Quincy’s

The road seemed to stretch on for miles. Like many others, he had dreamed of driving along Route 66. He found The ‘Begin’ sign at the corner of Adams Street and Michigan Avenue in Chicago, Illinois. John Everon wasted little time. He filled up the gas tank and hit the road. It had taken him fifteen years of working minimum wage and living with his parents to achieve his goal. And now at the tender age of thirty-three, he was here, touring the US in a crappy Dodge, often lost and lacking funds. He loved every minute of it.

He had passed no other cars on this famous highway. It felt like he was the last man on Earth, driving through a zombie wasteland. This was like being back home in New Zealand. A farmer’s life was not for him. The drought hit his family’s land hard and John found himself handing over his wage so his folks could pay the bills.

But all that was behind him. After this tour he would head home, find a life partner, and try to settle down. Maybe head to university as an adult student and make something of his life. Thirty-three was not old. He could still amount to something, regardless of what his father claimed and his mother echoed. Without his money, they would have been bankrupt years ago. He saved them and in return they made him feel worthless.

John shook his head. Forget all that. It’s the past. The future lies ahead.

Now all he needed was an off-ramp. Hunger gnawed at him. When was the last time he had eaten? John looked at the empty junk food wrappers littering the passenger seat. He had found a lot in a convenience store. And the prices were good, unlike back home.

Far off in the distance, something shone, reflecting light. Getting closer, it took on a rectangular shape. Within minutes he saw heaven: Quincy’s Burger Bar.

He was in luck. There wasn’t any need to detour for food.

The place was large with a massive car park, with several cars sitting in the sun and an old truck and trailer near the back of the building. He pulled into the driveway and parked several spots away from the nearest car and took a deep breath. All the driving was tiring him out.

John opened the door and the heat of the sun assaulted him. He hadn’t realized the air conditioner in the car worked so well.

He walked through a constant wave of dry heat to the front door. A carved statue of a chubby guy in an apron and holding a spatula in one hand and a burger in the other stood guard at the entrance. The artwork was amazing. It was impressive, until he touched it, and discovered it was plastic. Computer-generated mold. No longer impressed, he pushed open the door and a blast of cool air washed his heated skin.

There was a lot of low chatter and several tables. Most were families or couples. He spotted the truck driver looking stereotypical in a grease-stained cap, flannel shirt, and grubby jeans. Two nuclear families sat in booths. One of the kids wore a retro Astro-man t-shirt and the other dressed as a cowgirl. The kids at another table were modern dressed. The teenage girl wore a Motley Crue shirt and the brother wore a Megadeth shirt. They sported hair spiked high and reminded him of 80’s punks. The parents of both families looked tired but for different reasons. If he ever had kids, John hoped he wouldn’t end up like that. A couple at a table to his right held hands. The girl cried; gentle sobs shook her shoulders, and the guy dressed in a suit tried telling her to quieten down. The other couple at a table halfway past the counter talked in secretive whispers. The man looked laid back as he blew smoke rings into the air.

“Take a seat anywhere, honey.”

He looked at the waitress and smiled. She was cute, in her late twenties, he guessed, and her green eyes seemed to sparkle at him. She wore a waitress uniform he had seen on many TV shows based in the eighties. Her light brown hair tied in a bun wasn’t held inside a hairnet, like at other restaurants.

Another waitress walked around carrying a full pot of coffee. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties. She wore her grey hair tied in a bun but she also looked tired. She poured coffee into the patron’s cups without asking.

John took a booth opposite the crying lady. Not because he wanted to eavesdrop but because the smoker was obviously in an unmarked smoking section. If there was one thing he hated, it was second-hand smoke, especially when he was eating.

“Hush down, Shelly. You know he hates crying.”

John was thinking of moving when the waitress came to his booth and smiled at him. “What can I get ya, honey?” Her name tag had Julie scrawled on it.

There was no menu on the table. “What do you recommend?”

“Burger, fries, and a coke.”

“Love it,” John said smiling.

She wrote on the notepad, ripped off the sheet, and laid it on his table and she walked away, swaying her hips as she went.

He looked down at the paper. Scrawled on it was not his order. She had written: Get out now!

John looked up at her. Behind the counter, she glared at him. Not anger, but urgent. The crying woman had stopped. She turned to him. A single tear still trickled down her cheek. The Truck Driver and the families all looked at him. The only couple that didn’t was the guy smoking and the woman with him.

For the first time in the US, he felt nervous. Most people he met were friendly as long as he didn’t disagree with them and he never did. Personal opinions were just that, personal.

The waitress didn’t give his order to the chef. She shooed him with her hands.

The man consoling the crying woman, said, “Go now before he sees you.”

“Leave,” the woman whispered.

John stood up. His nervousness died and crawled its way to fear. The kids were mouthing the word go. He didn’t need another hint. Something was wrong. He was out of here.

The sky darkened.

John walked to the door.

The burger bar darkened.

He pushed on the door.

Darkness slammed the door shut.

John pushed harder. Harder. It wouldn’t budge. He banged on the door. Panic set in, and he pushed his entire weight against it.

A puff of blue smoke rings floated past his face and spread across the glass exit door.

A husky voice said, “I even gave you three minutes.” The smoker stood behind him. He wore a cowboy hat, a metal band t-shirt, blue jeans, and boots with spurs. His black hair stood on his shoulders. He was clean-shaven with a square jaw, deep brown eyes, and a smile that belonged in a magazine to make young girls swoon. “I can’t be fairer than that, can I?”

“Who are you?”

The cowboy laughed.

Looking past him, John said, “What is this place?”

Julie shook her head and looked down.

The cowboy put his arm around John’s shoulder and led him away from the door.

“This is Quincy’s Burger Bar, the best burgers in America. Sit down and enjoy your meal.” Turning to Julie, he said, “Give the order.”

She shook her head.

“Give the order,” he repeated. His voice was soft but full of malice.

Julie turned to a gap in the wall behind her. “One eternity,” she said.

John stood up and turned towards the door. “Thanks, but I must be getting along.” He reached for the doorknob.

The cowboy grabbed his hand. It was ice cold. “Step outside and you’re dead.”

“He’s telling the truth,” the crying girl said. No sobs came now but her bottom lip trembled like she was about ready to lose it again. Her eyes filled with water and it looked like the damn was about to burst. She picked up a French fry. The fry fell back onto the plate. “Hey Julie, can I get a fresh plate?”

“No problem, Shelly.”

She smiled sweetly then reached for the man’s hand once again. They looked mismatched, him in an expensive suit and her in torn jeans and a sweater. His brown hair was short, almost a crew cut and her hair was long and bouncy reaching just past her shoulders.

The fries arrived and the plates swapped. Julie delivered them but kept her eyes diverted from him and the cowboy.

John pulled his hand away from the ice-cold grip. He looked outside. The darkness had come from nowhere and slammed into the building. “I don’t like threats,” he said to the cowboy’s reflection in the door glass.

“Ain’t no threat. In here, you’re safe. Out there, at this moment, you flat-line.”

“Must be a storm.” John had read about sudden storms in the US. No rain fell and there didn’t look to be any wind. “It’s just dark.”

“That’s not dark. That’s Darkness.” The cowboy smiled, dropped his cigarette to the floor, and ground it out. From his top pocket, he pulled out a fresh pack of Camel cigarettes with the famous camel image and used a match to light it. The smell of sulfur filled the air for but a brief second. The cowboy strolled back to his table. Kissed his girl hard on the lips, and then sat back down.

The woman was crying again. The man consoled her. John was curious about what happened. “Stephen, don’t you feel anything?” Shelly whispered.

This was way too personal. John turned from the door until his back faced the couple. The two kids from the nuclear family were looking at him. The parents were plowing into their food. The kid’s plates were almost empty. The little girl with dirty blond hair tied in pigtails waved at him. She smiled, exposing crooked baby teeth. She couldn’t have been older than five. Her freckled-faced brother copied her. He must have been seven at the most.

John waved back and turned to the door. The Darkness outside seemed to pulse, as if it breathed, like a living creature hunting for food. No one else in the diner seemed interested. Everyone focused on eating. Only the cowboy didn’t eat. He smoked. The teenagers with their spiked hair and metal band t-shirts were good imitations of the late eighties. The Billy Idol and hair-band era. The trucker bit down on a large burger oblivious to all around him. The old waitress continued to pour everyone coffee.

Something was way off here and John’s nerves hadn’t calmed down since he read Julie’s note. Thinking of Julie, he turned to see her carrying his Eternity Burger on a large plate with more French fries than he could ever eat.

He watched her place it on his table and walk away.

John cut between two empty tables and grabbed her arm. She looked at him with sad eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I tried to warm you. But I couldn’t reach your table fast enough.”

“What is this place?”

The cowboy said, “This is Quincy’s.” He leaned around in his seat. “I already told you that.”

“You said that you gave me three minutes. Three minutes for what?”

“That’s in the past.” He pointed at John’s booth. “Eat the burger and get out of here.” He looked out the window. “The Darkness will be gone soon.”

John returned to his table, suddenly changed course, and headed for the door. He turned the knob and pushed but the door didn’t budge. He picked up a chair and swung it at the glass door. It bounced off. He tried the window at his booth. Same result. He tossed the chair to the floor and flopped down onto the cushion seat.

No one paid him the slightest bit of attention, as if they had all seen this before.

Breathing heavy and starving, the aroma of the fat burger with a double beef patty and hot melting cheese entered his nose like finding god. Pure bliss. Pure happiness. He picked up the burger and involuntarily licked his lips.

Last night flashed in his memory.

He tried to block it and focused on the burger. The burger neared his lips and the image of the hooker riding him in the motel room flashed in his mind. Her tattooed arms with syringe scars pushed his shoulders into the mattress. She was stick thin and her hair needed a wash, but besides that, she was pretty. He grabbed her hips as she thrust against him.

John put the burger down. Where did that image come from? The last thing he remembered was fighting with his parents. Shouting that he was an adult, and it was his money he saved. To hell with the family farm. Dad wanted to drink the money away, well that was on him. The simple dream was dying fast. He stormed out of the house leaving his parents lying in a pool of blood.

He didn’t remember doing that.

This wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.

The little girl screamed. Her mother and father’s throat sprayed blood in a crimson arch across the table. The little boy’s throat followed.

John jumped to his feet. “Oh my God, what’s happening?”

The girl pointed at him as her head lolled back and her throat opened.

John staggered to the door. Diners paid no attention but the cowboy glared at him. Julie the waitress was busy with her duties. The woman was sobbing again.

He thought about his US experience. Memories of acts he didn’t remember committing flooded his consciousness. Hitting a jaywalker and speeding off; hookers in every town—none paid, all dead. Route 66: the family with the flat tire and a small girl in a cowgirl dress spinning in the heat of the sun.

He shook his head. “No way. Not me.” His hands were shaking. “I didn’t do this.”

“Of course, you didn’t,” the cowboy said. “Quincy did it.”

John’s mouth dropped open.

“Too much stress. Overworking. Parents taking your money.” He blew smoke rings into the air and crushed out his cigarette. “John Everon. John Quincy Everon.” The cowboy stood up. “It was just a matter of time.”

The windows of the burger joint swelled inward.

“Julie was the jaywalker.”

The glass on the door swelled inward.

“Shelly and Stephen, well,” he smiled. “Everybody needs a car.”

John turned to look at the windows. The Darkness was almost in. He had to get out somehow. He should never have come in here. Quincy’s echoed madness.

“The truck driver you ran off the road. He would have lived if you had stopped.”

Tears ran down John’s face. Fear ossified him. His muscles refused to work. “I’m sorry,” he said to the cowboy.

“None of that matters. I gave you three minutes to leave. If you paid attention to the people around you, you could have been driving Route 66 right now and making that turn-off for dinner. But you stayed too long. You recognized no one.”

John, rooted to the spot and unable to move, shouted, “Everyone, I’m sorry.”

The spiky-haired teenagers clapped. They squatted on their seats facing him.

“What about them?” he asked the cowboy.

“Oh, you didn’t kill them.”

This didn’t make sense. Everyone here was a result of his or Quincy’s actions. The rage, the murders, the split personality. One stronger than the other. The cowboy was the go-between, and his girlfriend and the older waitress were stock images to fill out the illusion. All this he understood, except the two teenagers and their parents.

“They are here for you,” the cowboy said.

John looked at them.

Their mouths opened wide, jagged teeth flashed in the lights and a forked tongue lashed against their black lips.

Facial skin split. They pulled at the skin and dropped it to the floor, revealing a face, so terrifying John’s bladder loosened and released a trickle.

They leaped off their seats as the windows exploded and the Darkness rushed in. John’s screams stretched an eternity.

END