Agent Rico, the head of the 24th division of "Internet," is stuck in a room with his pet fish Laurel and forced to go through other agents' accounts of what they face in the strange and unbelievable world. From monsters eating people in the snow, vi...
Uhh! A car speeds by, honking its horn. A jolt to my nervous system jerks my head up. I felt a stream of dried saliva on my cheek, and I...was asleep. I turn around, and the children are gone. The sun is rising. I made it to the other side of the tunnel. My bus is pulled, partly on the road, partly on the shoulder. I take a minute to breathe—no thoughts in my head, just breathing.
I don't know if I should put much thought into what happened. Maybe I can tell myself it was a series of nightmares that won't bother me again, so I can keep traveling. I drive down the road in the hopes of finding a diner. God, I need some coffee.
The bus is still cold. I can't think straight. I can barely keep my eyes open. Why am I so tired even though I just work up? I see a sign through the trees with the word DINER spelled out in a generic font.
I pull into the parking lot with only four cars in it. As usual, I see the same panic faces expecting a barrage of hungry kids who can't leave a tip. This is a good spot to get some coffee and return on the road. I stand up and feel a chill on my side. The part of my jacket where the little girl grabbed me is still frozen. Guess I can't pretend.
I take the booth with a view of the road. I see the sun in the sky and let the scent of bacon hit my nostrils. My waitress walks up to me with a chipper ton.
WAITRESS
Well, aren't you up early? You're
my first customer of the day.
Her voice is chipper. I don't know where she gets the energy to sound that happy in the morning. She is in her mid-thirties with curly brown hair. Her skin is clear and smooth. It's clear she lotions in the morning. She pulls out one of those folding notepads every waitress has to take orders and a bunch of receipts. I see one slip out and drift to the floor.
Before she can reach down, I go pick it up. It isn't a receipt. It's a picture of a little girl. She has curly brown hair and bright hazel eyes. I stare at it, frozen for a moment. It's the same child. I go to hand it over to the waitress. That's when I notice they have the same eyes.
GRANT
Uh, cute kid.
WAITRESS
Thanks, it's my sister. She is...
would have been ten this year.
Her voice trails out at the end of the sentence. I return a gentle smile and nod. I sat there and talked to her about her life, her sister, everything. I couldn't tell her about what I saw. She would think I was crazy. What the conversation did, though, was solidify what my next move needed to be.
MIDNIGHT A MONTH LATER
I let the engine run as I pour myself a cup of coffee in my kitchen slash living room. The bus is filled with the chill vibes of Surface. I take a sip from my cup and let the warmth hit my body. God, this is some good coffee.
I hear the creak of my back door open. I rush to the front of the bus and open the front. Waiting for me on the other side is more of a smoke creature. There are fewer of them this time around. Every night the group size change. It depends if I am near a city or town. Though no matter where I go, there is always some waiting for me. The same goes for the tunnel—no matter what state I'm in. The clouds will block the stars, and the road will always lead to the tunnel.
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As they walk in, I flick on the heater and put my coffee in the cupholder.
GRANT
I hope you don't mind; it drops 20 degrees
when you kids walk in here.
They all take their seats, and the smoke fades. I turn the key, and the engine hums.
