Late Night Bites

The deafening rattle of the train rushing overhead was always expected, but still startling. It was one of the things Billie liked about this neighborhood. It felt cozy and tucked away under the bridge. Everything from the narrow alleyways to its proximity to the river made it seem mysterious enough for clandestine deals and mob hits to be made around any corner, especially on gloomy evenings like this. The clouds hung so low that when the train crossed over the river, it vanished into a thick fog. Feeling inescapably damp, the warm glow of the Sunny Diner across the way looked all the more inviting. In weather like this, even open spaces can become hiding spots. Shadows feel like eyes watching the back of your head, a sensation frequent in the big city, but still eerie come nightfall. Billie quickened her pace, excited by the prospect of drying off and eating a hot meal.

Normally the line outside the Sunny Diner made patrons wait for hours to be seated, but on a day like today attendance was sparse. In fact—the entire city seemed empty. Like a holiday weekend in the middle of October. The familiar and kind maître d’ greeted Billie as she sidestepped large puddles and drips of rain from the overhangs to meet her at the doorway.

“Hey, Jen”, Billie said as she shook her umbrella off under the restaurant’s awning.

“Hi, Billie. Good to see you again”, Jen looked around casually as if there were other people soon to be arriving at the diner. No one came, so she turned her energy back towards the conversation. Jen had a nonchalant, but welcoming energy. With brown eyes that matched her hair, Jen was a comforting kind of plain. Perfectly neutral. Billie always appreciated this in restaurant staff. Overeager hostesses and disinterested waiters can ruin even the best spots. 

“It’s so miserable out here, luckily we have plenty of room inside. Are you planning on dining in or take-away?”

The thought of carrying her warm food in the damp cold only to enjoy it once she was in front of the TV seemed less appetizing now than it earlier.

“For here, definitely need to warm up.” 

Jen smiled toothlessly, “Great, would this table work?” 

She gestured to a half booth and half chair table along the front window. Billie nodded and sat down on the booth side. With her back to the window, she had a view of the entire diner. It was small with only four tables to her left, six to her right, and ten bar seats along the open kitchen front. She usually liked sitting at the bar, watching the chefs prep quart containers and chop vegetables that magically assembled to make whatever delicious dish a customer ordered. But this seat was a nice change. A comfortable seat and a good view to people-watch were essential to eating alone. Whenever she felt uneasy or bored, eating alone kept her busy. Eating prevented idle hands that typically gravitated towards her phone. The overhead lights being slightly fluorescent also made small screens less attractive, all of which prevented her from noticing that her phone battery was in fact dead.

The classic vinyl diner seat gave a squeak as she shifted out of her rain coat. Out of habit, she picked up a menu even though she already knew what she wanted to order—the same as always.

“Hey, Billie, you getting your usual?”

A familiar but clearly new waiter said as Billie wiped the raindrops off her brow.

“Uh, Yeah definitely.”

Before Billie could recall if she’d met him before, he replied, “Got it. The chicken wings and kimchi tomato soup coming right up.” He grabbed the pencil from behind his ear and began jotting down her order.

“Thanks”, Billie started as the waiter turned back towards the kitchen, “Hey, I don’t think you’ve waited my table before are yo-”

“Yeah I started a day or two ago, onboarding was a bitch.” he interrupted in a polite tone, “I’m Frank."

“Oh, cool.”

As Frank turned to head back to the kitchen once again, Billie asked, “Wait, but how do you know my usual? Do I come here that often?”

“Well, they know you and gave the newbie a heads up.”, Frank gestured to the rest of the kitchen staff standing behind the counter. “There’s not a lot of solo female diners in the city, especially here.”

“Right, obviously. Sorry to slow you down.”

The front door dinged as two of the customers exited after paying in cash and clattering their change in the tip jar. Now, it was just Billie, the staff, and two other patrons eating together. Despite the kitchen clamor, the train’s rattle was still loud and lightly shook the overhead lights as it passed. Drowning out the noise, her mind wandered like it always did when she dined alone. Looking at her surroundings and deep in thought, Billie puzzled over what Frank meant by onboarding. I mean, it is a diner after all. Has the world really gotten that boujee that training for waiting tables is now called onboarding? Maybe she was just classist and confused by the nature of restaurant work. She had never worked a minimum wage job, and the realization stopped her train of thought dead in its tracks to avoid cringing. Not caring is better than reckoning with the dynamics of the service industry.

As she rested her chin on her hand, she realized how tired she was. Her gaze floated upwards as she relaxed her weight on her arm. She didn’t turn to look at the door dinging as the last two patrons finished their coffee and left—something on the ceiling kept her eyes fixed. The overhead hanging lights were too bright to look directly into, but the movement that caught her attention was obscured in shadow behind the base of the light. Tilting her head to get a better look at the pipes, Billie felt a droplet fall heavily onto her cheek.

Wiping it away as carelessly as she did the other raindrops, it was only because of the white tabletops that Billie noticed her fingers were smeared red. Her brow furrowed. One thing she always noticed about Sunny Diner was how pristine it was. Sure, it had the exterior and design of an aging local diner—but the countertops always shined. The linoleum floors never had crumbs or spills. Smelling of gentle cleanser, the white tables were always left without a trace of the prior patrons. That is, up until this red smear appeared. Before she knew what to think, Frank had already approached her table.

“Billie, so sorry about the mess! Our interiors are updated, but we’ve been slow to uproot the old pipes.”, he explained.

“Pipes….what is this though?”, Billie asked as she began to think the crimson stain on her face and fingers could only be one thing.

“Well, the water itself is clean. But after years of use the pipes’ outsides get corroded. A little rusty. That’s what gives it the color.”, Frank gestured, as he pulled out a cotton towel and spray bottle to erase any trace of this unusual occurrence.

“Rust.”, Billie stated, but still felt unsure of this answer.

“Yeah, it’s not as gross as it looks. But, this has never happened before, even though we knew it would eventually. I guess it’s time to fix ‘em.”

Billie hesitantly looked up towards the ceiling again. She didn’t want to admit to herself what she originally thought the substance was. Frank seemed so calm and sure of his reasoning, which made her feel less inclined to worry. Ugh, such a scaredy cat! She always imagined the worst case scenario. This was her favorite diner for a reason. It must have been the train shaking the hanging light, although she didn’t hear it pass.

Nodding tentatively, she told Frank not to worry about it. 

His brown eyes were kind and calm, unlike the rest of his stern face. He wasn’t particularly buff, but his gelled dark hair gave him an authoritative and attractive presence. Like a new bouncer whose bark is worse than his bite. 

“You also like our matzo ball soup right? Let me get you a to-go order on the house.”

“Oh, you don’t have to…”, Billie started, but glancing out the window at the bleak rain that had started to pick up made warm soup for later seem too good to pass up.

“But, it would be nice. I’ll grab it after paying my tab.”

Frank gruffly smiled and nodded. As he turned back towards the kitchen, Billie noticed the other staff standing together and whispering. A gas range was left unattended, with ostensibly her tomato soup bubbling close to overflowing. The normally organized and overseen kitchen looked odd with all the chefs clumped in one corner. As Frank arrived behind the counter, the staff noticed her gaze and immediately resumed operating. 

Her soup was then plated, dressed and served. The unattended boil did not ruin the temperature of the soup, and its smell wafted appetizingly. Mmmm, umami, Billie though as her stomach growled upon the soup’s arrival at her table. Before she could take a spoonful, her chicken wings followed suit. Tossed in a sticky, garlicky glaze, the meat was impossibly juicy. Perfect size wings and drumsticks every time, made with the promise of organic, non-GMO ingredients. Wasting no time at all—Billie dug in as the train soared above and rattled the lights once again. Each bite was full of crunch and juice. There was never any tendons even on the thinnest of bones. She could never figure out what it was that made the flavor so perfect. Usually, she got sick of a meal if she ate it too often. But these chicken wings were an exception. The strange red drip from earlier had been long forgotten. Billie’s focus remained on her food until the last sip of soup satiated her. As if to conclude her meal, the train roared across the bridge, yet again.

Feeling full and ready to brave the drizzly city, Billie thanked Frank by dropping her remaining coins into the tip jar after she paid. With a brief nod from Frank and the kitchen staff running their rags over the countertops, she knew it was the end of their shift. Everyone knows after the last customer, the entire restaurant is just waiting to close. Being polite, she rushed out into the mist. Jen was no longer at her post outside, so she was the only pedestrian on the street. It was odd that Billie didn’t notice her leave, but the food was so delicious that it could drown out any surrounding activity.

The diner door creaked as it slammed behind her and interrupted the quiet street. With her head on a swivel, Billie turned sharply at the sound of clattering cans in dark alleyways—which she told herself was just rats. A toothless smile from the occasional lone man on the street was chilling, but if she kept her head down, harmless. They only startled her if they barked, “Hey!” as she sped walked away. About a quarter of the way home, Billie began fumbling with her keys in her pocket. Feeling around for her wallet as well, she always liked to make a mental checklist of everything she needed to take with her. Shit—the matzo ball soup! Was it too late to go back? She had only walked for about five minutes, but any unnecessary moments spent in on the street seemed like an invitation for danger. As Billie turned to look back in the direction she had just come from, she saw the glow of the Sunny Diner still illuminated with indistinguishable figures bouncing around inside. She remembered the savory broth and the creamy texture of the matzo ball that no other diners have perfected, and immediately walked back in that direction. 

When she approached the Sunny Diner’s door, it was clear that they were closed. A wave of sheepishness washed over her. But before she could turn around and avoid confronting her err, Frank knocked on the window from inside.

“Matzo ball soup, right?”, Frank asked. His voice was muffled by the glass.

She could not believe that he remembered and seemed eager to fulfill his offer from earlier. 

“Yeah”, Billie nodded relived.

The backlights of the kitchen were completely dark, and the diner was completely silent aside from the jangle of Frank’s keys as he unlocked the door’s many latches. 

“You can never be too safe around here”, Frank said by way of explaining the number of locks.

“Feel free to hang back in the booth you sat in earlier.” Frank instructed as he gestured to the booth closest to the door.

“So sorry to bother you guys, if it’s not already packed you don’t have to worry about the soup.”, Billie replied as she slid into the same booth seat with her back to the window. 

Now, facing the kitchen, she realized the phrase ‘you guys’ was not appropriate. The kitchen that was buzzing just moments ago was completely bare—of people and products. Most kitchen staff liked to eat leftovers or smoke cigarettes together after a late shift. How oddly efficient.

“I packed it up earlier, don’t worry about it.”, Frank replied as he bent down to open the takeout warmer.

“If I were you, I would’ve eaten it myself as soon as the customer left!”, Billie gratefully joked.

“No thanks. It doesn’t appetize me.” The soup was now in a quart container and being gently placed by Frank into a plastic bag.

“You don’t like the soup?”, Billie wondered.

“Nothing here really appetizes me.” Frank began to get a dull look in his eye, as if the conversation was boring him by the second. Each sentence worse than the last. Still, Billie was helplessly curious.

“Why? This is the most delicious food I’ve ever eaten! Especially at a diner. That’s why I come back so much. What do you like to eat? Sushi?” Billie playfully asked.

Frank waited for the roar of the train to pass before responding. His hands paused midway through tying the knot on her to-go bag. This time, the rush of the engine and shaking lights felt louder than before. Before Frank could start to respond, Billie realized that it was not the train that was especially loud. It had finished passing moments ago. What was shaking the lights was the rumble of a drill like mechanism. What she heard was the tail end of a blood curdling scream, once masked by the roar of the train.

Billie started to ask Frank if he had heard that as well, thinking it came from an altercation on the street. But Frank’s once kind eyes had turned to stone. The rest of his face was expressionless, and the blinking overhead lights casted shadows on his youthful face. Billie began to stand at her booth seat.

“They did not fucking train me for this.” Frank sighed exasperatedly. “And you really need to stop asking people questions at the end of their shift.”

Before Billie could exit the booth, she felt a sharp slice on the back of her right heel from under the seat. The snap of her Achilles tendon made her knees go dead as she plopped back onto the booth. She tried to catch it as it snaked up the back of her calf—she read about catching it to prevent permanent damage in a New York Times article about self defense—but that was pointless. Pain seared up her entire leg towards her spine. Her vision blurred in and out like she was fighting an anesthetic. It was so intense that she didn’t even notice Frank depart into the back room, or the thick needle stabbing the fatty part of her neck.

As she came to, the first thing she heard was the gentle suction. Then came the dripping, like the sound of an IV in a sterile hospital room. She blinked open her eyes lazily, like she had just awoke from deep a R.E.M. sleep. Stiff to move, Billie was able to lift her neck slightly in order to observe her surroundings. The room she was in was sterile and shadowy, resembling a lab in the basement of an exiled scientist. Pipes snaked along the grey walls and ceilings, with only two bright spotlights illuminating the space. One was directly over her, and the other displayed something she couldn’t quite comprehend. It was one of those machines only reserved for shock value in campy films. Its purpose seemingly to drain blood from its victims, as they gyrate on a metal slab with tubes protruding from each artery. The clear, intravenous hoses led to large blood bags hanging around the spotlight above. A sight so shocking that Billie would’ve laughed if not for the look on the face of the person strapped to it. Their eyes were closed and the rest of their face was fried into a hollow scowl usually reserved for corpses. A mangled pixie cut framed their expression. Despite having thin limbs, a large pot belly obscured any trace of gender. It was preventing her from appreciating the irony of the scene, along with the fact that she too was strapped down. It’s weird when you wake up from an inorganic sleep, the things you notice first about your surroundings. It wasn’t until after she felt the cold clamps ensnaring her wrists and ankles that she felt the icy metal slab pressed to her naked back.

Billie could hear her heart pounding in her chest and through her back. She didn’t have the strength to fight against the metal shackles holding her wrists and ankles down. The thought of it reminded her of her Achilles, which promptly started throbbing. Oddly enough, it was neatly bandaged, but surely not enough to heal. Dressed in a papery hospital gown, she had never felt more vulnerable. Before she could wet her throat to scream, or even think of what do to at all, four individuals emerged from a doorless entryway. Mid conversation, their voices were indistinguishable. One big studious murmur emitted from the stoic group. They were all dressed normally besides their white rubber gloves and butcher aprons. It was Jen who Billie recognized first.

“...and it’ll work faster this time. You’ll be able to get our of here before your train leaves, so let’s just do it my way.”, Jen instructed the chef to her right.

As she turned to speak to the chef to her left, Billie choked out, “Hey!”

The group turned their heads to look at Billie. They were startled, as if they had forgotten she was even there. The room was completely silent besides the whir of the gyrating device and the slow suction of the blood bags hanging above it.

Jen’s detached expression was the same as the one that greeted Billie earlier. Only now, it felt more sinister than simply being aloof. 

“Don’t try to pull against the restraints. It’ll only make your blood thinner. We’ve already had to damage you, so you couldn’t run away earlier. Don’t make this more difficult.”, Jen impatiently stated.

“Wha–make what more difficult? What’s going on? Where am–.”

“Oh god, she does ask a lot of questions.” Jen scoffed to Frank, who was the chef to her left.

He didn’t respond. His once stoney face now looked slightly disappointed. Especially as Billie started to wail at the reality of this situation and being ignored.

“You guys said she’s a regular. Why did you seat her so often? We should have done this sooner.”, Frank said to Jen as his gaze remained fixed on Billie.

“She liked the food. A lot. More than those influencer weirdos that come in to take a picture, rave, and leave. I thought she already suspected what was up. That she could handle it.” Jen replied as she began to fiddle with the foreign objects on a steel surgical cart in front of her.

“What is up? What could I handle?”, Tears began to stream down Billie’s face as fluidly as the raindrops from earlier. What a treat walking in the bleak weather seemed like now.

“Oh now don’t cry. You’ll dehydrate your meat. I already told you not to struggle.” Jen said as she quickly slapped on a clear face mask.

“Okay look,” Frank directed himself to Billie, who his gaze had not left since he entered the room. “The food doesn’t just taste so good because it’s human meat. And it’s not just because Jen here figured out how to remove the blood without thining it, so that it retains the flavor and moistens the meat after re-injecting it once it’s extracted. You have to have a taste for it.”

“That and my fucking sauce dude.”, the only unfamiliar chef in the background retorted casually.

“Yeah, also the sauce.” Frank finished.

Billie’s chest rose up and down with each quick breath as she tried to steady her heart rate. A taste for it? Had she unknowingly been a cannibal this entire time…and liked it?

“The people that come here don’t pay attention to the flavor. Or come back. They want to wait in a long line to possibly get turned away by me, and post about it online. What else brings that many idiots to this neighborhood?”, Jen offhandedly said to the room.

No longer able to deny her reality even a little, Billie finally felt enough courage to ask more complete questions. 

“And so what, you don’t get regulars? And being one made me safe?”, Billie wasn’t sure exactly what she was previously safe from. The result was clear, but the process they were about to start was still mysteriously horrifying.

“I’m gonna assume you’re slower than usual because you’re in pain. Albert here was a regular. Come to find out, he’s a chef laying low from ICE. Couldn’t get work and was willing to do whatever it took to make a living. And he liked the food.”, Jen said as she inched closer. Finally, she was fully dressed in a clear plastic facial covering, white rubber gloves, a butcher apron, and a gleaming syringe in her left hand. 

“And Frank? He doesn’t like the food.”, Billie offered to try and stall whatever Jen had planned. 

“Frank has his own demons.” Jen chuckled. 

“Well, I do really like the food. And I already know what you guys are doing, so if you just explain the process to me I can just join like you thought I could earlier.”, Billie offered as confidently as she could.

“Save it. Please.”, Jen said curtly. 

Frank began to tie a surgical cap over his dark hair. His gaze was still fixed on Billie. Sad, yet unforgiving. With a meat thermometer in his apron pocket, he neared the slab Billie was strapped to. 

Billie tried not to whimper as empty blood bags lowered above her from the press of a button. Her slab began to whir and recline, becoming more like the machine across from her. The victim strapped to it was now pale as ghost, but still looked plump and full. The bags above them were nearly full. Jen really had it all figured out.

“Of course, after all this I’m still hungry.”, Billie blurted out.

At first Jen wasn’t phased, but her eyes began to dart back and forth in thought. She held up her palm wordlessly to get Frank to stop. He let go of the button and the machine stopped whirring. Billie tried not to sigh with relief.

“You’re hungry.”, Jen stated more than asked.

“Yeah, I mean I didn’t even finish my wings.”, Billie tried to keep her tone as even and honest as possible. This was a complete lie. Even if she wasn’t satisfied from her meal—which felt like years ago now—nothing about this room was appetizing. Fear and loathing made her nauseous, but she was not about ruin the chance to keep her torture machine paused. 

Jen quickly turned to Frank, “It’s not going to work if her stomach is contracting and moving the gastric acid around. Her blood’s consistency will be ruined.” 

Albert wordlessly ducked out of the room and back through the open entry way. Suddenly, a sound like an oven timer echoed off the walls. The machine next to Billie’s stopped gyrating with a shudder and began to lower from the air. As it reached the halfway point between the floor and ceiling, the slab began to fold in half backwards. Swift and seamlessly, the victim strapped by their wrists and ankles began to snap in half by the bend of the table. The skin around their abdomen stretched and tore like tough meat. Spinal bones splintered like bamboo. Entrails began to peek out of the gaps where their upper and lower half stayed fused together. Before they were fully folded, the machine stopped once again. The blood that once trickled against gravity towards the ceiling now flooded back towards the arteries it was just drained from. Shockingly, whoever was strapped to that table wasn’t dead like they appeared to be. Their eyes shot wide open. Every vein in their body bulged as their fists curled tightly in pain. With their mouth still locked into a wrinkled scowl, they let out a dry and crackled scream that cut through the air like barbed wire. Terror and pain are awful for the vocal chords. 

As the blood quickly reversed its cycle back into the bags, the body on the slab could no longer muster the air or energy to keep screaming. Just a splash of blood was wasted in the mess created by their torn stomach. Only a weak wheeze came out of the back of their throat. At this point, Billie had to close her eyes to keep herself from violently shaking with fright. She opened her eyes at the sound of footsteps signaling that Albert had re-entered the room. In his hands was a tray of Billie’s favorite chicken wings. Once mouth watering, the true origins of this meal now caused bile to bubble in the back of her throat. 

“She needs to eat it as soon as possible. Albert, you’re not making your train.” Jen stated as she lifted the plastic mask from her face. 

Albert seemed bored by this as he offered the tray of wings, or whatever body part they actually were, to Jen.

“Here.”, she continued as she thrusted a wing at Billie’s mouth.

Turning her face away as quick as she could without straining her sore neck, Billie mumbled, “No.”

“No?” Jen repeated frustrated. For the first time she had let her cool exterior slip. 

“You’re not hungry now?”, she paused for beat. “She’s playing with us.”

“No, just not like this. It won’t satisfy me if I can’t eat it how I want.”, Billie tried.

“Yeah, let’s just sit you back out at your booth and you can enjoy. We’ll unlock the front door for you too.”, Jen replied as she dropped the chicken wing and began to lower her mask again. Impatience made her seem more familiar than all those times her reserved personality greeted Billie at the diner door. They had met many times, but now Billie was seeing the real her.

“She needs to eat.”, Frank spoke up for the first time in a while, “Or what’s even the point? I can hear her stomach growling. It’ll be tainted.”

Jen thought about this for a moment. The continuous drip of the blood bags cut the room’s silence like a knife, marking the seconds that passed like hours before she said, “Go get the chair.”

“What is she gonna do with that leg on her anyways?”, Frank continued.

Frank ducked out of the archway and returned almost instantly. He had a wheelchair in tow. It looked like a normal wheelchair from any medical supply store, except for the metal limb cuffs and shearling chest straps to hold people down. Billie imagined this is what she was brought here in from the diner. Her heart thudded in her chest as Frank began to loosen the restraints on her wrists. A metal cart, identical to the one Jen plucked her surgical tools from, was rolled in to set the tray of wings upon. 

Billie didn’t dare try to move as her left hand came free. She had to play it safe and pick the right moment. Frank started to work on her right hand, and Billie careened her neck carefully to try and study where the single exit could possibly lead. There was no end in sight. Jen now paced back and forth, fanning herself, as if she was trying to preventing sweating despite the arctic temperature of the lab.

Gently clasping her now freed and freezing hands together—still horizontally angled, Billie’s left ankle came free. Her entire body weight was now supported by her injured leg, and it screamed louder than her fellow prisoner had earlier. Her face wrinkled in pain. At Billie’s refusal to yelp, Jen seemed to think they had beaten the fight out of her. She instructed Albert to go stir something in another room, and followed him out into the lone hallway. The gentle clack of her kitten heels was audible as she moved along passageway.

The table then jerked to life and slanted completely vertical, dumping Billie in a crumpled heap on the cold linoleum. Frank grabbed her armpits and hoisted her onto the wheelchair. The once snow white bandage on her calf blurred crimson. Before he could fasten the first chest strap, Billie punched Frank’s groin as hard as she could. With a stifled groan, he bent over in pain and became eye level to Billie. Swallowing any squeamishness in favor of surviving, she plunged her thumbs as hard as she could into his eye sockets. As Frank began to scream and gush an unholy amount of blood, Billie pushed him to the side. Rolling on the floor in agony, she sidestepped Frank with her left foot first, as cautiously and quickly as she could, hesitant to attempt her right leg’s strength. The second she put pressure on her heel, the bandage became soaked and dripping with blood. A shuddery limp was all she could muster, and so she did. The sweat dripping down her back was exposed to the air by her open hospital gown, but she was too focused to shiver. Billie grabbed a scalpel on her way out, and used it to cut a swift gash in Frank’s cheek.

“How thin is your blood now, Frank?!?”, Billie scoffed over his wails.

Quickly limping through the doorway and down the passage, the hallway seemed even longer than Jen’s echoing footsteps had led her to believe. Lined with passcode locked doors, the bright overhead lights flickered on by motion detection. She had no choice but to charge, well speed-limp, straight down the hall. When the doorframe that marked the end of the hall was just within reach, Billie felt a metal object strike the back of her head. She fell to the ground just as the tray that Jen had thrown at her clattered down next to her. Dizzy and with blurred vision, Billie crawled just enough to peek around the doorway. The sound of Jen’s kitten heels patiently clacking grew louder as she grew nearer. Her pace sounded almost casual, and Billie turned to look at her proximity. The entire hallway was dark besides the activated lights above the two women. Billie was able to bring herself to her knees by the time Jen reached her. With a swift kick to her ribs, Jen leaned down to grab the back of Billie’s neck. Resisting and screaming, Billie fought to stay planted at the door frame. Now visibly frustrated, Jen looked like a completely different person than she had just hours ago. Her brown low ponytail disheveled, the crows feet near her eyes permanently strained, and a disgusted scowl on her lips. 

“You need to stop fucking around.”, Jen said through gritted teeth.

Jen plunged her clawed hand through the bandage on Billie’s ankle. Electrified with pain, Billie let out an ear piercing scream. She took the scalpel she had hid under her gown and plunged it into Jen’s chest. Once. Twice. Screaming the entire time. She felt like a wild animal. Apparently, Jen felt superhuman as well. At first unfazed by her stab wounds, Jen grabbed at Billie’s weapon. The blood leaking from the hole in her chest began to increase, soaking the front of her apron and staining the linoleum. Both of the women’s blood began to pool together, creating a shocking puddle. The bright red starkly contrasted their sterile, white surroundings. As Jen clutched at the wound on her chest, she stared fiercely into Billie’s eyes. Billie then speared the scalpel directly through one of Jen’s cheeks and out the other, pinning her jaw shut. Strength created by pure adrenaline. Billie left the weapon in Jen’s sputtering body and grabbed the tray as she fled.

She couldn’t believe it. Through the endless hallways, she didn’t encounter a single other person. No more menacing kitchen staff with mysterious syringes. The blood leaking from her ankle left a trail that made her easy to find, but no one came. Billie didn’t know how much fight she had left. When she finally reached the foyer of the diner, she knew she had to push through. As Billie smashed the diner’s glass door with the metal tray and ran out into the rain, she couldn’t tell if she was screaming or if it was the train roaring overhead.

After weeks of meticulous surgery and physical therapy treatments, Billie’s ruptured tendon began to heal. Never fully, of course. The injury would leave her needing a cane to walk for more than 15 minutes. But her new limp and surgical marks weren’t the only permanent scars left from her night at the Sunny Diner. Every time an oven timer went off, a wave of nausea and terror instantly washed over her. The only meals she ate were at home, and refused to confess to her friends why she would not dine out with them—let alone by herself. A train screeching by gave her so much stress, no matter who she was with, that she had to leave the city. In favor of narrow alleyways and shadowy bridges, Billie moved to a quaint farmhouse in Bucks County. She could have a barn here, for cows and sheep. Having helpless living beings to tend to was helping her retrain her mind and calm her anxiety. It didn’t matter that she moved away from all her friends. She could never fully explain to them what happened that night—she was barely able to spit it out to the police. The police, who didn’t shut down the diner and find Jen until a month later. The police, who kept her in that cold, bright interrogation room that reminded her so much of the lab she had just escaped. The police, who waited until she nearly fainted from blood loss to give her medical attention. Thank God her leg wasn’t ruined. Could she ever trust an authority figure again? Let alone a local restaurant. Billie shuddered at the thought. At least the police put Jen away, Billie recalled, and found her recruitment network by hacking her computer’s hard drive. They sent her away to one of those places reminiscent of the original Alcatraz. Inescapable and isolated. But it was Billie who felt imprisoned by her own mind and memories. Shutting down the entire operation took too long in her opinion, but she was grateful it happened at all. The Sunny Diner, once decorated with an absurdly long line of patrons outside, was now shuttered and rotting. No one wanted to lease the space after the exposé was published. Even though it was based on her limited testimony and lacked the killer details, the basic premise of the diner’s secret was enough to shock the country. No one wanted to acknowledge if they had visited the diner. Videos and tagged photos were erased from the internet. And besides, who could afford the square footage of a secret basement laboratory on a restaurant revenue stream?

As the sun set on another uneventful fall evening, Billie realized it had been a year since she escaped the diner. She looked out across the farm’s small field. Her house was surrounded by treelined hills of amber and orange. The peak of fall felt peaceful, and the breeze was gentle enough to keep the leaves intact for the rest of the season. With her livestock blanketed in the barn for the night, all she had to do was focus on relaxing. Rusty, the Rottweiler she got immediately after the incident, ran towards her from the far edge of her yard. Billie liked that he was dutifully trained, and seemed to take a personal interest in scanning her property for intruders. He trotted up to her, which meant he was content with her safety. Nothing so much as a spam email had endangered Billie over the last year, but she still held her breath every time Bo sought out the corners of her property. Relieved, she turned around and went inside. 

A small fire was burning in the hearth. Billie slipped out of her wellies and walked over to stoke it. As she unwrapped her scarf, she triple checked the locks on all her doors and windows—her nightly ritual. The second part of her ritual, was boiling a pot of comforting tea. Once her beverage was poured, she settled into the couch with Rusty at her feet like she did every day. Just as she had found the sweet spot, her loyal dog’s ears perked up. There were no sounds besides the sudden loud barking from Rusty. Billie whipped around to look at her curtain covered windows and bolted doors. There was no knocking, no wind, and no reason for Rusty to be alert. It was especially odd because Rusty was not trained to bark as a response to danger nor safety. He was only supposed to bark at her command, a rule he had never broken before. Frantically, she fumbled for her cane and threw off her blanket. She promptly grabbed the pistol she had stashed under the couch. She hated guns, but she hated the thought of being vulnerable even more. Fastening her silencer, Billie watched Rusty shift to a low growl. Checking her six repeatedly, Billie silently stepped to the front door. Peaking through the bulletproof look hole, she didn't see anyone. She grabbed her phone from her pocket to check her front door camera, one of the many she set up before moving in. A white paper box was on her doorstep, with no trace of who left it there. Motioning at Rusty to follow, she flung open the front door. Hiding behind the wood wall, she rapid fired into the box. Once it was nearly shredded by her whispered bullets, she sent Rusty to scan the property. As he galloped away, Billie got a closer look at the box. Inconspicuous at first glance, it was the ooze that gave its contents away. An orange, sticky glaze seeped out of the bullet holes, and wafted its garlicky scent. Frozen in terror, Billie saw that the side of the box said “Love, Jen”.