Chapter 6 - Darkness in the Diner
The sudden blackout plunged the diner into pitch blackness, save for the sickly pink glow of the neon "OPEN" sign hissing outside against the unrelenting rain.
A collective gasp rose from the few patrons left in the booths, followed by the scraping of chairs as people scrambled to find their footing in the dark.
"Stay seated, everyone! The transformer probably blew," Chloe called out from behind the counter, the sound of her fumbling for a flashlight echoing loudly in the enclosed space.
Marcus remained frozen on his knees on the linoleum, his hand still resting inches from the fifty-dollar bill he had slammed onto the formica table.
The phone on the table was still active, its small screen casting a bright, cold blue light across Arthur’s weathered face and the scattered letters of Thomas’s past.
"Thomas? Thomas, are you still there?" Marcus shouted into the darkness, his voice cracking with panic as the speakerphone crackled with static.
"I'm here, little brother," the raspy voice echoed from the tiny speaker, sounding unnervingly close, as if the caller were standing just outside the front window.
"And so are the men who put me in this hole fifty years ago. They know Arthur found you. They know the stream is live."
Arthur suddenly lunged forward with surprising agility for an old veteran, grabbing Marcus by the collar of his plaid shirt and dragging him down behind the protection of the heavy wooden booth.
A split second later, a loud, concussive CRACK shattered the front plate glass window of the diner, sending a cascade of diamond-shaped shards raining across the floorboards.
"Get down!" Arthur bellowed, his voice carrying the iron-clad authority of a battlefield commander.
"Somebody’s outside with a suppressed rifle!"
Chloe screamed, the sound cut short as she ducked behind the industrial espresso machine.
The kid with the camera kept rolling, his night-vision lens automatically adjusting to the gloom, capturing every frantic movement of the terrified patrons crawling toward the kitchen doors.
Marcus gripped Arthur’s quilted jacket, his knuckles digging into the old man's chest.
"What is happening? Who is shooting at us?" Marcus demanded, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
"Men who buried my regiment on paper and buried my reputation in the dirt," Arthur muttered calmly, pulling a heavy, rusted Colt .45 pistol from the waistband of his trousers—a weapon he had kept hidden beneath his jacket for decades.
"They thought the secret died with the Ia Drang survivors. They were wrong."
Through the shattered front window, the beam of a high-powered tactical flashlight swept across the diner tables, searching the gloom for targets.
Marcus looked down at the phone on the table, where the live stream viewer count had just crossed one point five million people watching live in absolute terror.
"If we stay in this booth, we're dead," Arthur whispered, checking the cylinder of his revolver with a practiced, effortless click.
"We have to make it to the kitchen service door in the back. Are you coming with me, son, or are you going to wait here for them to finish what they started fifty years ago?"
Marcus stared at the dark, narrow hallway leading to the kitchen, then down at the silver ring and the faded letters of his long-lost brother resting on the table.
May you like
With a grim nod born of sheer adrenaline, Marcus reached out, grabbed the letters, and shoved them deep into his pocket just as a heavy combat boot kicked open the front door of the diner.
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