Supernatural--Joyride

by John Passarella

  “My mistake,” Hardigan said. “Anyway, these FBI agents are investigating the midnight madness.”

  “Really?”

  “Turns out,” Hardigan said, turning toward the brothers, “Senior Patrol Officer Tom Gruber here is the man you should be talking to. And I’m not saying that because my plate is full.”

  “Why’s that?” Dean asked.

  Gruber answered, “I returned to town while everyone was still out cold.”

  “What’d I tell you?” Hardigan said with a brisk nod and walked away.

  “ I could eat,” Gruber said. “You up for a burger?”

  “Always,” Dean said.

  FOUR

  Less than thirty minutes later, Gruber, Sam and Dean had settled into a corner booth at The Finer Diner where Marie, their server, took their order of two cheeseburgers, a grilled chicken sandwich and three orders of fries.

  “Living dangerously?” Dean asked Sam.

  “What?”

  “No salad?”

  “I’ll take a pass on diner salad.”

  “Actually,” Gruber said, “it’s not bad.”

  “Maybe next time.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Dean took in the diner with a sweeping gaze. Formica booth tables and long countertops, faux leather bench seats and stools, linoleum flooring, broad, clean windows wrapping around three sides of the building, shades at half-mast to blunt the afternoon sun. The place hummed at seventy-five percent of capacity, dozens of conversations blurring together in a comforting white noise, random words bubbling to the surface with clarity but no context. Overall, nothing extraordinary presented itself to casual inspection.

  “Why’s it Finer?” Dean asked. “The food?”

  “What? Oh—the name,” Gruber said. “The Finer family’s owned the place for generations. But they do make the best burgers in town.”

  “Hear that, Sam?” Dean said. “You’re missing out.”

  “Won’t be the first time,” Sam said. He addressed Gruber. “So, Tom, what can you tell us about the midnight blackout?”

  Before they could answer, Marie arrived with their food on a large serving tray, smiling as she set the plates before them. “Two Big Cheese Burgers and a Griller Filler chicken sandwich. Fries all around. Sweet tea for Officer Gruber and water for the dapper fellas.”

  After a quick sip of his iced tea, Gruber said, “Thanks, Marie. Excellent service as always.”

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  Dean grabbed the large cheeseburger before him in both hands, anticipating the first mouthwatering bite. “We’re good.”

  Sam nodded.

  “Goes for me too,” Gruber said.

  Marie nodded, started to turn away then paused. “Couldn’t help overhearing you fellas talking about the midnight naps.”

  With a mouth full of medium-well beef, Dean nodded toward Sam to pass the conversational baton.

  “We’re investigating the incident,” Sam said.

  “These men are from the FBI,” Gruber told her.

  “Do tell,” Marie said, impressed. “It was mighty weird. The way all of us swooned at the same time.”

  “You were awake at midnight?”

  Marie nodded. “That’s the last time I cover Donnie’s shift,” she said. “That’s for sure!”

  “Does that happen often?” Gruber asked.

  “Every time he has a hot date,” Marie said. “At least that’s his excuse. Knows I’m a sucker for true love.”

  “I think his hot dates are popping up on a phone app,” Gruber said. “Doubt true love factors in much.”

  “You never know what might happen.”

  “What happened with you?” Sam asked. “At midnight.”

  Gruber took a flip notebook and pen from the breast pocket of his uniform and began to scribble notes as she spoke. With a mouthful of cheeseburger, Dean cast a meaningful look at Sam, who nodded and took out his own notebook and pen.

  “Same as everybody else in here,” she said. She glanced around at the booths and along the counter. “Well, nobody here now. Our late-night regulars. One second I was carrying two overflowing plates of food to a booth. Next thing I woke up face down in a pile of food. Good thing Gabe and Linda are big eaters. All the food cushioned my fall. Mostly. Bruised my elbow and nicked my forearm on a broken orange juice glass”—she raised her right forearm to show a bandage affixed there—“but the worst part was my dignity.”

  “How so?” Sam asked, looking up from his notes.

  “Looked like I came out on the wrong end of the world’s biggest food fight,” she said with a frown of distaste. “In my hair, all over my face and, ugh, my uniform. But I was one of the lucky ones. A few customers had broken bones—those who fell off the stools—and Pete, the night cook, burned his arms on the flat-top grill.”

  “Did you have any warning?” Dean asked. “Before you blacked out?”

  She thought about her response for a few moments then shook her head. “Happened so fast,” she said, snapping her fingers to demonstrate. “Kind of like the chicken and the egg, you know?”

  “No,” Sam said, confused.

  “I’ve rented some bad movies over the years,” she said. “Real snoozers. And I’m not afraid to admit I’ve dozed off during some of those bore-fests. But even the worst ones, I’ll feel myself drifting off, nodding out, losing track of what was happening before everything goes dark and I wake up hours later with an aching back.”

  “Been there,” Dean said by way of encouragement.

  “Right,” she said, nodding to acknowledge a kindred spirit. “But this wasn’t like that at all. No in and out of sleep. It’s hard to explain but if I was a machine, I would say it felt like somebody yanked my power cord out of the socket.”

  “And the chicken and egg?” Sam prompted.

  “Oh, right,” she said, nodding. “I have a vague memory of falling but I was out cold before I hit the floor. It was bang-bang. The falling and the blacking out. Not sure if I started to fall before the lights went out or the other way around.”

  “Did you experience any pain?”

  She let out a dry chuckle and raised her arm. “Only after I woke up.” She sighed. “Guess it could have been worse. Could have broken my arm or dislocated my shoulder, like I did way back in high school.”

  “So, you woke up same as the others?” Sam asked.

  “To a chorus of moans and groans, you mean?” She nodded. “True enough. Everyone woke up around the same time.” She leaned forward, placing the round serving tray on the edge of the table. “You want to know my theory?”

  “Sure,” Dean said. He glanced at Sam long enough to know they both expected to hear a tinfoil hat society explanation.

  “I told Harry,” she began. “But he says I’m crazy.”

  I’ll be the judge of that, Dean thought, but kept silent.

  “Harry owns the place,” Gruber added for the Winchesters’ benefit.

  “Well, if you ask me, it was a carbon monoxide leak,” Marie said. “I know for a fact he hasn’t changed the batteries in those detectors in ages. Aren’t they supposed to beep, like smoke detectors, when the batteries are low?”

  Not a bad theory, Dean thought, nodding. Carbon monoxide caused loss of consciousness. People offed themselves—sometimes accidentally—by letting their car idle in a closed garage. Slowly suffocated to death. And that was the problem. The people in Moyer lost consciousness suddenly.

  “They should,” Sam said. “But a leak here wouldn’t explain everyone in town losing consciousness.”

  “Oh, I’m not saying the leak was here,” Marie replied. “I wouldn’t keep working here if I thought it was dangerous.”

  “So…?”

  “What if the leak was across the whole town,” she speculated. “Like… an industrial carbon monoxide leak, from one of those massive factory pipes. Then, of course, the fumes or gas or whatever blew away before everyone died.”

  Dean said as solem
nly as he could manage, “We’ll add that to the list of possible causes.”

  After she walked away, Gruber closed his notebook and set the pen atop it. “Never heard of an industrial carbon monoxide leak. Not sure I want to accuse Pangento—or anyone else—of causing one.”

  “What can you tell us about the train derailment?” Sam asked.

  Dean took another bite of his delicious burger, lamenting that it had cooled considerably since his last bite. Sam had somehow managed to work his way through half of the chicken sandwich during Marie’s account of the midnight naps, as she called them. Let Gruber talk, Dean would finish the cheeseburger and nod where appropriate.

  Gruber pushed back against the booth, hands clasped over the notebook and pen. “It’s Chief’s pet peeve. Until they pull those train cars out of Delsea Creek, he won’t let it go. Whatever the problem, that’s the cause. Inflation, stagnation, bad weather, high school team losing a football game. It’s all the same. ‘Damn train derailment.’” He sighed, shook his head and ate a couple fries before continuing. “I talked to some of the investigators back when it happened. Short term, it can cause eye and throat irritation, headaches, shortness of breath and dizziness and high levels may cause unconsciousness. Extreme levels can cause death. And it’s a known carcinogen. But the affected area was limited. We evacuated homes, locked down the closest school. All the due diligence stuff.” After another fry, he added, “I’m not saying some of those people won’t have long-term medical issues from the leak, and I’m sure there will be civil lawsuits on top of civil lawsuits for years to come, but I think Chief’s off-base on this one. Whatever leaked from those boxcars has long since dissipated.”

  “Are you suggesting it might not have been vinyl chloride?”

  “Sorry,” Gruber said around a mouthful of cheeseburger. “Sounded more ominous than I intended. Forgive me if I channeled the chief there for a moment.”

  “Maybe it’s catching,” Dean said.

  “Possibly,” Gruber said, chuckling before taking a sip of sweet tea.

  Dean shook his head. “Could use a beer.”

  “Sorry, hon,” Marie said, having glided up to the table at that moment to check on their meals. “No liquor license.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Dean said. “I’m on duty anyway.”

  “Get you anything else?”

  “We’re good,” Sam said.

  “Okay, then,” she said with another broad smile. “Holler if that changes.”

  “Will do,” Sam said. As she strode away, he turned his attention back to Gruber. “So, we rule out the derailment.”

  “Far as I’m concerned.”

  “Wait a minute,” Dean said, momentarily channeling his inner conspiracy-theorist. “Every big pharma drug commercial on TV has a laundry list of possible side effects and they always sound worse than whatever you’re taking the drug for.”

  “Vinyl chloride’s a chemical,” Sam said. “Not a pharmaceutical.”

  Dean raised both hands, palms up and simulated a set of evenly weighted scales, “Chemical, pharmaceutical.”

  “I checked it out,” Gruber said. “It’s for making PVC, used in pipes, packing materials, plastic stuff. Toxic, sure, but fairly common.”

  Sam shot Dean a look, wondering if he wanted to continue the argument. Dean shrugged.

  Sam asked Gruber, “So, no blackouts since then?”

  “Just that one time,” Gruber said. “Weird way to return home, tell you that. But what I wanted to talk about is all the weirdness since midnight.”

  “The not-so-juvenile delinquents?” Dean asked.

  “Exactly,” Gruber said. “Taken individually, here and there, you figure it’s typical small-town hijinks. Most of it, anyway. But, for the life of me, I can’t understand why it’s these particular people.”

  “Bankers, lawyers, accountants,” Dean said.

  “Nail on the head,” Gruber said. “Granted, I haven’t been a cop all that long, but you see patterns for this kind of stuff early on. Certain kinds of perps, certain situations. And most of the folks we’ve brought in have no record. And aside from the random vandalism, there’s the—I call them weird acts.”

  “Such as?” Sam asked.

  “One pedestrian punched another in the face for saying ‘Good morning.’”

  “Before or after coffee?” Dean asked.

  Gruber’s look seemed to indicate he had his doubts about Dean, but he continued. “Morning commute. Young woman with no apparent history of depression or mental illness tried to commit suicide.”

  “Hey, it happens,” Sam said grimly.

  “By climbing the fence on a highway overpass and jumping into oncoming traffic?”

  “I’ll admit that’s unusual. She still alive?”

  Gruber nodded. “Broke both legs, an arm, and fractured several ribs. Plan to talk to her when she regains consciousness. Weird, right?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Not that I expect to learn anything from her,” Gruber said.

  “Because of the amnesia?” Sam asked, picking at his fries.

  Gruber wagged a finger at him. “Yes, sir, toss that in the mix. First couple times, you assume it’s a convenient excuse. ‘I don’t know what happened.’ Or, ‘I don’t know why I did that.’ Or, ‘I’ve never done anything like this before. Don’t know what got into me.’ But it’s become the party line for all these incidents today. Nobody remembers. Or so they say.”

  “You have doubts?” Dean asked, lamenting the fact that his cheeseburger was gone, and he was down to his last few fries. He wondered if he should ask about the quality of the diner’s pies. “Think they’re lying?”

  “Maybe not so much lying,” he said, “as omitting.”

  “Omitting what?” Sam asked.

  “I’m a cop at heart,” Gruber said. “I see weird behavior, my first thought is drugs are involved. Who knows? Maybe some new designer drug the adults are trying. Something that, I don’t know, removes your inhibitions and, instead of acid trips or flashbacks, you get a case of temporary amnesia.”

  “Seems possible,” Sam said.

  Bored with the prospect of picking up the DEA’s slack—which was not happening—Dean signaled for Marie. If they were about to ditch this case and head back to the bunker, waiting for the next call from the Brits, he’d end their short stint in Moyer with a slice of pie.

  “One problem with that theory,” Gruber admitted. “If a new designer drug had spread around town to this degree, I would have heard something about it.”

  “And you haven’t?”

  “Not a peep,” Gruber said. “I’m clutching at straws.”

  Dean had a thought. “Are all the vandals, perps, whatever, victims of the blackout?”

  “They’re all from Moyer.”

  Marie swung by their table. Dean decided to stick with a classic and ordered a slice of apple pie. She promised to be back in two shakes with the pie and Dean said he’d hold her to that.

  After she left, Sam said to Gruber, “I think Agent Tench was asking if they were awake at midnight when the blackout happened.”

  Gruber thought about it for a minute. Dean imagined him silently cataloguing the list of perps and mentally cross referencing it with the known blackout victims. “I’d have to double-check to be sure, but I don’t think so. Many of them work nine-to-five, so I can’t imagine they were awake at midnight. Of course, the town might be full of insomniacs and I don’t know about it.”

  “Has anything else unusual happened in town?”

  “Our plates are pretty damn full as is,” Gruber said.

  Marie returned with Dean’s slice of pie and placed a fresh fork down beside it. “Enjoy!”

  “Well, at least his is,” Gruber said, pointing to Dean’s pie.

  “There’s more where that came from,” Marie informed them.

  “I’m good,” Sam said.

  “None for me, thanks,” Gruber said, patting his waistline.

  “Your
loss,” Dean said around a mouthful. He waved his fork toward Marie appreciatively. “Damn good pie.”

  Sam leaned back. “So, we have a one-time blackout followed by random acts of weirdness with no apparent connection between them.” Gruber nodded. “Unless,” Sam added, “there’s some equally weird cause and effect we don’t understand.”

  “And if not?” Gruber asked.

  “Either way,” Dean said as he set his fork down on an empty plate, “whole damn town seems to be losing its mind.”

  FIVE

  As if to underscore Dean’s words, a middle-aged businessman sitting across from a woman in a pantsuit two booths away from Gruber and the Winchesters slammed both fists down on his table and started shouting at the woman, “Blah, blah, blah!”

  Taken aback by the man’s sudden outburst, his dining companion stared at him as if he’d grown a third eye in the middle of his forehead. “Fred, what—?”

  From his position in the corner booth, Dean couldn’t see the man’s face. He watched helpless as the man snatched up his fork, holding it in his fist like an icepick. Dean started to rise, but never could have covered the distance in time. The man raised the fork in the air then brought it down, tines first, into the back of the woman’s hand. He struck with enough force to pierce her palm.

  The woman screamed, clutching her bleeding hand against her white blouse, heedless of the crimson stain spreading down her torso. Fred slid out of the booth and ran toward the counter, attempting to jump onto a stool but severely overestimating his own athleticism. Instead, he doubled over the counter and scrambled up, legs flailing, as if the diner’s floor were riddled with dozens of poisonous snakes.

  Dean rushed the man, Gruber on his heels. Before he could warn against it, the woman yanked the fork out of her impaled hand and flung it away in a spray of blood as he passed her booth.

  Behind him, Sam told the woman to stay calm and shouted, “Marie! Bring a clean towel!”

  Lunch patrons scattered, fleeing booths and stools in equal measure, meals half-eaten, checks unpaid. Fred ran along the countertop, stomping on mounds of uneaten food with reckless abandon. Next, he skipped back along the countertop, kicking empty plates, drinking glasses and coffee mugs off both sides of the counter, huffing and puffing as he spun in tight circles, face flushed and eyes wild as he danced his demented tarantella.