Chapter 6: The Supernatural Collapse
The investigator abandoned his clipboard and marched directly toward the breakroom door. “Mr. Bell, what exactly does the figure ‘212 hours’ refer to under this minor’s name?”
Martin opened his mouth. No sound emerged. He closed it. He opened it again, resembling a suffocating grouper fish. Finally, he managed to croak, “Family experience.”
The investigator stared at him, utterly devoid of amusement, and began typing furiously into his tablet.
I thought I was going to expire. Not metaphorically. I felt a genuine tightness in my chest and had to physically lower myself onto an overturned plastic bucket of industrial wax to keep from collapsing.
As if the universe decided the scene required more cinematic flair, the primary tunnel conveyor alarm suddenly began to shriek.
WEE-OOO! WEE-OOO!
A silver Honda Odyssey had jumped the track halfway through the tunnel because the teenager operating the control booth had abandoned his station to press his face against the glass to watch his boss get dismantled by the federal government.
Thick, neon-blue blueberry foam began raining down relentlessly, burying the stationary minivan. The driver inside began laying on the horn, a desperate, muffled blaring from beneath the suds.
The DJ panicked at the cacophony and instinctively cranked the volume on his mixing board. TAKIN’ CARE OF BUSINESS shook the pavement.
A sudden gust of wind caught one of the twenty-foot inflatable tube men, causing it to buckle and collapse directly across a vacuum station, wrapping around a customer’s legs. Somewhere near the snack table, a rogue toddler seized the distraction to shove six glazed donuts into his shirt and sprint toward the street.
Martin tore his eyes away from the investigators and took a desperate step toward the screaming car wash tunnel.
“Mr. Bell,” the female investigator snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. “We are not finished here.”
Martin froze in place. He was trapped between the government and the blueberry foam. The minivan honked frantically. The DJ screamed into the mic, “WE HAVE A CODE RED IN THE TUNNEL!”
Chloe was standing on a concrete parking block, her camera rolling, capturing every glorious, high-definition second of the meltdown. Ethan stood beside her, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, observing the chaos with the serene detachment of a monk.
I had spent two decades walking into pitch-black, rotting buildings where people swore the dead still walked. I had listened to the alleged whispers of Victorian children echoing through empty sanatoriums. I had documented the darkest corners of the unknown.
Yet, I had never, in my entire professional career, witnessed anything as profoundly supernatural, as terrifyingly beautiful, as my brother attempting to mentally process six simultaneous catastrophic disasters of his own making.
And then, as if summoned by the sheer density of the drama, our mother arrived.
Nobody had invited her. She simply materialized out of the ether, marching across the wet asphalt in her tennis shoes, her face drawn in a mask of maternal authority.
“What in the name of God is going on here?” she demanded, swatting away the flailing arm of the collapsed tube man.
Martin pointed a trembling, soap-stained finger at my son. “His review! His review brought the feds down on me!”
Mom spun on her heels and marched toward Ethan. “You need to fix this immediately, young man. Tell them it was a misunderstanding.”
Ethan did not flinch. “I cannot fix it, Grandma.”
“You can take your little phone out and delete that nasty internet post right now!”
“Deleting the post,” Ethan explained softly, “does not delete the hours I worked. Nor does it rewrite labor law.”
Mom blinked, the reality of the situation finally piercing her delusion. I looked away, suddenly fascinated by a puddle of soap. I felt that specific realization deserved privacy.
The male investigator returned from the breakroom. “We will be requesting full payroll disclosures for the previous three quarters. We also need to speak privately with any current employees regarding off-the-clock compensation.”
A lanky teenager stationed near the towel-drying rack slowly raised his hand in the air, exactly like a student in a classroom. “Um, excuse me? Should I tell you guys about the mandatory Sunday setup stuff?”
Martin whipped around. “NO, KEVIN!” he roared.
The investigator turned toward the boy, her eyes narrowing. “What mandatory Sunday setup?”
Kevin lowered his hand very, very slowly. “Oh. Never mind.”
Martin closed his eyes and let his head drop backward toward the sky.
Behind him, the wind caught the massive promotional banner. The zip-ties on the left side snapped under the tension. The heavy vinyl folded over on itself, obscuring the text.
It now proudly proclaimed: JOBS. RESULTS.
Honestly, it was a far more accurate marketing slogan.
