Bobby and Sandy walked into their small town’s 24-hour diner. The year was 1952, and teenagers all over the nation had fallen in love with the concept of gathering late, eating, and goofing off. Finally, something that got them out of the house after dark, and something that their parents couldn’t disapprove of.
However, this young couple wasn’t at Sam’s Diner for food or fun.
As they entered the place, they noted that the door had been left wide open – odd considering the temperature had dropped into the 30’s and snow flurries were beginning to fall. As they stepped over the threshold, they could only focus on one thing: all of the blood. It covered the floor and the bar stools; it covered the cash register and the grill. It was splattered all over the walls and booths. Some of the tables had plates of food on them, and the blood covered the mounds of hamburgers and cold fries like some grotesque version of ketchup.
Next, Bobby and Sandy noticed the bodies. Some were still twitching slightly, but all were definitely dead: the fry cook, the manager, the waitresses, the customers – all bloody, all ripped open, all dead. The two teenagers walked around the diner, not screaming or shocked like anyone else that walked in on the scene would have been. They coolly observed everything in less than 10 seconds. Bobby slowly released his hold on the 1911 stuffed in his waistband, while Sandy slipped a tiny handgun back into her purse.
As they followed the trail of bloody hand-and-footprints out of the kitchen door into an alley, Bobby cursed softly. Sandy shook her head and muttered, “God, Bobby. We’re too late.”