UNDER THE CALM

Characters' ordinary lives unravel in a cascade of unexpected violence and mystery.

“ROADKILL”

The storm raged violently outside the roadside diner, unleashing a torrent of rain that hammered relentlessly against the battered roof. Thunder rolled like an angry beast, shaking the very foundation of the building.

Inside, the neon glow struggled to penetrate the thick murk, casting a muted light over a scene as worn and weary as its occupants.

At the counter, a stocky, bearded truck driver nursed a powerful cup of black coffee, his gaze lost in the crinkled pages of a newspaper. His long black trench coat hung off the back of his chair, seemingly guarding secrets of its own.

Behind the counter, an older waitress moved with tired precision, her lined face a map of regret and hard-lived secrets. She wiped down the counter with a practiced hand, weariness etched into her every movement.

In a shadowy booth near the entrance, Tommy and Rico sat, their fingers drumming anxiously on the table as they sipped their coffee. Rico clutched the handle of a black suitcase, his grip tightening around it. His eyes flicked nervously around the diner.

Tommy leaned closer, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “You know, Rico, you need to learn to ease the fuck up. You’d enjoy life more if you weren’t so twitchy all the time.”

Rico rocked back and forth, the briefcase cradled in his lap, desperation creeping into his voice. “Something’s wrong. He should have been here by now.”

“Will you relax? He’ll be here,” Tommy assured, waving a dismissive hand. “Johnny-B is the real deal.”

But Rico wasn't convinced. The tension radiating from him was palpable, and he hugged the briefcase closer to his chest.

The waitress paused, glancing over at them, while the truck driver turned the page of his newspaper, the sound of paper rustling sharp in the thick silence. Rico's anxiety spiked as he observed their faces, feeling the weight of his racing thoughts.

“Some shit is about to go down. I can feel it,” Rico muttered, his voice low and urgent.

Tommy laughed, amusement dancing in his eyes. “What shit?”

“How the fuck do I know? Am I psychic?” Rico shot back, frustration lacing his words.

“Well, you obviously know something I don’t. So…” Tommy replied, leaning back with a calculated nonchalance.

The truck driver took a slow sip of his coffee, the slurp echoing in the quiet space, while the waitress leaned against the counter, filing her nails, seemingly indifferent to the brewing storm of emotions around her.

The air thickened with anticipation as the diner's ambiance continued to pulse with a tangible unease, heightened by the relentless storm outside.

Tommy rolled his eyes at Rico, impatience creeping into his demeanor as he checked his watch.

“Alright, listen up, man,” he began, leaning forward with an almost conspiratorial air. “Let me tell you a story about this score I did a while back. So, I’m at this gig—everything’s mapped out like your perfect heist plan. Feeling like a total genius, right?”

He paused, letting the anticipation build before continuing. “I slip into this posh mansion, feeling invincible, and it’s like—jackpot! Art, jewelry, you name it. Just think of it—like that treasure trove we always talk about. But then, suddenly, I hear this bizarre noise, and my brain kicks into overdrive. Is it a cat? A fucking raccoon? Maybe someone’s vacuuming? You know how I get in those moments—everything spirals!”

“I bolt into this room, and there it is—this massive dollhouse. No joke, it looks like something out of a fucking horror flick. I mean, who even has a dollhouse that size? I’m peeking around it, half-expecting a ghost to jump out, and all I can think is, ‘Man, did I forget to check for alarms? Did I leave a trace?’”

His voice grew more animated. “So I'm freaking out, practically sweating bullets, and I hear footsteps coming closer. My heart is pounding like yours after a caffeine binge right before a job.”

“And here’s the kicker—I just slam the door and bolt right then and there. No cash, no jewels, just me, running like a fucking madman. And why? Because I couldn’t handle the pressure in that moment!”

Rico paused, processing the story. “So, what’s your point?”

“I came to realize something in that moment,” Tommy replied, leaning in with newfound intensity.

“Which was?” Rico urged.

Just then, Tommy’s expression shifted to one of cold determination. Suddenly, he withdrew a Glock from inside his overcoat and shot Rico in the head—Bang! Blood splattered against the wall behind Rico as his lifeless head fell forward, smacking the table with a sickening thud.

Tommy quickly reached across the table, grabbing the briefcase from Rico’s cold, dead hand. “Patience. You paranoid fuck,” he murmured, a twisted satisfaction in his voice.

As Tommy began to stand, intent on making his escape—Bang!

His body was blown backwards into the booth, blood and gore splattering the window. Footsteps crept toward the booth, and the truck driver appeared, a large revolver in hand, still pointed at Tommy’s now lifeless body.

Without a hint of hesitation, the truck driver snatched the briefcase from Tommy’s grasp and walked back toward his stool. The waitress stood frozen behind the counter, hands raised as she breathed heavily, her eyes wide with shock.

The truck driver set the briefcase on the stool, donned his trench coat, and tucked the revolver into one of the coat pockets. He pulled out his wallet, tossed a few bills onto the counter, and grabbed the briefcase as he made his way to the exit.

But just as he reached the door—Bang!

His body lurched forward, blood splattering against the glass door before he crumpled to the floor with a loud thud.

Another set of footsteps echoed through the diner. The waitress approached, wielding a shotgun, the barrel still smoking from its last use. She tossed the shotgun onto the floor and swiftly grabbed the briefcase from the driver’s hand.

As she headed for the exit, the bell above the door chimed with a cheerful ding, starkly contrasting the chaos that had just unfolded. Drops of blood dripped from a sign that read:

Dine and Dash: Our Specialty Since 1905!

****

“FATEFUL HITCH”

Somewhere in Arizona in 1973, a faded green Cadillac cruised down a desolate highway, the night air thick with an unsettling stillness. The headlights pierced the darkness, but it felt as if shadows were lurking just beyond their reach.

Inside the car, the Driver, a gray-haired man in his early sixties, fought off sleep. Deep lines marred his face, evidence of long hours spent on the road. He flicked on the radio, and a soft jazz melody filled the car’s interior, dancing with the silence that enveloped him.

But music could only do so much. The Driver struggled to stay alert, urging his eyelids to remain open, but one by one, they betrayed him. His eyes fluttered shut, surrendering to the exhaustion that clawed at his senses.

Then, with a jolt, he awoke just in time to see a Shadowy Figure on the side of the road, its thumb outstretched in desperation. Panic surged through him as he slammed on the brakes and cranked the steering wheel left, the Cadillac fishtailing for a heartbeat. With a surge of adrenaline, he wrestled the vehicle back under control, grinding to a halt in the middle of the lonely two-lane highway, now angled awkwardly across both lanes.

Sweat trickled down his neck, and he breathed heavily, heart racing.

“What the hell?” he muttered under his breath.

Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted a Woman approaching his window. She wore frayed jean shorts that boldly displayed her long, tanned legs and a tight-fitting tank top that accentuated her curves. She jogged up to the driver’s side, a sense of urgency in her movements.

With a hesitant hand, the Driver manually rolled down the window, the motor whirring in protest.

“Thank God you stopped. I’ve been out here for five hours,” she exclaimed, relief washing over her face.

“Are you okay? Did I hit you?” the Driver asked, concern flickering in his weary eyes.

The Woman looked herself over with a playful smirk. “Nope. I think I’m good. So, can you give me a lift?”

His gaze inadvertently wandered down her shirt as she leaned closer, the car's dim light illuminating her features. A mix of attraction and caution bubbled within him.

“Uh, where are you heading?” he managed to ask, fighting off the urge to fully engage in her presence.

“Anywhere outside of Scottsdale will be perfect,” she replied, her voice laced with an inviting charm.

The Driver hesitated, torn between the allure of the unknown and the cautious instincts honed from years of driving alone in the dark.

“Sure. Hop in,” he finally said, deciding to throw caution to the wind.

A wide smile spread across her face, and she clapped her hands together in excitement. She slid into the passenger seat, shutting the door firmly behind her. The Driver glanced at her, an inner storm brewing as he waited for her to say something more.

“Ready?” she asked, her anticipation palpable in the thick air.

He glanced at her seatbelt, feeling the need to enforce a semblance of safety in this spontaneous encounter. “Safety first,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Right. Of course.” The Woman responded, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she buckled herself in.

With a swift motion, the Driver shifted the Cadillac into drive. The tires screeched softly as the car lurched forward onto the deserted road.

As they resumed their journey, the shadows outside seemed to swirl and deepen, wrapping around the car like a shroud. The unnoticed chill of the night crept in, an undercurrent of tension stirring in the air.

The Woman glanced around the car, her eyes narrowing as she spotted takeout food wrappers and empty soda bottles cluttering the backseat.

“So, stranger, what’s your name?” she asked, her tone playful yet probing.

The Driver barely turned his head, smirking but clearly uninterested in small talk. He focused on the road, his silence a wall between them. The Woman raised her hands, a gesture of surrender.

“Okay. I get it. You’re the ‘mysterious’ type. I respect that,” she replied, her fingers tapping against the dashboard as she whistled a jaunty tune. The Driver cast her an annoyed glance, prompting her to stop.

“Sorry,” she said, a hint of mischief in her smile.

They drove in silence until the Driver turned the radio knob, lowering the volume. A news report broke through the airwaves: a truck driver in Texas had vanished after claiming to spot a strange flying object in the sky the night before.

“Can you believe some people actually think he saw a flying saucer?” the Woman remarked. “Imagine that. What if there are real aliens out there? Just watching us. Taking notes. Biding their time until…”

“Until what?” The Driver’s voice was edged with curiosity, though he tried to sound indifferent.

“What?” She turned towards him, her eyes sparkling with intrigue.

“You said aliens are just ‘biding their time.’ For what, exactly?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Until they’re ready to come down and make contact with us. Or maybe—just maybe—it’s something far more sinister than that.”

The Driver’s grip tightened around the steering wheel, his heart racing against the weight of her words. “Like what?”

“World domination? Who knows? But that’s the point, isn’t it? If there are really aliens, no one knows for sure what they’re capable of. And isn’t that the scariest part? The unknown?”

“Sure.” He attempted to remain detached, but his eyes inexplicably traced her long, slender legs as they shifted restlessly.

Catching his gaze, the Woman’s smile turned mischievous. “See something you like, cowboy?”

Flustered, the Driver forced his eyes back to the road. “What do you mean?”

She leaned closer, her lips inches from his ear. The heat of her breath made his skin prickle. “You like what you see?”

He swallowed hard, a mix of arousal and alarm flooding his senses.

“You wanna see my tits? My pussy?” Her voice was a sultry whisper, igniting a fire in him.

“I didn’t say that.” But his body betrayed him, a bulge forming in his jeans.

“Maybe not.” She reached between his legs. “But the soldier between your legs says otherwise.”

His breath quickened, the world fading away as her touch escalated. She unzipped his fly, and he felt his resolve crumbling.

“Keep your eyes on the road, cowboy,” she instructed, sultry yet commanding.

With a teasing flick, she sucked his earlobe before her head vanished between his legs. Panic and pleasure intermingled as the Driver gripped the wheel, knuckles turning white.

Breathing heavily, he teetered on the edge of climax when suddenly—a loud crunch erupted, tearing through the night.

His eyes bulged in horror as he screamed, the car swerving violently off the road and plunging into a ditch.

The Woman lifted her head, blood smeared across her lips and cheeks. She slurped something into her mouth, then giggled. “Oops. I swallowed.”

His screams intensified as he looked down to see a crimson puddle soaking his jeans. Desperation surged through him; he wrapped a hand around her throat. She responded with swift precision, gripping his wrist and bending it backward until every bone crunched, snapping under her control.

He howled in agony as he fumbled for the door handle, yanking it open. As he attempted to escape, the Woman gripped the waist of his jeans, pulling him back inside with a force that belied her appearance.

Her eyes transformed into two large, black saucers, and her teeth elongated into razor-sharp daggers. “We’re not finished here,” she growled, her voice guttural.

Before he could react, she lunged, sinking her teeth into his neck. The sensation of her teeth tearing through flesh sent shockwaves of terror through him, and his body fell limp, the impact of his head against the driver’s side window silencing his screams.

The Woman feasted, chomping down on his jugular with a hungry intensity. Moments later, she swallowed and sighed with satisfaction, a look of bliss washing over her face.

The Woman emerged from the vehicle and walked to the center of the desolate highway, her silhouette stark against the night. She gazed up at the sky, and suddenly, a beam of light shot down, engulfing her.

In an instant, she was lifted upward, pulled into the heavens as a black object raced away at lightning speed, disappearing into the night.

****

“THE NIGHT SHIFT”

Mark Turner settled into his night shift at the city morgue, the air thick with a chill that seeped into his skin and settled in his bones. The fluorescent lights hummed incessantly above him, casting flickering shadows that danced along the sterile walls. He had worked here for six months, finding a strange comfort in the muted silence, a stark contrast to the frenetic world outside. It was predawn stillness, where time felt as rigid as the bodies he guarded.

He ran a hand over his short-cropped hair, feeling every bit the sentinel. Each hour was a test of endurance, the weight of solitude creeping under his skin, twisting his thoughts. Oddly, the silence echoed louder in his mind. What if the dead could speak? What secrets did they carry? Dismissing the thought, he forced himself to focus on his task—monitoring the surveillance screens, checking the secured doors, and maintaining the sterile environment of the facility—the lifeblood of a job that many found horrifying, but he found oddly peaceful.

As the clock ticked, marking time with an agonizing slowness, Mark took a deep breath. He felt a shadow of something, something barely there, flicker just at the edge of his perception. He brushed it off as fatigue. The familiarity of his surroundings made him vulnerable, and yet the stillness wrapped around him like a heavy blanket.

It was as if the night had a mind of its own.

A sudden rustle broke the quiet, emanating from the autopsy room down the hall. An involuntary shiver raced through him, and Mark turned sharply, heart pounding. The sound was faint, an unsettling whisper breaching the calm. He forced his feet to move, drawing closer. Maybe it was a trick of the wind; maybe it was just his imagination. He peered through the small window of the examination room, expecting to see a body shifting beneath the cold metal light. Nothing but stillness stared back at him.

“Get a grip, Turner,” he muttered to himself, trying to shake off the disquiet. But his mind betrayed him, feeding on fears buried deep within. With each passing hour, shadows grew longer, and unease circulated in his bloodstream like poison. What had started as a routine shift seeped into a fog of dread.

As he made his rounds, checking doors and ensuring locks clicked into place, he felt an insistent tug at the back of his mind. Something wasn’t right. He would catch glimpses of movement in his peripheral vision as if the dead were watching. The bodies lay undisturbed, eyes forever shut, yet Mark could almost feel their gaze fixed on him, accusing him of being alive in a world so starkly devoid of life.

A soft whimper interrupted his thoughts, pulling him from the morbid reverie. He followed the sound to a corner of the room, almost convinced that he had imagined it. The flicker of the monitor caught his eye; the security footage showed nothing unusual—just the static of empty hallways.

The disquiet grew into a palpable tension as he resumed his patrol. Brief flashes of memory crept into his consciousness—shouts of laughter, the jarring sound of sirens, a heavy weight in his chest that felt familiar yet foreign. The images twisted in his mind like smoke, rising and disappearing before he could grasp their meaning. It was maddening.

An hour passed unnoticed, whether it was an hour or eternity was unknown. Mark heard another sound, more pronounced this time. It emanated from one of the storage compartments. He approached and hesitated, hand hovering near the cold metal door. Was that a voice? He tugged the door open and was met with an almost comical emptiness, but the voice echoed still in his mind—soft and pleading.

“Help me,” it resonated, and he froze, heart racing as the words wrapped around him. They felt intimate, personal, drawing him nearer to the abyss of madness. Swallowing hard, he stepped back and cursed himself for being so easily shaken.

With each passing moment, he felt clarity slipping away. The world outside seemed to vanish, and he was left marooned in a surreal landscape of horror and confusion. It was just him, the whispering shadows of the dead, and the daunting solitude that had become his prison.

Finally, the clock struck three, and a blood-curdling scream sliced through the air, filled with despair, echoing off the sterile walls. Mark bolted towards the source, mind racing. He turned the corner and nearly stumbled into the observation room, every instinct telling him to run. But he had to know.

He pushed the door open, breath hitching in his throat. The chaos that met his eyes was impossible: bodies strewn carelessly across the floor, their eyes wide open in terror. Yet, none of them were alive. They were mere remnants, reminders of a past life.

“No!” he gasped. His hand instinctively reached out, searching for understanding amongst the horror, but the sight of lifeless forms twisted something deep within him. As panic surged, he stumbled backward, colliding with the wall.

In the reflective surface of the window, he saw something that stopped his heart—there was no reflection, no signal of life staring back. He gripped the edge of the window frame, choking on the thin air. The realization crashed down like a wave: he was not the guard; he was among the dead, trapped in a loop of confusion, unable to move on. The night shift was never his to guard; it was his eternal vigil.

Staggering back, Mark understood, with dreadful clarity, that he had been nothing more than an occupant in the morgue he had sworn to protect, lingering in the silence of forgotten lives. As the shadows closed in on him, drowning the light, he let out a final breath, lost in the night he could never escape.