caused her to gag had what she seen not frozen her completely. Deep crimson smeared over the counters, the walls, pooling in a viscous puddle around the still body of the girl as it flowed from her opened arteries. Both forearms with length-ways gorges carved into them, like morbid rivers, what little colour that may have been in her skin drained and spilled over the floorboards.

Stuck in the threshold, Hazel gaped at the sight, a few strangled gasps making it past her lips until sound followed.

“Sam…Sa-Sammy!” she made a pathetic attempt to shout, the words coming as no more than whimpers, tears filling her eyes as a sob tore her throat, followed by a scream of anguish, “Sammy!”

The pounding of footsteps sounded as she stumbled into the room, crouching beside the body that lay crumpled against the wall.

“Fuck! Call 911!” Samuel charged in and took control of the turn of events, checking for a pulse and clasping his hands over the open slashes whilst Hazel continued choke on her own panic.

“Is she dead?” she managed to sputter, shaking where she knelt rooted to the spot.

“No! She’s breathing! Call the fucking paramedics, Jesus Christ!” he yelled back at her, spurring her into hysteric action as she ran from the room, slipping as she went.