MIDNIGHT_DISPATCH.EXE (Part 3)

tonight's tune: The Cufflinks, "Guided Missiles"

Disoriented, tumbling, you drift once more, divorced from any body. Your mind is a vast, empty bowl, thoughts stretched like a film of cling-wrap tugged too far over the rim, struggling to maintain a seal against the infinite antipressure of the void.

Gradually, sensation returns. Your back feel rigid and strong in the cold night. Spine a beam of steel. You’re crouched on all fours, but this too feels comfortable, even natural. Your hands and knees are at home on the pavement. As your fists curl into balls, the asphalt divots grind into them serenely, slotting into the grooves of your knuckles.

No, not hands. Wheels.

Someone opens a door, settles down inside, and you feel a key being slotted. You shudder with pleasure as your engine turns over. Hot gasoline fumes hunger on your breath. 

> open eyes

You have none, and yet you can see, albeit dimly. You’re in some kind of clearing by the road, a patch of light encircled by pitch darkness.

> drive

By coincidence, just as the thought arises, you feel a lever depressed, and it goads you into motion, like a horse driven by the spurs of its rider. The gas gurgles inside your lines, revving your motor hot, and you lurch forward into the night.

> look

Ahead of you is the road. Your vision comes alive as someone flicks a switch, scarring the blacktop with a thousand lumens of intense, white light.

> stop

This is possible, but no longer within your control.

> brake

You are more than prepared to do this when commanded.

> inventory

You are carrying two passengers. Your belly is full of fuel. 

Myriad equipment has been stashed in your many compartments: hoses, ladders, first aid kits. None accessible to you now.

Somewhere, within a hidden recess deep under your floorboards, a small glowing flower pulses with light.

> listen

The people inside you are talking, but it’s difficult to hear what they’re saying. It’s almost as if you have forgotten language. Much clearer to you is the murming of the road, the incessant whisper of its hisses and bumps, and the wind whistling as it whips over your chasse.

You concentrate. It seems there are two voices. One is a man, whom you know. The other, distinctly female, triggers a memory. She’s asking a question. The man responds:

“You’ll see when we get there. Don’t worry. Not far now.”

And then her voice:

“What about everyone at the station? I don’t understand why they had to be quarantined, when I - “

He interrupts. You feel your gears grind in irritation. Lies are coming.

“The exposure is proximity-based. We can calculate it room by room. In the - where were you? Oh, the dispatcher’s booth, yes. Well, then you weren’t close enough to get a problematic dose.”

> warn woman

With what lips? What speech?

“I just don’t understand why nobody else was allowed to come with us. Are you - you mind if I take a look at that badge of yours again?” You can almost hear the thin smile sliding up the corners of his sallow face.

“By all means. In fact, you can hold on to it for a while."

> activate sirens

Only in your heart.

The man reaches down and flips a switch on your dash. Lights begin flashing in the oblong tubes atop your cab.  The road ahead is bathed with their blood-red strobes. Does he sense your silent irritation? Is he toying with you?

> remember

Having given up the idea of exerting any control over the situation, you surrender yourself to the driver’s course. But you listen carefully to the road, internalizing every curve, turn, and bump, committing the path to memory. Somewhere inside you, the glowing box begins to shimmer with renewed intensity, the flower’s folded petals briefly unfurling, as if shaking off a sleep.

Before long, the lights of some dwelling appear in the distance. Your motor slows as the steering column turns hard over, wheels gliding into a parking lot lit by the glow of the diner’s neon sign.  

The man pulls you into a spot near the far end of the lot, shaded by a lamppost with a shorted-out bulb. You hear a door open, then a click. A kind of melancholy fatigue overtakes you as you feel the key turned in its socket and withdrawn, your diesel heart suddenly sputtering out. You feel the soles of his shoes grease the rungs as he steps down from the cab. He stands by the door, rain-slick pavement reflecting his tall silhouette like a dark mirror showing an inverted world.

As you fade back into unconsciousness, you hear him call back to the passenger: “This way, now…”

Once again you sleep, dreaming in clouds of gasoline fumes. Soon their lingering odor is all that remains.

Then, the smell begins to change. Still that sour edge of fuel vapor, but with the high, sweet texture of cooking gas. Gradually new smells creep in: the chaotic reek of a busy kitchen; rendered fat and melting cheese; chili simmering and the sputtering of greasy eggs. The steady drip of brewing coffee. Words ring out in the darkness:

ORDER UP!

and you are awake.

> look

You’re standing in front of a grill. Hamburger patties sizzle in a row towards the back. To your right is a spatula. Below the grill surface and to the left and right are various compartments and drawers for different ingredients. Above the grill is a small window that looks out into the corridor adjacent the dining area.

A woman leans her head through the window - a waitress, clearly, though the sight of her face stirs some memory within you. The short blonde hair, cold blue eyes, the twinge at the corner of her frown that hints at a smile about to break through - it’s very familiar.

“Two dots and a dash, whiskey down!” she barks.

(For help decoding diner lingo, check pages 17-23 of your manual.)

> cook bacon

You reach into the refrigerated compartment by your knees, taking out a rasher of bacon and setting each piece on the griddle.

> toast rye bread

As the bacon begins to sizzle, you reach into the bread basket for a slice of rye, buttering it generously before setting it on the grill.

> cook 2 eggs

You crack two eggs and watch them sizzle on the hot metal. 

> flip bacon and bread

You give the bacon and the toast a turn. The savory smell of frying fat tickles your nostrils. The eggs are firming up. Almost done.

> plate food

At the perfect time, you grab a plate and slide all three items onto it with your spatula.

> put plate in window

“ORDER UP!” you exclaim as the ceramic clinks against the metal rail. A moment later a slender hand appears, lifts and snatches the plate in one swift motion, and is gone.

Almost immediately after, another order is shouted out from the dining room:

“Burn one, take it through the garden and pin a rose on it!”

> cook hamburger

You deftly retrieve a patty from the fridge and set it sizzling on the grill.

> toast bun

The warm aroma of toasting bread mixes with the greasy smell of frying beef. 

> flip burger

You turn the patty over. While waiting for the obverse side to char, you find a plate and set up the now toasted bun. When the burger’s done, you place it on the bottom half.

> dress hamburger

You adorn the burger with a crisp wedge of lettuce, and top it with a juicy slice of tomato.

> put flower cube on plate

Reaching into you pocket, you take out the glowing cube. When you set it on the plate, it begins to writhe and morph, edges melting and flowing into sinuous curves, ending up as a luminescent pink garnish.

> put plate in window

“ORDER UP!”  

On queue, the hand reaches through the window to retrieve the plate. As it does, you can see the garnish drawn to the skin like a magnet, liquid form shimmering like an oil slick, wrapping serpentine fashion around the wrist.

The hand pauses for a second, still gripping the plate, and you find yourself hypnotized by the undulating, iridescent bands of the strange bracelet clinging tight there. As the hand withdraws, your vision seems to narrow like an aperture being drawn shut, a sudden fatigue overtaking you as the pinhole narrows....

You are standing in the alcove by the kitchen, holding a plate.

> look plate

The plate holds a perfectly-cooked hamburger on a toasted bun, dressed with lettuce and tomato.

> look

The alcove is behind a partition which separates the kitchen and the service window from the dining room proper. Near the door to the kitchen is a coatrack, and a small mirror hangs on the wall. 

The dining room itself is about half-full of customers. Each table is shrouded in its own curtain of shadow, but the lights on the ceiling twinkle gently, like a field of stars glittering in the vault of night.

Above one table, in the far corner near the door, a colored light floats. It winks at you, bathing the diners at the corner booth in a glow, oscillating from blue, to pink, to green, to purple, then back around.

> walk to table

You cross the dining room to stand by the table indicated by the light hovering under the ceiling.

> look diners

To your left sits a man, a worn cadigan drawn over a shirt and tie, both of whose color has faded with age. He doesn’t acknowledge you, but continues to speak to his companion, a woman whose long brown hair hangs down to almost totally cover her face. Neither take note of your presence.

> put food on table

You set the plate down in the middle of the table, and silently withdraw back to the alcove.

> inventory

You’re carrying an order pad and a pen. Your pockets are empty.

Around your wrist is a strange bracelet.

> look bracelet

It loops around your forearm several times. Smooth as chrome, it feels warm to the touch, glistening like an oil slick and pulsing with an internal glow. In the middle, right over the vein of your wrist, is a small, serpentine head with jeweled eyes.

> look mirror

You smirk at the familiar, tired face in the mirror, running your fingers through the same blonde bob you’ve had since you were seventeen. 

The specific memory of that haircut is like a sudden spark that fades out before a fire can catch.  Were you once seventeen? Presumably, but...the more you try to focus on the recollection, the more elusive it becomes. There’s something there, but...any details are difficult to recall.

This uniform isn’t doing much for you, honestly, you think, reaching down to adjust your nametag.

> look nametag

Hello, my name is

DENISE

A light illuminates another table in your section, where a pair of diners are seated.

> walk to table

As you approach, the faces of the patrons clarify out of the gloom. To you shock, you recognize one of them. Memories of another life come flooding back. It’s the rookie! The newbie who just joined your department. The one where you…

It’s then you realize that you also know the man sitting opposite. Those gaunt, pale cheeks; that black widow’s peak.

Before the rookie can even speak, the man orders two coffees. He doesn’t look at you. The rookie does, but doesn’t seem to recognize you.

> order coffees from kitchen

You walk back to the kitchen, shout at the cooks to draw two in the dark. 

> write “bathroom” on back of ticket

Done.

A shout from the kitchen indicates that the coffees are ready.

> get coffees

You retrieve the two steaiming mugs from the window, placing them on a serving tray.

> put note under cup

You fold the note and slip it beneath one of the coffee cups.

> go back to table

Balancing your tray tray in one hand, you return to the table. Once again, the man doesn’t pay any attention to you. 

> put coffee on table

You set the mugs down, first in front of the rookie, then in front of the man. As you begin to withdraw your hand, you notice the man straighten up, as if some vital thought just occurred to him. He whips around to face you. In the next instant you feel his cold, spindly fingers lock around your arm. He looks directly into your eyes, a snarl curling his lips.

“That was an error,” he says. “Not quite the same as last time, was it?”

> run

You try to break from his grasp, but find you are rooted to the spot. It feels like there are steel pegs in your flats, bolting you to the floor. His burning cold eyes lock with yours.

His fingers squeeze your forearm tighter, like vines grown from ice, chill and slick and impossibly strong. With iron strength he begins to draw you closer.

Then you feel something else crawling around your wrist, metallic but warm. The man’s eyes go wide.

> look wrist

The bracelet has uncoiled itself, the eyes of the snake burning with bright green flame, copper fangs sunk deep into the man’s wrist. Its body undulates as the jaws press down, making little divots in his pale flesh. 

His fingers release you. 

> look rookie

The rookie is gone, having left an overturned mug of coffee and your note, now unfolded, on the table.

From the dining room, you can hear the jukebox whirr to life. The television flicks on, starts replaying those old familiar shots of nighttime rocket launches. A strangely ominous song begins to play at an upbeat tempo:

GUIDED MISSILES, AIM AT MY HEART

DOWN TO DESTROY ME, TEAR ME APART

GUIDED MISSILES, NONE OF THEM TRUE

NOW I KNOW THE ENEMY IS YOU...

> walk to front door

The volume of the jukebox kicks up as you near the exit. You feel more than see the heads of more and more diners lift from their plates to watch you, a forest full of slavering eyes. You hear the screeches and groans of wood on parquet as people begin to rise from their seats like the reanimated dead.

 

YOU WEAKENED MY DEFENSES

WITH YOUR TENDER KISSES

YOU KNEW WHEN YOU LOVED ME

I NEVER COULD RESIST...

> open door

The lights suddenly go out as you wrest open the front door. Only the twinkling of the ceiling lights still illuminates the room full of leaden-eyed zombies shuffling towards you. The palette of electric stars within begins to blend into the night sky outside, until you can no longer separate the two.

The sound of the jukebox takes on a filmy, distorted quality, as if the room were slowly filling with water.

NOW YOU GOT ME

I HOPE YOU’LL WIN

TRUSTING YOU WAS MY ONLY SIN

BUT THE SAME GUIDED MISSILES WILL GET YOU IN THE END…

> run to truck

You bolt out of the door and run across the parking lot. Your shoes trample rain puddles into spray. Luckily, the fire truck is still there, its great antiquated hulk slouching in the shadow of a burnt-out streetlamp.

> get in truck

Before opening the door, you glance up at the moon, which is just emerging from behind a wisp of cloud. It glowers down at you, bronze and wet and dripping with light. You open the door and climb into the cab.

> start truck

You have no key.

Diners are beginning to spill out of the restaurant, stumbling in your direction.

> look for key

You search the cab, checking in every compartment, under the seat, behind the visors, but nothing. The truck cab is remarkably clean, almost like new. The moonlight paints a filmy glow across the top of the dash, playing along the little fringes on the bottom of the wheel. Adjusting your shirt as you sit back down, you notice something twinkling just behind the cuff of your sleeve.

The hulking, shambling horde crosses the parking lot, closing in on you.

> look bracelet

The snake is still wrapped around your wrist. Its jade eyes pulse softly as the moonlight dances along its skin.

> use bracelet with truck

How?

> inventory

You are carrying:

order pad and pencil

Around your wrist is a strange bracelet.

A hand slaps the door. A groan. The door handle begins to jiggle...

> put hands on wheel

As your fingers caress the steering wheel, the bracelet springs to life, flowing off your wrist and changing shape, thinning as it slides into the keyhole. The tail remains curled around your wrist. You feel a strange enery surge through your body as the truck’s engine roars to life.

> drive

You let the wheel guide your hands. The gears shift and the pedals work like the grooves on a record as the truck pulls itself out of the parking lot, and onto the black and silent highway. The lights of the diner quickly fade into the rear view mirror. 

You snake across empty, invisible back roads, winding through blank hills and the black, void-soaked terrain. The stars overheard begin to spin once more. Eventually the interior of the cab evaporates, the sounds of the engine thrumming fading into a distant silence. You are once again adrift in the endless cavern of the night sky, drawn forward by intertia, and the mysterious magnestism of those two green eyes, their jade orbs shimmering in the dark.

Two green circles, winking in the blackness...

00

The clock on your dashboard is blinking. 12:00.

> look

You are in your truck. It is night.

> look truck

The dim moonlight traces over the familiar countours of the boxy old cab. The windows are covered with a thin film of frost. Your breath manifests as pale smoke in the cold. 

There is a person sitting next to you in the passenger seat.

> look person

It’s Denise. She looks like she’s just woken up, and is wearing some kind of uniform. Does she have a second job as a waitress that you didn't know about?

> ask Denise what happened

She looks around, confused. “Damned if I know. I was in the office, on a call with you, last thing I remember. How did I get out here?”

> ask Denise if she’s ok

“Think so.” She puts a hand to her forehead. “Head’s kinda sore. Shit, we didn’t actually drink up the chief’s little present, did we?”

> look in backseat

The little brown box is still there, safely secured.

> ask Denise what to do

“Beats the hell outta me. Make it a little warmer for starters, if you can boot this old clunker up.” 

> start truck

You don’t have the key.

> inventory

You are carrying:

wallet

lip balm

cell phone

keys on a fuzzy unicorn keychain

> look wallet

It’s not yours. Actually, according to the driver’s license nestled behind the little plastic window, it belongs to Denise.

> give Denise her things back

You hand her the items in your pocket. She looks baffled, mumlbling, “Now, wait just a minute…” before fumbling around in her own pockets, and pulling out another wallet. She glances it at, and looks at you in shock.

She hands you the wallet.

> look wallet

It’s yours.

Denise also hands you back your cell phone, your keys, and your gum.

“What the hell is going on?” she wonders aloud.

> look phone

Your phone is off.

> turn on phone

No luck. Battery’s dead, maybe.

> start truck

You feel a surge of relief as the old engine coughs and turns over. After a minute or two, warm air begins to spill through the heating vents, and the truck becomes a more comfortable place to be.

> ask Denise what time it is

Denise looks at her watch. She's wearing one you've never seen before; the band is silvery and ornate, shaped like a green-eyed snake biting its own tail at the clasp.

“About seven-fifteen. PM, I guess…”

> set clock

You change the time on the truck’s clock accordingly. 

“Shit,” says Denise. “Never mind. Just realized my watch stopped.”

> drive back to station

Slowly, you reverse the truck and make your way back down the icy hill. Rounding the lake and back onto the highway, you feel like you’re driving into a mirror's dim reflection. What lights you can make out are filmy and weak. The darkness surrounding your truck is close and oppressive, and your headlights do little to ward it off. Gazing through the windshield, you feel as if you're standing on the bottom of the ocean, staring at a faint shimmer from the surface miles above.

As you drive, you glance at the clock, and are surprised to see that it still reads 7:15. Maybe the cold messed it up somehow?

When you pull off the highway and up to the station, all the lights appear to be off, including those of the small, rectangular building adjacent the firehouse which serves as the dispatcher’s office. The residual glow from the parking lot washes one of its corrguated sides with harsh halogen light, but otherwise, the complex is dark.

In the parking lot is a single black sedan.

> park

You park the truck, choosing a space suitably distant from the strange intruder.

“I don’t like the looks of this,” says Denise.

> look office

Beyond the darkened windows, you can see lights flickering, moving about in a roving, searching pattern. Flashlights, maybe. Somebody is home after all.

> look clock

Still 7:15.

> get out

You grab the handle and step down into the night. 

“Want me to come with?” asks Denise.

> say Yes

Denise kicks her own door open with a grunt, and swings herself down from the cab. 

“Hey, what’s this?” she mutters. She fishes into her back pocket and comes out with a strange leather case, about the size of a wallet. She opens it, looks at it with a puzzled expression, and hands it to you.

> look wallet

Inside the case is some kind of badge or ID, but it looks blank. Sort of. You can definitely see words, and a space for a picture, but when you try to read them, you get dizzy and your eyes won’t focus, and you can’t make anything out.

“This is fucked,” says Denise. 

> walk up to station door

“Right behind you, rook,” whispers Denise. Your feet crunch in the light dusting of snow that covers the asphalt, but in the deathly silence it sounds like bones cracking beneath your boots. 

You’re standing at the entrance.

> open door

The door swings open. Looking past the threshold, you can see nothing but darkness, except for the faint, irregular pulses of light that sweep from room to room.

> enter

You push forward into the small lobby. Walking past the dispatcher’s booth, you can see desk drawers upended, file cabinets pulled out, cuboards thrown open, and boxes of papers overturned, their contents scattered across the floor like a covering of leaves.

> look

You’re standing in the darkened lobby. There’s a small receptionist’s desk here. Further on is the dispatcher’s booth, a row of desks, and doors to the chief’s office and supply closet. A clock hangs above the door.

> look clock

It appears stopped. The hands are paused at 7:15.

The door to the chief’s office opens, and a man steps out. He’s wearing a dark suit and tie, but otherwise, he looks exactly like the man from the diner. Same sallow complexion, same cruel smile. His eyes glow like lamplights in the dark, spilling luminence on the piles of papers and open binders scattered over the floor.

He begins walking towards you.

> back up

From behind you, Denise says, “Uh…”

You spin around and see three more men, all identical, with the same dark business suits and lamplit eyes, standing between you and the doorway.

> look man

As he crosses the room, more of him appear out of the offices down the hall. Their glowing eyes make their pale faces look deathly and haunted.

> talk to men

Somehow you don’t think they’re in the mood for a conversation.

“We’re surrounded,” says Denise. "Better do something quick…”

> hold up badge

Just before the first of the men gets within arm’s reach, you dig the strange badge out of your pocket at hold it up. The man nearest to you stops, frozen in mid-stride; he begins to vibrate, like a TV image that losing reception, and the other copies of him contract, thinning and and snapping into one another like a deck of cards being scattered in reverse.

His eyes dim, turning back into those familiar large, liquid, but comparatively normal globes. His expression also changes; no longer snarling, he stares at you with practiced sangfroid, and extends his hand.

“Thank you,” he says. “I was just looking for that.”

> give badge to man

He accepts the badge, slipping it inside his jacket. He looks to Denise, then back at you.

“Well,” he says. “I guess we’re finished here.”

A light begins to penetrate the windows from outside. Its intensity builds rapidly until the whole office is aflame in a pulsing, electric blue glow. It seems to permeate the man; electricity crackles betwen his fingers, curls around the buttons on his suit, and his eyes glow even brighter than they had before. He seems to rise from the ground, even as his form becomes semi-transparent, levitating and dissapating at the same time, while the light becomes so bright you have to shield your eyes against it, replacing the world with a firey neon singularity.

From nowhere, from inside your own head as much as from without, and without his lips seeming to move, you hear him say:

“We’ll see you again soon.”

The light suddenly vanishes. The man is gone.

“What the fuck,” says Denise, rubbing her eyes and looking around at the once again darkened office.

> look outside

The parking lot is empty, save for your truck.

Denise begins walking around the office, flipping on lights, picking up phones and frowning when she doesn’t get a dial tone.

“Try getting on the horn to Woodlawn. See if anyone else is out there.”

> go to dispatcher’s booth

You walk into the booth, and sit down in front of the radio set. A book of frequencies rests next to the unit, among a flurry of scattered papers

> dial woodlawn frequency

You call the station, but there is no response, only static.

> tell Denise you’re going to drive over to woodlawn and get help

You stick your head out of the booth and let her know you plan to drive over there and get help. She looks like she’s about to object, but then thinks better of it. 

“All right, makes sense,” she says. “Watch yourself out there, though. I don’t know what’s going on, but I got a weird feeling all of a sudden. Like, deja vous, you know?”

> ask denise to go with

“I’d better stay here in case somebody turns up. Maybe I can get the phones to work again.” She crosses the room to stand beside you, looking you in the eyes, and squeezes your hand.

“Stay on the horn, you hear? And be careful.”

> go outside

You nod at her and walk back outside. Standing at the top of the little wooden staircase, you rest one hand on the railing, and gaze up at the moon. The clouds have parted, and it shines down full and magnificent. Your breath spills out in voluminous clouds.

> get in truck

You walk back to the truck, climb in, and start the engine.

> look in backseat

The chief’s package is still there.

> drive to woodlawn

As you slip back onto the highway, a sense of calm comes over you, leaden and inevitable, along with a weird feeling of deja vous.

The road plays its familiar, soothing song as the lines slip once again beneath your wheels, and the stars wheel overhead.

The numbers on the clock are counting backwards. 7:10... 7:09...

It is night. You are driving…

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