Chapter 1: The Road to Nowhere

Chapter 1: The Road to Nowhere

The scream tore from Valentine’s throat, raw and ragged, but the rattling engine of her beat-up sedan swallowed it whole. It was a scream she’d been holding in for fifty-seven miles, a scream that started in the static-filled silence of her sister Miley’s bedroom, amidst the coppery smell of blood and the shattered fragments of a window that had let the monster in.

Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel, her fingernails digging into the cracked plastic. She drove with a singular, desperate focus: away. Away from the flashing red and blue lights that had painted the suburban street in strokes of nightmare. Away from the pitying, horrified faces of the neighbors. Away from the hollowed-out look in her mother’s eyes, a look that said her mind had finally, irrevocably broken.

A fresh, brutal set of claw marks ran down the right side of Valentine’s face, a fiery mirror to the four deep gouges in the dashboard where her own nails had raked in a moment of pure, animalistic terror. The pain was a dull, constant throb, a welcome distraction from the agony consuming her heart. She was nineteen, and her life had just been reduced to a tank of gas and a single, burning command: go.

The road stretched into an endless ribbon of asphalt, swallowed by a sky the color of a day-old bruise. The world outside her windows had dissolved into a blur of skeletal trees and forgotten fields. She was running on fumes, both literally and figuratively. The fuel gauge had been kissing empty for the last ten miles, and a bone-deep exhaustion was beginning to fray the edges of her adrenaline-fueled flight.

She fumbled with the radio dial, desperate for any sound to drown out the echoes of her own scream. All she found was static—a hissing, crackling sea of nothing. She was about to slam it off when a voice cut through the noise. It wasn’t a DJ, not a commercial. It was thin, cold, and distant, like a voice from a long-dead recording, speaking directly into the suffocating quiet of the car.

“Are you at the end of your road? When there’s nowhere left to run… there is Terminus. Exit 13. We’re always open.”

The static crashed back in, louder than before. Valentine’s foot eased off the accelerator. It was impossible. There had been no other stations, just noise. It felt less like a broadcast and more like a whisper meant only for her. Her eyes darted to the side of the highway. A weathered, almost illegible sign materialized from the gloom: EXIT 13.

It was a choice between the certain death of being stranded on the highway and the uncertain promise of a ghostly voice. Valentine wrenched the wheel, the tires squealing in protest as she swerved onto the exit ramp.

The Terminus Truck Stop wasn’t just a beacon in the darkness; it was the only light for miles. A low-slung building bathed in a warm, buttery glow that seemed to push back the oppressive velvet black of the coming night. A single, neon sign buzzed and flickered, reading “TERMINUS,” with the ‘S’ intermittently winking out. The parking lot was vast and eerily empty, save for a single, mud-splattered semi-truck parked far in the corner, its windows unnervingly dark.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Valentine pushed open her car door and stepped out. The air was cold and smelled of pine and damp earth. She pulled her dark blue work jacket tighter, the familiar weight of the company logo a phantom limb from a life that no longer existed. Her hand instinctively went to her hip, to the empty gun holster on her belt, a habit from a past she was fleeing. Disowned, outcast, alone. The words circled in her head like vultures.

The chime above the diner door was a cheerful, jarring sound. The inside was a time capsule from the 1950s—red vinyl booths, a long formica countertop, and a checkerboard floor. But the cozy nostalgia was soured by the paintings on the wall. They were landscapes, but wrong. A field of wheat where the stalks looked like grasping fingers. A serene lake whose surface reflected a roiling, blood-red sky. A painting of an abandoned high school, Greenridge High, under a sickly green moon. They were pictures of places that seemed to watch you back.

A man stood behind the counter, wiping it down with a clean, methodical rhythm. He was in his mid-thirties, with tidy red hair and sharp green eyes that took her in with an unnerving lack of surprise. He wore a simple black t-shirt and cargo pants, a holstered pistol secured by a bright red belt. He didn’t seem to notice the horrific, fresh scar on her face, or if he did, he didn’t care.

“Fuel pump’s out back,” he said, his voice flat. “Takes cash.”

“I… I don’t have much,” Valentine stammered, the words tasting like ash. “I’m looking for a job.”

The man, Tom, stopped wiping. He set the rag down and leaned on the counter, his gaze piercing. He looked at her torn cuticles, the exhaustion etched into her very bones, the haunted darkness in her eyes. It was an assessment, swift and clinical.

“Can you work a grill? Mop a floor? Follow simple rules?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice stronger now. Desperation was a powerful fuel.

“Good.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a small, laminated card, the edges sticky with something she didn't want to identify. He slid it across the counter. “Your welcome packet. Read it. Memorize it. Your life depends on it.”

Valentine picked it up. It wasn’t an application. It was a list.

TERMINUS RULES

1. Never leave the diner between sunset and sunrise. No exceptions.
2. The customer is always right, even when they’re not what they appear to be.
3. Do not stare at the patrons. Do not speak unless spoken to.
4. Clean up your own messes. All of them. Leave no trace.
5. Your uniform is your protection. Wear it on shift, always.

Her blood ran cold. This wasn't a job; it was a warning. She looked from the terrifying list back to Tom, whose expression was unreadable stone. This was insane. She should run. But where? Back to the bloody remnants of her life? Back to the empty highway?

“I’ll take it,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Tom nodded once, as if he’d expected it. “Uniform’s in the back. One last thing.”

He reached under the counter again and placed two thick leather belts on the polished formica. They were identical in every way but one. The first was a practical, sturdy red, the same as the one he wore. The second was a deep, impossible blue, the color of a twilight sky just after the sun has vanished, the color of a deep ocean trench. It seemed to absorb the light around it.

“Part of the uniform,” Tom said. “Choose one. Red path or Blue path. Your choice.”

Valentine stared at them. It wasn't a choice of fashion. It felt profound, like a test she didn’t understand. The red was sensible. It matched the booths, the trim on the counter. It was the color of Tom's belt, the color of safety in numbers. It was also the color of the blood that stained her memory, the color of the lights that had chased her out of her own life.

Her gaze fell to the blue belt. It called to her. There was no logic to it, only a strange, gut-level pull. It was a color of mystery, of depth. A promise of something other than the fire and horror she was running from. Her hand trembled as she reached out, her fingers brushing against the cool, smooth leather.

“The blue one,” she said, her voice firm.

A flicker of something—not surprise, but a grim, weary acceptance—passed through Tom’s sharp green eyes. He pushed the blue belt toward her, his jaw tight.

“Alright then,” he said, his tone dropping an octave. “Get changed. Your shift starts now.”

Valentine picked up the belt. It felt heavier than it looked. As she turned toward the kitchen, she glanced out the large plate-glass window at the front of the diner. The sun was bleeding out on the horizon, painting the clouds in violent streaks of orange and purple.

And her first shift at the end of the world was about to begin.