A young woman with skin the colour of mahogany trudged along the side of the empty, sun-baked road. Her ill-fitting shoes kicked up thick clouds of red sand that lingered under a desert sun fixed high in the clear blue sky. A hot, thick breeze pulled at her cheap, long-tarnished coat. It had maybe been white once. Now, it was hard to tell. The road itself was quiet. There was a vague suggestion of mountains somewhere on the horizon, but as far as her tired eyes could see, there were only miles and miles of cracked asphalt, featureless sand, and there - not too far ahead - the shiny silver bulk of the diner, crouched against the bleakness like some kind of malignant beetle. She pulled the thin material of her coat about her and walked on towards it lethargically.

It looked like it had been here forever; the walls sandblasted to a perfect shine, the windows leaden and scratched, and above, the sign. God knows when that had given up. Only the letters D N R had held up, long since fused and burnt out. The girl carefully picked her way around a fallen, twisted scrap of metal that might have been an E, mostly covered over with sand, and opened the door gently. A TV on the wall murmured quietly to itself. The fat man sitting at the counter sniffed, looking back from where he had been hunched over his plate.

"Oh. It's you," he said in a slightly strained voice.

The girl, framed dangerously thin in the doorway, gave him a look. What light made it through the windows showed up the lines on her face. "You were expecting someone else?"

He chuckled, and turned back to his food. A thin dusting of sand fell from his thinning, dirty blond hair, giving the eggs over easy a tinge of red. As the girl took a seat next to him, he rifled through the pockets of his battered leather jacket, retrieving a pack of cigarettes. In between hurried bites of egg white - the sand seeming to go unnoticed - the man picked one out of the package and fumbled for his lighter. The girl looked around her. The place looked abandoned. All the tables clean, the red vinyl seats immaculate. No trace of life behind the counter. And on the wall by the door, the phone danging on its cord, swaying gently. A bottle of sauce had encrusted itself to the counter. On the label, a bright red cow was laughing at her. The clatter of a fork on a plate brought her back. Her companion had lit his cigarette, a thin plume of smoke spiralling up to the ceiling. He held out the pack to her.

"I quit," she said shortly.

"Shit, so did I," the man said, giving a laugh that quickly dissolved into a fit of wheezing coughs. "Been quitting for... years."

Nonetheless, he put the pack away as he recovered himself. The girl glanced down as he fumbled for his pocket, revealing the tarnished blue work shirt he was wearing. No name tag, just a little embroidered logo. 'Cheyne Stoking Diesel Fitters'. She shook her head, and looked back at the TV. A man in a suit was talking, standing at some sort of podium. Using a lot of hand movements. A little golden thing glimmered on his lapel.

"The end is nigh," the thin girl said, thinking aloud.

"What, again?" he answered, pulling an inhaler out of his jacket and clutching at it like a drowning man.

She leaned in closer, reading the scrolling text along the bottom of the screen. "Apparently." She focused in on it for a few seconds more, trying to block out the pop of the inhaler, and the sound of the rattle in her companion's chest.

"Well," he said at length, looking out of the window thoughtfully, "it's a nice day for it."

Crisis seemingly averted, he took another long drag off his cigarette, then nudged the plate towards the girl. The remnants of a sickly coloured pair of eggs wobbled slightly. Off to the side, there was a frothy bubble of what looked like sputum.

"Want some?"

She paused for a second. "...no."

"You should eat something. Must've had a long journey," he offered.

"Just from the state line. And anyway, we don't have long."

There was a creak of vinyl seating from the booths to the side, a man kicking his legs up onto the seat. Khakis. Sandals with socks. Thinning grey hair, the complexion of a milk bottle and a sweatshirt from a national park gift shop. He looked like an actuary on a camping holiday. I didn't see him come in, the girl thought, as an unpleasantly antiseptic smell hit her.

"Who does?" said the newcomer philosophically. His face twisted unpleasantly, revealing a cruel mouth, high cheekbones and the eyes of a dentist. He checked his watch. "Sorry I'm late," he said uncomfortably. "I had an appointment to keep."

The girl looked at the clock behind the counter. Dead on the hour. The fat man looked at the television, his face lighting up with an infectious grin. The news had long since flitted on to somewhere else, like a mayfly. "No kidding. I've never seen so many ambulances in one place."

"That's rich, coming from you," said the newcomer, getting only a rattling laugh in acknowledgement. "Are you even supposed to be here?"

The fat man shrugged. "People get what they expect, Sam."

At this, the girl shifted, balancing awkwardly on her seat. "Has anyone seen Red?" A plume of smoke streamed past her. The man named Sam threw up his hands in a who-knows gesture. "Well, he got the call, right?" she went on. "And what about the other guy?"

"I keep hearing people talk about him," Sam mused. "But I haven't seen him in God knows how long. He'll show up, though," he added quickly, as if to reassure himself. "He always does. And as for Red, well..."

A peal of rolling thunder echoed through the diner, shaking the windows. The three turned to the windows, where a cloud of swirling red dust was barrelling down the road towards them.

"Speak of the..." coughed the fat man, cut off by Sam raising a single index finger.

"You have to be careful with metaphors like that," he said, before nonchalantly examining his nails.

"Well, whatever." Another drag on the cigarette. The girl reflected that it didn't seem to have gotten any shorter.

A huge black SUV rumbled out of the cloud, pulling to a stop on the road outside. Pitched close to the ground, with tinted windows, the thump of the bass speakers was audible even inside. There was a bumper sticker on the back; 'My high school dropout could kick the shit out of your honor student'. As the door opened, the music poured out with it. The girl took a second to place it. Barbara Ann. She rolled her eyes. A young, skinny white guy with a branded polo shirt, expensive sunglasses and a shock of red hair hustled out, slamming the door behind him, hammering at the keypad of a phone as thin and shiny as a straight razor. He hustled into the diner at an awkward half run. When he spoke, it was in an unexpectedly high voice, never taking his eyes off the screen.

"Hey guys. Sorry I'm late."

"Late?" said Sam, in a careful not-angry-just-disappointed voice. He tapped at his watch demonstratively. "It's almost five past."

It didn't seem like it had been that long, the girl thought. But then, time plays tricks on you.

"I was really busy," Red said sheepishly, although he seemed to rally somewhat at the push of a couple of buttons. "Hey, you guys see this? Check this shit out." He thrust the phone at the others screen-first, who craned in to see. Tinny music blared out of the speakers - something about bodies hitting the floor - as a cascade of images flew onto the screen; dead and mutilated bodies, twisted wreckage. It cut away for a moment to show an explosion in a dusty, hot-looking city that shook the camera and vapourised a couple of buildings. "That one was a school. Madrassa. Same deal," Red continued on, speaking excitedly, a mile a minute. "They're making remixes! How badass is that? I fuckin' love this, it's crazy."

One of Sam's eyebrows inched up his gaunt face a fraction of an inch. "We're running late," he said coldly.

"No, no, yeah, totally. But, like, there's this one, where some dudes shot this guy in the head, and his whole fucking face came off, and..."

The older man gave him a look that could've melted glass. Red put his hands up defensively. "Okay... okay."

At this, the diesel fitter stood up with a sigh. "I hope you're going to pay for that," Sam said, re-focusing himself.

"What?"

"The eggs. You haven't paid for them. I settle debts for a living, and you're not weaselling out of this one."

The fat man extended a greasy, mottled hand to the empty counter, not taking his eyes off of the grey-haired man. It stayed empty. In the face of a similarly uncompromising look, however, he reluctantly fished a bill out of his pocket and laid it on the surface, taking a petulant drag on his cigarette. The redheaded kid led them back outside into the heat of the sun, eyes still glued to his electronic toy. Now and then he'd emit a small giggle of satisfaction at some particularly artful act of violence. Sam held the door open for the girl. For everything else, there was something of the gentleman about him, she considered. The kid opened the door of the SUV. The keys were still in the ignition, a small bullet hanging from the chain. The engine idled, the music paused for now.

"Hey Red," the fat man said curiously, "you look a little different to last time I saw you. You do something with your hair?"

"Could be worse," muttered the girl as she climbed into the back seat. "Remember when Sam had his goth phase?"

He slammed the front passenger door behind him a little harder than he needed to at that, and the fat guy laughed some more, suppressing another fit of coughing. Finally, he tossed his still-burning cigarette. It flicked off the road, leaving a trail of sparks, and buried itself in the dirt. Carelessly, he kicked it out with the toe of a work boot, mixing dust and ash and ash and dust, before clambering into the bulky, ugly vehicle. Red jabbed at a button on the dashboard, and the music came thundering back into life as they set off, the squat silver diner disappearing rapidly behind them.

"Round round get around,
I get around,
Yeah,
Get around round round I get around..."