**1 week ago Mustang,Tx**

The stranger who sat patiently listening to Remy, he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, feeling the now thick, humid air of the bar pressing in around him. He chuckled nervously, shaking his head as he tried to get a handle on the tension hanging between them. The sound of pool balls cracking against one another and the low hum of conversation seemed distant now, faded like white noise compared to the thick gravity of Remy's voice.

"Name’s Carl. Carl McLackly," the man said, forcing a stressed grin. "Hell of a tale you're spinnin' there, friend. You sure you ain’t just tryin’ to give a man a heart attack?"

Remy didn’t smile back. His eyes barely shifted from his drink. Carl fidgeted with his jacket, pulling it off to reveal sweat stains under his arms. "Listen, I, uh... I came here to blow off some steam, y’know? Got into it with the missus. Spilled a beer on her favorite carpet, and she got real hot about it. Reckon she’ll cool off by morning, but I needed to get out for a drink. Then I see you sittin' here lookin' like a man who’s lived about ten lifetimes. Thought you’d have a story."

Carl tried to laugh again, but it fell flat. He was rambling, nerves showing, but he couldn’t stop himself. "I’ve got this hobby, see. Writing. Horror stuff mostly, in my spare time. But what you’re layin’ out here... this is somethin’ else. It’s, uh, inspirational. In a twisted way."

Remy finally looked at him, his face unreadable. "That so?" His voice was quiet but edged with something dangerous. "Well, Carl, I’ll tell you somethin' right now—if you wanna hear the rest, you better buy me that next drink."

Carl, a little pale himself now, raised a hand for the bartender, waving him over. "Another round, for both of us."

The glasses came, and Remy took his time, letting the weight of the silence sit for a beat longer than comfortable. He took a slow drink, then set the glass down, eyes far away as he started again.

—

**Memories**

It was still dark out, the early hours of morning in Mustang, Texas, when Remy stood over the body of the sniper. The air smelled like gunpowder and copper, the tang of death hanging heavy on his tongue. The body was twisted in the dirt, misshapen in a way that didn’t sit right with Remy. He’d seen enough men die to know when somethin' didn’t add up.

The sniper’s face… it wasn’t how you say…*normal*. The skin was sagging, slack around the eyes and mouth, the features warped. Almost fish-like. His lips were too thin and they curved up like a permanent jackal’s smile, and his eyes…they were wide, bulging in a way that made Remy’s skin crawl. But the three shots he’d fired found their new home in the twisted shape that was once alive—the chest, neck, and head—the rounds had done their job, leavin’ the body a wreck, crumpled in the street out front and center of the dinner parking lot.

Remy stood over the body for a moment, breathing heavy, the adrenaline still pounding in his veins. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with shaking hands. The smoke curled up into the night, mingling with the faint early morning mist that hovered just above the ground like a derelict ghost reaching for the after life.

He dragged deep, feeling the burn in his lungs, then turned and made his way back to the diner.

The door jingled as he pushed it open, that little bell ringing like it always did, like nothing had changed. But everything had *changed*. The two agents inside, the ones still left standing, immediately raised their pistols when they saw him.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Remy stopped, raised his hands, the Glock now tucked into his waistband. “I don’t want no trouble, boys. Just tryin’ to figure out why in the hell that man out there was tryin' to blow y’all to pieces.”

For a moment, the agents didn’t lower their guns. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. The one closest to the window, a broad-shouldered man in a plaid button-up with an "Oklahoma" patch stitched on his baseball cap, eyed Remy warily. The other agent, a dark-skinned man with a bald head and a pair of black gloves on, kept his gun level, his face hard as stone.

Finally, Oklahoma gave a slow nod, and they lowered their weapons. Barely.

“There’s somethin’ real wrong in this town,” Oklahoma muttered, voice thick with his country drawl. “Ain’t nobody we can trust here. Not a damn soul.”

“Not even you,” the man with the gloves said, his voice sharp, accusatory. His eyes bore into Remy, unblinking. “Everyone’s a potential threat. Even you, preacher.”

The man’s pistol snapped up again, aimed dead at Remy’s chest. Remy held his ground, hands still up. “Now, listen. I ain’t got no stake in this, friend. I’m just passin’ through. Don’t mean no harm.”

Before Remy could finish, the agent squeezed the trigger.

The shot rang out, sharp and quick, but Remy didn’t feel a thing. Instead, the sound of a body hittin' the floor behind him made him spin around. The old waitress, the one who’d served him coffee not ten minutes ago, lay on the floor, a knife in her hand. Her eyes were still open, vacant and dead, blood pooling around her in a widening circle.

The agent with the gloves holstered his gun, lookin' at the waitress’s body with a grimace. “Looks like you’re on the list, too.”

Oklahoma shook his head, glancing at Remy with something like regret in his eyes. “You want a shot at makin’ this right, friend? A chance to serve your country?”

---

The next thing Remy knew, they were all crammed into a car in the diner's parking lot, tryin' to start it up. But the damn thing wouldn’t turn over—engine dead as a rock. The dashboard lights flickered like the last dying breath of hope.

More shots cracked in the distance. Remy’s eyes shot to the diner, where a crowd had started gatherin’. Maybe thirty, forty people, all comin’ together like somethin’ called to 'em. They hadn’t seen Remy or the agents yet, but he could see the couple from the booth still inside, cowering behind the counter.

The crowd swarmed in. Remy couldn’t see all the details, but the sounds—the cries and pleads for help, the wet, brutal crunch of fists and something harder—left no question in his mind. It was ugly. Things fell silent inside the diner.

——

The town was unraveling, falling into madness. The distant echo of gunfire mixed with the ragged, panicked cries of people lost in the chaos. Oklahoma, hands trembling, fumbled with the base of the steering wheel, sweat glistening on his forehead. He cursed under his breath as he jammed the screwdriver into the ignition, trying to force life into the car.

The night air was thick, heavy with something more than just the heat—it felt like it was closing in, suffocating them.

Then, without warning, the sharp, blaring screech of the car alarm shattered the tense silence, cutting through the night like a knife.

The mob, scattered in the shadows of the diner, froze, heads snapping in eerie unison toward the sound, like they were all connected by some invisible thread. For a moment, everything seemed to stop.

Remy, Oklahoma, and Gloves all went still, barely breathing, like any movement might break the fragile spell of stillness. Time itself seemed to stretch, each moment spinning down to the fraction of a second as if the construct; time,itself stopped working properly.

Across the lot in the diner, one of the spastically violent mob members stood up, slow and deliberate, rising from behind the diner booth where the couple had been sitting just moments before, enjoying what had once been a simple, quiet meal.

The man or what looks close to a man—mid-forties, with a misshapen head and oblong, swollen eyes—was drenched in their blood. Glistening, wet, bits flesh. Chunks of innards clung to his shirt like grotesque badges of an honor to the atrocity he’d just committed. His eyes were impossibly wide, the puffy flesh around them stretched taut, the black irises so large they swallowed any hint of light.

And in that dark, bottomless gaze, the reflection of Remy, Oklahoma, and Gloves—trapped in the car—stared back.

---

**current time, shit hole Texas town**

Back in the bar, Remy’s hand was steady now as he took another long pull from his drink. Carl had broken out in a full sweat, his jacket tossed onto the stool beside him, eyes wide and glued to Remy like he couldn’t tear himself away. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words weren’t comin’ out.

Carl raised a shaky hand, waving down the bartender for another drink, his face pale as a sheet.

“You want me to keep goin’?” Remy asked, voice low, like he was lettin’ Carl in on some dark secret.

Carl nodded, too scared to speak. Carl lit up a cigarette for the first time since he tried in Highschool. But this time it was relaxing, something about killing yourself slowly made it feel like you could escape the earth this kind of story could take place on…