Diner Tales

Meeting (1/2)

The first thing that you should know about yourself is that you are, at your very core, a good person. It's great thing, really. If a little old lady needs help across a busy street (not that you have as many in the borough where you live as they do in San Francisco), you're usually the first to volunteer your arm. You can't stand injustice, and you support organizations that provide help to minorities that need the assistance. You tip your waiters well and make polite conversation with retail workers. You don't break laws and always pull to the side of the road when an ambulance comes down the road.

So, yeah, you're a generally decent human being.

It is only logical that when you hear the unmistakable sound of a truck flipping and metal screaming across the blacktop you leave your home to investigate. You want to make sure that the driver is okay. After all, it is New Years. Driving while drunk on this night of all nights is probably not a great start of the year for whoever is behind the wheel.

Thank Christ that this phone doubles as a flashlight.

Cockle burrs stick to the legs of your pajama pants as you pick your way across the field. You'll have a hell of a time picking them all off of yourself later on. It's chilly tonight, and you wish that you'd thought to wear a sweater.

You can hear your neighbors whooping in the distance as they watch the parades on their TVs. Shivering, you tap the screen of your phone, revealing that is it 11:51 PM.

Almost a new year, you think wistfully. And what a way to start it.

Tendrils of fog curl around your bare ankles. Should've worn socks. Might get a tick, or something. You pick up your pace - maybe, just maybe, you can get to the the wrecked car and check on the driver and call someone for help and still be able to see the ball drop at midnight.

You reach the overturned vehicle shortly after, only to find that it's not a commercial car at all, but a nondescript white van with the Life Foundation logo emblazoned on the side. Eyes narrowed, you circle the van warily, taking in the crumpled hood and the smoke floating out of the ruined engine. The back doors of the vehicle hand open at odd angles, revealing... shelves? Shattered glass crunches beneath your feet. It looks like a portable laboratory on the inside of the van.

What the hell is going on? You go back to the driver's side window, clearing away the broken window as best as you can without cutting yourself on the glass. You can see that the man's legs are crushed. His breathing is uneven - maybe he's got some broken ribs?

"Sir? Sir, are you alright?" You snap your fingers by the man's ear repeatedly, trying to get his attention. The blood dripping down the side of his head can't be a good sign, but you vaguely remember reading somewhere that you shouldn't move an injured person from a totaled car (or was it that you shouldn't move someone who's wiped out on a motorcycle?). He groans, and looks at you from the corner of his eye.

"G-get out of here," he chokes, sending blood dribbling down his chin. "Run-"

The grass beside you rustles, and the sound sends shivers down your spine. "Wha-?"

Something brushes against your ankle and you shriek. You fumble your phone and it falls out of your hands, sending shadows dancing as it bounces off of your foot and once more once it hits the ground. In between the shadows you can see - you can feel - something darker than the night on your flesh. It's warmer than the evening air, and you whine as you sense it sinking into your clammy skin.

It feels wrong.

The man in the car is screaming, you're screaming, everything is too loud, too much too fast and you're pretty sure you are going to have a heart attack. You can feel whatever the thing is slide along your veins, along muscles and bones and blood, melding together with you like it was meant to be. The majority of the thing comes to rest in your chest and neck, and you scratch at your skin like you can pull it out with only your blunted nails. "Get out get out get out!"