The Atomic Spoon’s red neon buzzed in Jackson Square, a bloody glow piercing the fog that clung to the windows like a living thing, its tendrils curling inward as if drawn by the warmth inside. The air inside carried the heavy scent of fryer grease and burnt coffee, undercut by a faint chemical tang from Y-12 that seeped through the cracked window frames, a scar of Oak Ridge, Tennessee’s buried history that never fully faded.
The vinyl booths creaked under the group’s weight, their red surfaces worn smooth by decades of hands, the jukebox in the corner silent but looming, its glass reflecting the neon’s flicker like a watchful eye. Retirees at the counter sipped coffee, their murmurs about the weather—“Fog’s thicker than ‘73”—clashing with the tension that hung over the diner, a fragile normalcy that felt like a held breath.
Caleb slouched in their usual booth, his broad frame taut as wire, gray eyes scanning the mist’s uneasy churn beyond the glass, its shapes twisting like shadows with intent. A grease streak on his jacket, a faint trace from his shop, felt like a tether to a world he could still touch, but X-10’s warped halls clung tighter—Ruth’s doppelgänger, her taunt of his failure a blade in his chest. He’d let her slip away—her glowing mark a scar, her laugh on the porch under starlight now a fading echo.
A memory surfaced as he watched the fog: Ruth leaning against her truck, her smile warm as she handed him a wrench, her trust a weight he’d failed to carry. The fear of losing Jonah, too, gnawed at him, a quiet dread that sharpened his gaze as he glanced at the man beside him.
Jonah sat across, the small weight of his cross pressing against him, X-10’s rift hum still a claw in the Spoon’s quiet, now a faint buzz that seemed to vibrate in the neon’s flicker. His dark eyes traced the fog’s glow, its light stirring doubt from Ruth’s taunt, his faith fraying like threadbare cloth.
A memory rose: his first sermon at sixteen, his father’s stern gaze silencing his words of light, a failure that echoed now in The Hollow’s shadow. “This place feels off… again,” he said, his cadence soft but strained, fingers brushing the cross, the buzzing in his bones a reminder of past encounters in Jackson Square, a weight of unanswered prayers that pressed heavier with each moment.
Miss Ida settled beside them, her Y-12 pin catching the neon’s fire, her gaze steady as stone but softened by regret, her hands resting on the table with a quiet strength. The chemical tang in the air stirred a memory—Amos in ‘73, his laugh warm over coffee at this very counter before Y-12’s lights took him, her warning ignored, a failure that now fueled her resolve to protect these boys.
“Ruth loved this booth,” Miss Ida said, her drawl warm but tight, her voice carrying the diner’s whispered secrets, the weight of Amos’s loss a scar that drove her to shield Caleb and Jonah from the same fate.
Eli leaned against the counter, his ORNL badge swaying, the resonance emitter in his bag a tether to Ruth’s fight. Her absence stung, her questions alive in X-10’s waveform, a fire in his chest that burned brighter with each step.
A memory flickered—Ruth at the Spoon, her dark hair catching the neon as she teased him over his coffee, her determination a spark he now carried. “Fog’s worse than my lab notes,” he said, his tone crisp, a quip slicing through the unease, his grief for Ruth fueling a hope that the emitter could honor her legacy, a step toward closing the rift.
The neon flickered outside, casting warped shadows across the diner’s linoleum floor, a low hum seeping from the radio, cold and wrong, the notes of an unplayed song twisting into dissonance. Caleb squinted at the windows, his shoulders tensing, the haze wavered beyond the glass, the shapes pressing like skeletal fingers against it.
Jonah’s fingers tightened on his cross, the buzzing in his bones deepening, a quiet dread settling in his chest. Miss Ida gripped her coffee mug, her gaze sharpening, the industrial bite sharp as memory. Eli froze, the diner’s warmth turning to ice, the hum intensifying as the mist flickered, twisting into unnatural forms.
Two doppelgängers emerged from the haze—Caleb’s, gray eyes glinting with malice, its flannel stained with grease that bled green, and Jonah’s, its cross warped, the metal glowing sickly, their forms flickering like broken static, the air around them rippling with a heatwave that didn’t belong.
Caleb’s doppelgänger stepped closer, its voice a rasp that cut through the retirees’ chatter: “You failed Ruth, let her fall.” Caleb’s fists clenched, guilt flaring, her porch vivid in his mind, her trust a wound that bled fresh. Jonah’s doppelgänger sneered, its voice a distorted echo: “Your prayers are empty, preacher. Your God abandoned Ruth, and you’re alone.” Jonah’s breath caught, faith cracking like brittle glass—God left her, left me. He sank into the booth, the cross slipping from his fingers.
His voice broke as a memory rose: that failed sermon at sixteen, his father’s stern gaze, words of light lost to silence, now mirrored in The Hollow’s taunt. “I can’t pray this away,” he whispered, despair a tide, faith a fraying thread in his bones, the rift’s drone drowning his hope, a dark night engulfing his light.
Caleb’s doppelgänger pressed further, its gray eyes glinting with malice: “You want him closer than vows allow, but you’re too weak to face it.” Caleb’s breath caught in his chest, gray eyes darting away, Jonah’s hand trembling, their bond straining under the taunt’s weight, the fog outside pulsing in time with the radio’s hum.
Miss Ida stood, her Y-12 pin glinting like a blade, stepping forward with fire in her eyes, her voice fierce: “I failed Ruth and Amos, but I ain’t losing you boys.” A doppelgänger of her own flickered briefly—gray bun, eyes hollow, Amos’s shadow whispering her failure—before she gripped her pin, banishing it with a glare, her vow a shield for the group, resolve a beacon in the haze, the retirees’ murmurs falling silent as the air grew heavier.
Caleb’s voice broke, a low rumble: “You’re not me.” His eyes locked on Jonah’s, raw and pleading, guilt shared in the dim light of the Spoon. “I’m scared I’ll fail you too, Jonah,” he confessed, voice raw, hand reaching out, fear laid bare, the memory of Ruth’s trust a weight he couldn’t shake. Jonah’s prayer faltered, John 1:5 a trembling whisper—“The light shineth in darkness”—his fingers shaking, but Caleb’s touch steadied him, a memory rising: Ruth at the Spoon, her hand on Jonah’s shoulder, affirming his sermon, her faith a light in his doubt.
“We’re in this together,” Jonah murmured, his voice trembling, quieter than usual, the doppelgänger’s taunt still echoing in his mind, a shadow he couldn’t fully shake. Caleb nodded, his gray eyes softening with concern as he noticed Jonah’s subdued state, the tremble in his voice, but he said nothing, holding back, trusting their bond to carry them forward.
Eli stepped forward, his voice steady despite the surreal haze: “For Ruth’s fight.” Miss Ida nodded, her vow echoing: “For them all.” Their covenant flared, a quiet flame against the dark, binding them as one. Caleb clasped Jonah’s hand, his voice a quiet snap: “We’re enough.” Jonah’s prayer surged, John 1:5 trembling but persistent—“The light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not.”
The cross glinted faintly, the doppelgängers’ marks dimming, Caleb’s doppelgänger dissolving into the fog with a fading rasp, but Jonah’s lingered, its warped cross glowing sickly, staring with hollow eyes that seemed to pierce through the diner’s warmth. It tilted its head, a slow, deliberate motion, the fog wrapping around it like a shroud, before it melted backward into the haze, its form disappearing into the chill mist, leaving a lingering unease in the air—a silent question that hung heavy: was it retreating, or planning something worse?
The radio silenced, the burnt metal stench lifting, the neon steadying, the Spoon a haven reclaimed, though the fog outside still whispered, its shapes more restless now, a shadow that refused to fully die.
Miss Ida stood, resolve blazing, Esther’s journal vivid in her mind, Amos’s laugh a quiet echo she carried with pride. “I’ll find Kline’s device at Y-12, like Esther’s journal said,” she said, her voice warm, slipping out into the fog. Her sedan rattled down Bear Creek Road, a fifteen-minute drive to Y-12’s abandoned wing, the industrial bite sharp in her throat, the mist crowding her windows.
Her years at Y-12 guided her past a rusted gate near the old calutron section, to a hidden vault where Kline’s resonance device gleamed, its waveforms etched, tied to the Friendship Bell’s frequency. Miss Ida’s breath steadied, a memory surfacing: “In ‘73, Amos saw lights here, then vanished. I should’ve listened.” Her guilt faded, resolve a beacon for Ruth, for Amos, for the boys she’d protect, her vow a fire in her chest.
Half an hour later, Miss Ida returned to the Spoon, device in hand, the group waiting, Caleb and Jonah’s hands still clasped, reflecting on the confrontation’s strain, Jonah’s silence heavier now, his dark eyes distant as he traced his cross, the doppelgänger’s taunt a lingering shadow. “Found it,” Miss Ida said, setting it by Eli, her voice warm but edged with the weight of Y-12’s scars.
Eli traced its etchings, hope flaring: “This’ll sync with the emitter.” Ruth’s fight burned in him, grief eased by purpose, her memory a spark in the neon’s glow. Two workers passed, their voices low, uneasy: “That hum’s like ’44’s tests.” Their words hung thick, Jackson Square’s fog heavier, a living pulse that seemed to watch them.
The group rose, their bond reaffirmed, their covenant sealed with a shared vow: “For Ruth, together.” Caleb’s hand lingered on Jonah’s shoulder, his resolve firm as stone. Yet concern for Jonah’s quietness still clouded his gray eyes.
Miss Ida’s eyes shone, her protector’s fire steady, Amos’s memory a quiet strength. Eli’s posture stood tall, the device a path to The Hollow, Ruth’s determination alive in his chest. The fog pulsed outside, Y-12’s tang sharp in their throats, a rift’s whisper—“It sees you”—urging them on, the Spoon’s warmth a fragile shield against the gathering dark.
(Chapter from The River’s Double in the Secret City series. Contact me if you’d like to read the full story)
CovenantRoad 