text: His coffee had grown cold, but he took a large gulp all the same. He would need as much supplemental energy as he could find if he had any hope of arriving home before dawn. Already, Oliver could feel fatigue taking hold, and it was only just past midnight. He had at least five hours of dull and tedious driving ahead of him. His eyes were heavy in his skull, and the thought of sleep proved all too enticing. He longed for the warm embrace of his bedsheets above all else. A weekend of debauchery in New Orleans had left him exhausted. At some point, he lost track of how many bars and strip clubs he had visited. *When in Rome*, he thought. The weekend had also left him nearly destitute. Even if he wanted to rent a motel room for the night, he would have trouble finding the capital to do so. It seemed he was left with no choice but to press on, to make it home. Now, he was traversing rural Arkansas on his journey back north. The highway he found himself on was nearly deserted at this hour, and it was lined with dense forest as far as the eye could see. The unchanging scenery made staying alert all the more difficult. He took another swig of gas station coffee, his second cup of the night. He feared that caffeine would not be enough to carry him home, though -- he needed to break up the monotony of the flat, static highway. The radio had been playing at a low volume thus far, but he thought loud music might reinvigorate him, so he turned it up to a volume that most would consider unpleasant. It was tuned in to a local classic rock station and, sure enough, he felt a renewed vigor as he hummed along to the cycling hits. He carried on in this fashion for another half-hour or so, thumping his thumb upon the steering wheel to match the familiar rhythms. *I might make it home after all*, he thought. Then, one of his old favorites came on -- Blue Öyster Cult’s “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” -- and he turned the volume even higher, letting the music wash over him. The song brought with it memories of a simpler time, when Oliver was just a child, listening to the radio with his father in his childhood home’s garage. So much had changed since then; he was not sure when his life had gotten so off track. For the time being, though, he was content with allowing the nostalgia to fill his mind with images of a much more pleasant era, and he sang along: *All our times have come, here but now they’re gone...* A smile crept across his face. Without noticing, he began pressing his foot to the gas pedal harder and harder, gradually building speed in a subconscious effort to match the euphoria brought on by the music. Soon, he had accelerated to 100 miles per hour, though he was blissfully unaware of doing so. *Seasons don’t fear the reaper...* *Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain...* *We can be like they are...* Despite having few reasons to be happy, in that moment, Oliver felt at peace. All the while, the car continued to gain momentum. Then, in the blink of an eye, the entire weight of the world came crashing down upon him. *Come on baby, don’t fear the reaper...* At first, he only saw the glare of his headlights reflected in its eyes, but within fractions of a second, its full figure became clear -- a deer, frozen in the headlights, watching as two tons of metal came barreling toward it. *Baby take my hand...* There was no time to correct his course. In a brief moment of clarity, he became aware that he would collide with the animal, and that he would, in all likelihood, die in the process. He discovered that the old adage was true, after all -- your life really does flash before your eyes in the moments leading up to your demise. While some might think of all of the good times they have had, of cherished moments with loved ones, Oliver’s mind was flooded with a single, all-encompassing emotion: regret. *Don’t fear the reaper...* In an act of animalistic instinct, he closed his eyes as he braced for impact. He slammed his foot down upon the brake pedal, though he knew this would not change his fate. Time seemed to slow as his car, still traveling at ferocious speed, came closer and closer to obliterating the blinded beast, until, finally, it made contact, a monstrous machination of man colliding with the hide of one of Earth’s most beautiful creatures, and then -- *We’ll be able to fly...* Nothing. His tires screeched as his vehicle came to its tumultuous halt, but inexplicably, there was no collision. Oliver felt like his heart might beat out of his chest, and his knuckles were white from the tightness of his grip on the steering wheel. Some time passed before he remembered to breathe. After a few moments of sitting in shock, he exited the vehicle to inspect the road behind him. There was no sign of the deer -- no blood, no carcass, no tracks in the grass beside the highway. He tried to rationalize what had just taken place and failed to come to any conclusion. Was his tired mind playing tricks on him? Was the deer a figment of his imagination, a sign that he was not fit to continue driving? After searching the area thoroughly, he reentered his car, no closer to understanding what had transpired. He resolved to stop at the next establishment he came across to collect his thoughts, whether it be an eatery, a gas station or a rest stop. He turned off the radio and continued driving, this time at a sluggish pace. His hands shook violently on account of his crushing anxiety, having survived after coming within inches of certain death. He traveled well below the speed limit for the next few miles. Not a single car shared the road with him. The night now felt incredibly eerie, and he became acutely aware of how far he was from what most would call “civilization.” He was prepared to resign himself to pulling over and sleeping in his car when a beacon of hope appeared in the distance -- a bright neon sign, a sign of life. He was unable to make out the words, but he knew that he needed to get there as quickly as possible. He picked up speed, and soon, the sign gained clarity -- it read: “World’s End Diner.” It was the first building he had seen in over an hour. To Oliver, it felt like finding an oasis in the middle of a harsh and unforgiving desert. *A fitting name*, he thought. He reached the diner within minutes and, to his surprise, it was gorgeous -- pristine, even. Given its surroundings, he had no idea how or why it had been so well maintained. The neon sign glowed a stunning blue in the night sky, and the retro architecture made it appear as if it had been plucked out of the 1950s and dropped there, just for this occasion. The scene was a strange amalgamation of beauty and omen. Strangely, there were no other cars in the parking lot, yet a neon sign in the window flashed: “OPEN.” For that, Oliver was thankful. He was not particularly hungry, but he felt that a cup of coffee that was actually hot would help to quell his nerves. Above all else, though, he yearned for human contact -- the simple act of making small talk, even if he did not recount the details of his bizarre experience, might help to ground him and shake his deep feeling of dread. At the very least, it might take his mind off of an event that he was sure could not be properly explained. He parked his car and stepped into the night air, now oddly frigid when it had once been warm. A strong gust of cold wind stung his face as he made his way toward the diner’s entrance; it was as if he could feel the temperature plummeting by the second. He reached for the glass door and swung it open, bells jingling to announce his presence. He felt a rush of warm air as he stood in the doorway -- already he felt relief -- and he stepped inside the World’s End Diner. Letting the door swing shut behind him, Oliver glanced about the eatery and took in his surroundings. All of the décor matched the retro aesthetic he admired in the building’s façade -- porcelain enamel, red leather booths, stainless steel panels. Either the diner’s proprietors were meticulous in their dedication to vintage design or it was built in the mid-20th century and had been painstakingly preserved. There were three others in the diner: a tall and slender middle-aged woman behind the counter who he assumed was a waitress, an older gentleman cleaning the grill, and a patron sitting alone in a booth at the far end of the restaurant donning a brown cap and a long overcoat. He could only see the woman’s face, which looked downtrodden; the others had their backs turned toward him. He hoped one of them would be kind enough to entertain his attempts at light dialogue. He found a stool at the counter and made himself comfortable before looking up and smiling at the waitress. She did not smile back. In fact, she seemed to be in no rush to accommodate him; she just stared at him blankly. This awkward silence carried on for some time as Oliver studied her wrinkled face. Her expression was a blend of profound sadness and total indifference, and could he blame her? Surely a life that revolved around waiting tables in the back of beyond, likely for decades on end by the looks of it, was not a particularly glamorous one. Eventually, he spoke, still holding onto a smile that was now forced: “Hey, how’s it going?” No response. “This place is gorgeous, by the way. Kind of a hidden gem, huh?” Again, there was no response. It seemed he would not be able to find the conversation he longed for with her. He sighed, and spoke once more: “Is there any way I could get a hot cup of coffee?” At this, she finally stirred. She shuffled toward a coffee pot slowly, her expression unchanging, and filled a mug. She handed it to Oliver without so much as a friendly nod. “Thanks so much.” He took the mug into his own hands and felt its warmth immediately. “This is just what I needed.” He watched as steam rose in wisps off of the black liquid, eager for it to eradicate his lingering chills. He raised the mug to his mouth, and as soon as the coffee touched his lips, he was shocked to find that it was already ice cold. He managed a small sip before resting it back down atop the counter. He stared at the mug, perplexed -- not only was it cold, but it also tasted absolutely foul. He turned back toward the waitress, who was still watching him vacantly. “Uh... Can you please warm this up for me, miss?” Again, she shuffled slowly as she made her way toward him, without a word. She retrieved the mug before sluggishly sauntering toward a sink, into which she poured its contents. She filled it yet again, from the same pot, and returned it to Oliver. It was warm in his hands, just as it had been, but by the time he swallowed, it was icy. He had no intention of burdening the waitress any further, and so he feigned gratitude. “Thanks again.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved his wallet, laying a $5 bill on the counter. “Keep the change, miss.” She stared at it, emotionless. It occurred to him that she might be braindead; she evidently did not have all of her faculties about her and she did not behave in a way that any functioning adult would. He slid the bill toward her, encouraging her to take it. After a long while, she did. She held the bill in her hands and gawked at it, as if she did not understand its purpose. As she was studying it, Oliver noticed something incredibly unnerving -- a long gash on each of her wrists, blackened with dried blood, perhaps the remnants of a failed suicide attempt that she made no attempt to conceal. His eyes widened. “Are you okay?” She returned her attention to him, though she made no effort to reply to his query. “Ma’am, shouldn’t you see a doctor?” Her face twitched, and he thought she might actually respond, but all she did was shift her facial expression to one of confusion. *At least she’s finally showing an emotion*, he thought. *That’s progress.* He intended to continue attempting to help the injured woman, but before he could say anything further, she turned and retreated into a back office -- or perhaps a storage closet? -- at a much quicker pace than she had been operating at thus far. Oliver was left alone at the counter, dumbfounded. If she did not want his help, it was probably unwise to continue offering it. Still, he could not shake the feeling that the woman was in dire need of assistance, but at that moment he had more than enough of his own traumas to confront. He turned his focus toward the older gentleman tending the grill, and decided he might as well try to spark up a conversation with him -- if he was friendlier than the waitress had been, Oliver might even be able to convince him to help the poor woman. He found a seat closer to where the man was standing, but his back was still turned toward him, so he sat in silence for a moment as he pondered how to attract the cook’s attention. Eventually, he decided on: “How’s it goin’ there, sir?” The man immediately let out a deep, guttural grunt. Oliver was not sure if that meant he did not wish to be disturbed, but he was so desperate for conversation, for at least *some* sense of normalcy, that he was not deterred. “Sorry, what was that, sir?” The man slowly began to turn, his feet scraping against the tiled floor as if he did not possess the strength to take proper steps, and little by little, his face was revealed -- his eyes were shut tight, his jaw hung in a zombie-like manner and the skin around his lips was a sickening shade of blue. He faced Oliver and unleashed yet another rasping groan. Oliver tensed up, taken aback by the man’s appalling appearance. It seemed that every employee of the World’s End Diner might be in dire need of medical attention. He was left speechless as he studied the cook’s lifeless visage. The two of them silently faced each other for some time, although the man never so much as opened his eyes, so it was difficult to tell if he was even truly cognizant of Oliver’s presence. He just stood there, mouth gaping. Eventually, the man turned back around and commenced his task of cleaning the grill, although it was already spotless. Oliver abandoned his hope of conversing with the cook and considered the diner’s sheer peculiarity. Its occupants operated somewhere within the uncanny valley -- they resembled humans, but did not behave like them. He reminded himself that he was, by all accounts, in the middle of nowhere -- perhaps their strange behavior could be attributed to the drug abuse that had devastated so many rural communities in recent years. With half of his foul coffee remaining, he resolved to spend a bit more time in the confounding eatery -- besides, he did not believe he was mentally fit to continue his journey just yet. He glanced over at the man sitting alone in the booth at the far end of the diner, concealed by his cap and overcoat. He was idle, not doing much of anything; in front of him were empty mugs and plates, signaling that he had been there for quite a while. *Let’s give it a shot*, Oliver thought. He stood, let out a deep sigh and slowly made his way toward the man’s booth. Timidly, he asked: “Do you mind if I join you, sir?” The man looked up and, to Oliver’s relief, he seemed to be in good shape -- a middle-aged man of dark complexion with no apparent maladies. He looked melancholic, but that was to be expected at this queer hour. “Sure,” he said. “Have a seat.” *Finally someone capable of normal conversation*, Oliver thought. “Thanks -- I think I really need to talk to someone.” He sat opposite the man and took a swig of coffee. After a moment of contemplation, the man asked: “What’s on your mind, son?” “Oh, where to begin,” Oliver groaned. “I’ve had such a strange night. I’m on a sort of road trip, and I had this run-in with a deer... But I’m not sure it ever actually existed. I may have imagined it or something, because here I am. Anyway, that shook me so much that I really needed to find a place to stop, and this diner showed up not long after. But this place seems just as strange -- it’s in the middle of nowhere, but it’s beautiful. And the staff here... They look like they’ve gone through hell and back. They’re not even capable of small talk. It’s like everything just confuses them. It all feels like some sort of fever dream... I guess I could just use a little help making sense of all of it.” At that, the man chuckled. “I don’t think there’s any making sense of it, man.” Oliver was puzzled. “What do you mean by that?” “A place like this -- there’s no rhyme or reason to it. Haven’t you figured that out by now?” Oliver returned a confused expression. The man scoffed. “You really don’t know where you are, huh?” A brief silence. “Arkansas?” He shook his head at Oliver’s naivety. “Shit, man, you’re in for a rude awakening. Here... Take a look at this.” The man removed his cap and tilted his head downward, revealing a bloody mess of a hole in the back of his skull, the atrocious aftermath of a point-blank gunshot. Oliver’s chest tightened. “What the *fuck*?!” He looked toward the counter, where the waitress and the cook were now standing side by side, facing their booth directly. “Somebody call 9-1-1!” When nobody made any effort to seek assistance, Oliver took it upon himself. He retrieved his cellphone from his pocket and was dismayed to find that it was shattered, well past the point of repair. *When could this have happened?* The man laughed and returned his cap to the tattered remnants of his skull. “Don’t you get it, boy? There *is* no help. Piece it together, man. I know you’re smarter than this.” A part of Oliver’s mind began to work out what the man was implying, but yet another part rejected the notion entirely. *No. No. No.* He stood up and darted his eyes around the now sinister diner. The three other occupants were eyeing him expectantly, and he started to hyperventilate. “Ah, it looks like he’s starting to get it, y’all.” Oliver’s panic began to evolve into an irrational anger. “Fuck this and fuck all of you.” He stormed toward the diner’s entrance, determined to put the horror show that was the World’s End Diner behind him. “I’m done.” “There’s no running from this, man. Come on, now.” This time, Oliver did not dignify the man with a response. He swung the diner’s door open and stepped outside. Then, all hope was lost. Nothing looked as it had when he first arrived. There was no highway, no parking lot, not even any trees. Before him was only a bleak and desolate wasteland, black sand stretching out into eternity underneath a similarly black sky. The diner was the forsaken landscape’s only light source. His car was nowhere to be found. *What is happening to me?* Oliver fell to his knees and wept. He had never been a spiritual man, but now, he prayed -- to whom, he could not be sure. Several long minutes passed in this fashion, alternating between curses and pleas to a higher power. He soon became convinced that these pleas were utterly useless. *I deserve this.* If there had ever existed a place where hope was strictly forbidden, where light itself was a mere fantasy, he had found it. *I do deserve this, don’t I?* It was then, in Oliver’s darkest, most despairing moment, that his surroundings began to change, ever so slowly. Initially, he was not sure if he was imagining it, but after some time, it intensified. The landscape was brightening. It was as if some great, all-encompassing light was being shone down upon him from a source unknown -- as far as he could discern, there was no sun in this place. It seemed that the entirety of the sky was emitting this light, blindingly white and scorching hot, slowly but surely gnawing away at the once-infinite dark. Oliver’s tears ceased as he stared toward the sky, getting brighter and brighter by the second, until it seemed that light was the only thing there was, and perhaps the only thing that had ever been. He watched in awe as it enveloped the whole of the world, inch by inch, until at last, it had enveloped him, as well. There was no way to be certain of what he was experiencing, but in that brief moment, Oliver felt that he was gazing directly into the eyes of his Creator. **∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙** When Oliver regained consciousness, his brain was a foggy mess -- it took him some time to remember who he was, and what had transpired. He was acutely aware of a single sensation, though: an excruciating, full-body pain. He was unable to move his body; he felt locked in place, wholly drained of strength. His vision was still white, but eventually, color faded in, and other sensations began to return to him. He was able to discern that he was lying down, staring up at some sort of metal ceiling. Then, he made out the bumps in the road beneath him, and he deduced that he was a passenger in some sort of vehicle, but he lacked the energy to turn his head and study his environment. There was a shrill ringing in his ears, drowning out all other noise, if there was any other noise to speak of. Then, that ringing began to fade, as well, and he felt like a newborn infant, entering the world for the first time. Other sounds began to flood in: footsteps, mumbled chatter and the persistent beeping of medical equipment. And finally, he was able to clearly make out someone’s words: “We’ve got a pulse. We’ve got a pulse. We’ve got a pulse.