The Diner

The outside of the Diner was bright, shiny chrome; it was in contrast to the heavy, dark windows that were almost opaque. The neon sign seemed to buzz, the words stretched across the doorway, “Val’s All Nite Diner.” It was bright green with a small neon hamburger under it, each piece of the burger was being built as the sign flashed. It looked just like any other diner that was parked on the edge of a small town in the middle of nowhere at the crossroads of the two main arteries.

It looked damn good to Roger Dorman. He had been traveling on the road for the last 8 hours, and the dust had piled up into his throat. He had spotted the diner over a mile before, who wouldn’t? He seemed drawn to it.  That chrome seemed to stand out like a beacon in this desert, and looked like the last stop for at least the next 100 miles. He pulled into the lot, the throttle of his bike dying down as he flipped the kill switch and let it coast to its parking space. Flipping the kickstand down, he carefully leaned the motorcycle onto its weight. He decided to check the gas tank; running out of gas out here would really suck, and there probably isn’t another gas station for miles around. He took off his helmet and spat the dust out of his throat. A few bugs were splattered on the top of his helmet, and a few more on his sunglasses. As usual, when he made this kind of stop, his mind began to wander again and again.

“Was he on the right mission?”

It had sounded good to him at the time, see the country, and take some time off to travel, sow your wild oats, all those cliché things that you hear as you approach your mid-life crisis. That is, if forty-five could be considered mid-life. So he took some time off work, bought a big Harley–Davidson with his bonus money he saved over the years, and hit the road. His friends had laughed at him when he stopped to say goodbye; he was clad in leather chaps, and a red handkerchief was wrapped around his neck. The leather coat he was wearing was studded with rivets at the bottom and laced with rawhide. This was a far departure from the guy that they had come to know and love, Roger the accountant. Roger, the fussy guy, who vacuumed his house before the cleaning lady arrived. So he let them have their fun. He was the one leaving, not them. It wasn’t only that he wanted to; he had to. 

And now he was hungry, and watching that Neon Hamburger reminded him of that and just how hungry he was.  He pulled the keys from the bike and started up the sidewalk. The sound of his heels scuffed across the sidewalk as he approached the large chrome door. Above, he could hear the crackle of the neon sign. Gripping the handle, he pushed the door open and began to walk in. The diner was dark, with the lighting set low, creating a definite contrast to the outside. He read the wooden sign, “Hostess will seat you.” He waited for a few minutes, scanning the diner for any other patrons; it would seem that only he would be sampling the lunch special today.

She seemed to come out of nowhere and brushed past him. Roger felt a chill climb up the back of his neck and a familiar “twang” in his gut. At the same time, he felt oddly drawn to her; his eyes followed her from her feet to the top of her head. She wore a pair of black leather boots that came up to her knees.  Her long black skirt had a split up the side that reached the middle of her hip. With every step she took, he could see her fishnet stockings, her blouse was simple, but a low-cut V-neck that showed a very healthy cleavage. Her long blonde hair was pulled up into a tight ponytail on the top of her head. Her eyes were dark, and her mouth full; the red lipstick seemed to glisten against the lighting in the diner. He searched for a nametag, but there was none, so much for trying to break the ice. AHH… who was he kidding? This girl was half his age, at least. She smiled at him, those shiny lips pouting with each word.

“Smoking or non-smoking?” Her eyes locked with his. It was an odd question to him. Who smokes in a restaurant these days? 

“Non-smoking, please.” He tried to look away, but there was still something there that was drawing him in. The twang in his gut doubled. 

“Follow me, please.” She walked in front of him, and he looked around the Diner as they made their way to his booth. The place was dimly lit and seemed almost dark, which struck him as odd because outside, the sun was blaring away and not a cloud in the sky. A small group of waiters and waitresses was huddled in a corner, all in black; it seemed that they were whispering amongst themselves.

“Here you are, Naomi will be with you shortly…” She broke his concentration. Roger sat down at the booth. The red vinyl seemed to stick to his leather jacket. He quickly took it off, although it was very cool in the diner, almost to the point that he reconsidered putting it back on. He glanced down at the menu; soup of the day was Tex-Mex Chili – who could eat that in the middle of the desert? The sandwich of the day was a Turkey Club with Chips — fries cost a buck extra. He continued to read down the menu, looking over the selection.

“Can I get you a drink, sir?” He glanced up and took his first look at Naomi. She was breathtaking, with skin that was smooth and blemish-free, and lips that were full and red. She pulled her jet-black hair into a ponytail while looking at him. Her skin was almost stark white; unusual for these parts, he was sure. Their eyes locked, and for a single moment, her dark eyes penetrated his, and she tapped her foot. It had been only thirty seconds from her initial request, but for him, it seemed like it lasted an eternity. She smiled at him. He saw a bright smile, but something was different about her teeth; he couldn’t quite place it. Maybe something familiar.  He looked again, but she had stopped smiling, becoming annoyed with his lack of decision.

“ An iced tea, please, no sugar…” he stumbled, feeling like the kid in high school who was afraid to talk to the popular cheerleader. She flashed a small smile again at him and went back to the kitchen. The rest of the crew started to peek out at him. Roger felt that she probably had gone back and told everyone how he had made an ass of himself just then. He could just imagine the laughter that was going on at his expense.

“Hey! Look at the idiot in booth 31!” He thought he should get a grip and let this whole thing slide. He was making a big deal out of nothing. He went back to the menu to pick his lunch, trying to ignore the rumble.  

The group rushed from the kitchen, and the hostess quickly locked the door. He barely noticed what had happened when he glanced up from the menu. The lights went dimmer, and he began to understand everything that was about to happen. The rumble in his body began to increase.  Racing towards him were several pairs of red eyes and white fangs. Naomi was leading the pack to his booth. Things started to grow darker as he prepared himself for what was about to come.

The Next Morning 6:30 am 

Sheriff Sutler pulled the roll of “Police Line Do Not Cross” tape out of the trunk of his car. His Deputy was still puking his guts out in the shrubs next to the diner. The Coroner’s wagon was still in the parking lot. Doc Johnson was also the only dentist in town. A slow curl of smoke rose from the shattered windows of the diner. 

“What do you think, Jimmy?” Doc Johnson said as he was closing the door on the van/hearse.

“Damnest thing I’ve ever seen in these parts, Doc.” He began to stretch the police tape across the front of the diner, above the neon burger that still flashed its invitation.

The Deputy finally emerged from the bushes, still flush. “Sheriff, are we calling the State Police in on this?” 

“I’m not sure yet. You know, deputy, I hope this ain’t spillin’ over from the next county. I remember last year when they had those cases where the bodies were all drained of blood. The last thing we need is some of that happening here, some freak cult stuff.” 

“I doubt that this is the same thing, Sheriff. I mean, everyone in that diner was  ripped to pieces.” The deputy wiped his brow.

75 Miles Away 

Roger Dorman flipped the gear up a notch as his Harley-Davidson roared down the highway. He smiled and gave the throttle an extra twist. He glanced in the rearview mirror, his thick fur and fangs had all but disappeared as he headed towards the sunrise.

END