Chapter 15: The House at the edge of Town (15)
The last customer left without looking back.
The door swung shut softly behind them, the bell above it chiming once before settling into silence.
For the first time in hours, the diner stood empty, not the tense, waiting emptiness of the early morning, but a tired, satisfied quiet, like a room exhaling after being held too long.
Grease cooled on the griddle. The fryer fell silent. Coffee pots clicked as their warming plates shut themselves off. The lights hummed, steady and unremarkable.
Work finished itself.
In the kitchen, the group moved without urgency now.
Aprons were untied and folded with habitual efficiency.
Stained shirts were peeled off and dropped into a bin already half-full of identical garments, each marked by long use and longer history.
Hands were washed at the sinks, thoroughly, methodically, grease, and residue that had no place being named rinsed away in hot water that steamed up the mirrors.
Faces were splashed clean.
Hair was pushed back into place.
Small cuts sealed under running water; bruises faded to manageable colors.
By the time they stepped away from the sinks, the people who had been staff looked less like a night crew and more like individuals again.
The uniforms disappeared into lockers that locked themselves.
Casual clothes emerged in their place, jackets pulled on, boots laced, sleeves rolled down.
The transformation was not dramatic. It was practiced. Familiar. The kind of routine that did not require reflection.
The box at the far end of the kitchen was gone.
Where it had sat, humming faintly, there was now only an ordinary stack of crates waiting to be returned to storage.
The floor beneath them bore no stains.
The air held no pressure.
Whatever had been contained had moved on to wherever contained things went next.
The back door opened.
Cold night air slipped in, then retreated as one by one the group stepped outside.
The parking lot lay quiet beneath flickering streetlights, the diner’s neon sign still glowing in tired red and blue above them.
Beyond the asphalt, the world looked normal again, cars passing on the distant road, a stray breeze stirring loose paper.
A black van waited at the curb.
Unmarked.
Unassuming.
The sort of vehicle designed to exist without being noticed.
The side door slid open smoothly.
One by one, they climbed inside.
No rush.
No ceremony.
The door closed again with a muted thud.
The engine turned over.
As the van pulled away, another set of headlights appeared at the far end of the lot.
A second black van rolled in, slowing as it approached the diner. It came to a stop in the same place the first had just vacated, engine idling softly.
The moment the first van disappeared around the corner, the second’s doors opened.
New people stepped out.
They wore the same uniforms the previous staff had just shed, identical aprons, identical shirts, identical shoes. They moved with the same practiced ease, but their faces were different. Younger. Older. Men and women whose expressions held no memory of what the night had contained.
They entered through the front door.
Inside, the transformation began immediately.
The lights changed first.
The harsh fluorescents dimmed, replaced by warmer bulbs that softened corners and erased shadows.
The hum altered pitch, less insistent now, more welcoming.
The windows brightened, reflections adjusting to show a cleaner interior.
The sign above the counter flickered.
Its old lettering, faded, half-broken, blinked out.
For a moment, it showed nothing at all.
Then new letters illuminated in its place, crisp and clean, spelling out a name that suggested familiarity and comfort.
A diner you might remember.
Or think you remembered.
On the tables, blank mugs vanished, replaced by ceramic cups stamped with a recognizable logo. Napkin dispensers aligned themselves.
Condiment bottles refreshed, labels pristine, caps tightened. The smell of old oil faded beneath something warmer, sweeter.
The walls repainted themselves in stages, peeling edges smoothing, stains retreating, colors brightening just enough to feel intentional rather than neglected.
Cracks in the floor sealed.
A wobbling table steadied.
In the kitchen, equipment rearranged.
The griddle shone.
The fryer gleamed.
The counters lost their scars.
Everything settled into a configuration that matched a thousand other diners across the country, safe, visible, unremarkable.
A radio clicked on.
Music filled the space, cheerful and forgettable, the kind designed to be heard without being listened to.
The volume adjusted itself to the perfect background level.
Outside, the neon sign stabilized.
The flicker disappeared.
The glow evened out.
From the road, the diner now looked open in a way that invited stopping. The sort of place you might pull into at three in the morning without a second thought.
As the second van idled, its occupants moved through the building with purpose, wiping down surfaces that were already clean, checking stations that were already stocked. When they were done, they took their places.
The front door unlocked.
The sign switched from CLOSED to OPEN.
A car passed on the highway and slowed.
Farther away, the first van drove on, its taillights shrinking into the distance.
The road unwound ahead of it, carrying its passengers away from the diner and toward whatever came next. The building behind them grew smaller, less distinct, blending into the landscape of ordinary roadside stops.
By the time the van merged into traffic, the diner was just another light in the dark.
Inside, a fresh pot of coffee finished brewing.
Steam rose.
And the world, reassured by the appearance of normalcy, continued on as if nothing at all had happened.
***
The inside of the van smelled faintly of disinfectant and old fabric, the kind of neutral scent designed to disappear after a few minutes.
The doors shut with a soft pneumatic hiss, sealing the night outside. The city lights slid past the tinted windows in streaks of yellow and white, blurring into something abstract and unimportant.
The engine settled into a steady hum.
The driver’s compartment was sealed off by a dark partition, opaque and sound-dampened.
Whatever happened up there, navigation, communication, decisions, was none of their concern.
The back was theirs.
Lena sat sideways on one of the bench seats, boots propped against the opposite wall, arms folded loosely.
Her hair was still damp from washing up, tied back hastily, a faint bruise blooming along her jaw where the night had made its final comment.
She looked tired, but the sharpness in her eyes hadn’t dulled.
Gorchov sat across from her, long legs awkwardly folded, shoulders brushing the ceiling every time the van hit a bump.
He looked… normal. Too normal, given recent events. There was dried blood under one fingernail he hadn’t quite managed to scrub out.
The short guy, clipboard guy, sat near the back door, scrolling through something on a tablet that glowed faintly blue.
The buff guy leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed, eyes closed, breathing slow and even like he was already halfway asleep.
The boss sat near the middle, one elbow braced against the wall, gaze unfocused, as if he were looking at something only he could see.
For a few minutes, no one spoke.
The van turned. Tires hummed differently. Somewhere far away, a siren wailed and faded.
Lena broke the silence.
“So,” she said.
“Where are we going next?”
The boss blinked, attention snapping back into place. “Next?”
“Yeah,” she said. “You know. After tonight.”
Gorchov nodded.
“I would also like to know where my body is expected to be destroyed next.”
The boss huffed softly, not quite a laugh.
“You’re not getting destroyed.”
“Statistically,” Gorchov said, “that remains to be seen.”
The short guy didn’t look up from his tablet.
“You both get a layover.”
Lena raised an eyebrow.
“A what?”
“A week,” the boss said.
“Stand down. No active engagements.”
The buff guy opened one eye.
“Seven days?”
“Yes.”
He nodded once and closed it again.
“Nice.”
Lena stared at the boss.
“You’re kidding.”
“I never kid about schedules,” the boss replied.
She leaned back, processing. “A whole week. No anomalies. No diners. No boxes.”
“No anomalies,” the boss confirmed.
Gorchov frowned slightly.
“That feels… suspicious.”
“It’s called recovery,” the boss said.
“You should try it.”
Gorchov considered that. “I did regenerate an entire skeletal exoskeleton tonight.”
“And you’ll be sore tomorrow,” the boss replied.
“Take the win.”
The van hit another turn, centrifugal force pressing them subtly to one side.
The lights outside shifted, thinning as they left the city proper.
Lena drummed her fingers against her arm.
“Okay. So where after the week?”
The boss didn’t answer immediately.
The short guy glanced up from his tablet.
The buff guy cracked one eye open again.
Finally, the boss said, “Nepal.”
Lena stilled.
“Nepal.”
“Yes.”
Gorchov blinked. “Nepal as in-”
“Yes,” the boss said. “That one.”
Gorchov leaned forward slightly.
“What the hell is going on in Nepal?”
The boss shrugged. “Don’t know yet.”
There was a beat.
Lena stared at him.
“You’re sending us halfway across the world and you don’t know?”
“I know enough,” the boss said calmly.
“Which is that we need to be there.”
The short guy tapped his tablet.
“Readings are inconsistent. Intermittent. High altitude. Low population density in the affected areas.”
“That tracks,” Gorchov muttered.
“Mountains are terrible for stability.”
Lena sighed.
“Of course it’s mountains.”
The buff guy finally opened his eyes fully.
“When do we leave?”
“Today,” the boss said.
Lena let out a short laugh.
“So the week-long layover is… on the move.”
“Yes.”
“In Nepal.”
“Yes.”
Gorchov leaned back, stretching carefully. “So we’re flying.”
“Eventually.”
“And before that?”
“Set things up,” the boss said.
“Get comfortable. Acclimate.”
Lena shook her head slowly. “I don’t like the phrase ‘get comfortable.’”
“You never do,” the boss replied.
The van slowed briefly, then accelerated again.
The hum of the engine deepened, steadier now, like it had committed to a long stretch of road.
Gorchov glanced at Lena.
“Have you ever been to Nepal?”
“No,” she said.
“Have you?”
“How would I even-”
The short guy smirked.
“At least the food’s good.”
The buff guy nodded.
“I hear the air’s thin.”
Gorchov smiled faintly.
“Everything is thin.”
The boss leaned back, folding his arms.
“You’ll get a briefing when it’s ready.”
“When is that?”
Lena asked.
“When it finishes becoming true,” he replied.
She grimaced. “I hate when you say things like that.”
“I know.”
Outside the van, the road stretched on, dark and open, carrying them away from the diner, away from the night’s mess, toward something higher, colder, and waiting.
