by Jason Offutt
Bad Day For The Apoclypse
Jason Offutt
Copyright 2017 by Jason Offutt
June 5: St. Joseph
Chapter 1
Raindrops pounded the restaurant windows in windblown sheets as Nikki Holleran cleared Table Six; the few cars in the parking lot, half of them owned by employees, occasionally invisible in the torrent. Three tables of customers dotted the dining area at Hooligans in St. Joseph, Missouri. It was Friday, 7:30 p.m. Prime dining time. Tonight, nothing. No crowd, no hum of conversation, no line of people at the door, no lucky ones holding pagers waiting for a table to open. Just a young couple, two locals drinking beer at a table next to the bar and high fiving each other over the ball game on TV, and a fat businessman eating a porterhouse in Nikki’s section.
“This sucks.”
Nikki looked up from a plate of half-eaten cheeseburger to find Tammy leaning against the back of the booth, the top of her uniform plunging low. Nikki hated the Hooligans waitress uniforms. She wore hers buttoned high, keeping herself in check, but the waist was much too snug for her figure to fit anything but awkwardly in the tight uniform. Tammy wore it expertly.
“The rain?”
“The rain, the two guys in the bar who call me Jugzilla every time I walk by, all the people who were smart enough to call in sick tonight. Everything just sucks.” Tammy was 23, a fifth-year senior at nearby Missouri Western State Community College and hated everything through a seductive smile. Nikki’s tips were good because she was a good waitress; Tammy’s were better.
Nikki scooped the dirty silverware from the table and dropped them into a bus tub. The bus boys had called in sick tonight; all of them, which is understandable because bussing tables is the worst job at a restaurant. Americans, given the knowledge someone else will clean up after them, soil everything they touch.
“There weren’t many people in my summer class today, either,” Nikki said. “And half of them looked confused. Not hangover confused, it’s like they didn’t know why they were there. Something must be going around.”
“Well I’m not catching it. I don’t have time to be sick. I have my midterm next week,” Tammy said, slowly standing straight. “Oh, those assholes are waving at me. I gotta go. If you hear a scream, it’s one of them.”
Nikki wiped the rest of the discarded curly fries and great spots of ketchup from the table into the bus tub with a damp rag, and worked her way back to the kitchen. She slid the tub on a wire rack next to Benny, the assistant manager at Hooligans, who worked the dishwasher tonight out of necessity.
“Tough night?” he asked, smiling as he pushed the tub into the stainless-steel steaming monster, and slammed the door. The regular dishwashers had called in sick as well; two of the wait staff, too. That left Benny to man everything, and he did what he needed to do. Nikki liked him. For an assistant manager, he was a nice enough guy. Friendly, fair, and newly married, so at least with Benny, every waitress’s boobs were their own. Nikki returned his smile.
“Tough for all the wrong reasons,” she said.
“We’re just lucky the weather’s shit. If we got slammed. Whew. We’d be in trouble.”
“What do you think’s going around?” she asked, grabbing an empty tub. “It’s summer. It’s not like it’s sniffle season.”
Benny shrugged. “I dunno,” he said. “H1N1? Bird flu? Swine flu? Brown bottle flu? Some guy on MSNBC today claimed the UN let loose the zombie virus to curb the world’s seven billion or so population.” He paused and grinned again. “But you know how they are at MSNBC.”
Nikki nodded even though she didn’t know what he was talking about, but she did know if a wave of illness caught the attention of the talking heads on cable, there might be something to it.
“Did the news report talk about symptoms?”
Benny opened his mouth, but his words didn’t have the time to come out.
“Benny,” Tammy said, stomping into the strangely quiet kitchen, and slamming a black plastic drink tray hard on a prep station, the front of her black and red uniform soaked with beer. “One of those fucking rednecks at the bar grabbed me, and when I shoved him away he laughed and poured his beer on me. If I have to go back out there I’m going to kill both of them.”
“Christ,” Benny whispered, shaking his head. He didn’t know what would be worse to deal with, drunken rednecks or a pissed off waitress. It didn’t matter; he had to deal with them both. “All right,” he said, gently grabbing her by the shoulders, although he knew deep down the people at corporate HR would have his ass for that. “They’ll be gone in two seconds. Do you have any other tables?” She shook her head. “Okay, just calm down back here. I’ll take care of this.” He dropped his hands from her shoulders, cracked his neck, and walked out of the kitchen.
Nikki watched as Tammy’s shaking hands fumbled with her purse that hung on the wall next to the time clock. “You okay?”
Tammy nodded as she pulled out a prescription bottle of pills. Nikki didn’t have to ask; it was Ophiocordon. Seems like everyone took Ophiocordon nowadays. “Yeah. It’s just jerks like that. There’s no reason for them.”
She wrenched open the childproof cap, dropped a white oval tablet into her hand, popped it into her mouth, and swallowed hard. Seconds slunk by before Tammy gasped, and her body tensed. One of the side effects of the newest anti-depressant Ophiocordon; it gave women an immediate orgasm, then tapered off to simple euphoria. Nikki heard it did something like that to men as well, just not as sudden, not like she cared. Out of all the side effects modern pharmaceuticals carried, like diarrhea and the occasional hallucination, an orgasm wasn’t too shabby. Nikki sometimes wished she suffered from some kind of depression.
“If he’s outside when I go home,” Tammy said, shaking the sudden wave of ecstasy throughout her body, “he’s dead.”
“They all get what they deserve, Tammy. Just focus on that,” Nikki said, gently patting Tammy’s hand, and walking toward the dining area. “I still have one out there, but I think he’s about done. Hopefully we’ll close early, and get out of this nightmare.”
“Can I get you anything else, sir?” Nikki asked the fat businessman, although given his nearly spot-free plate that once sported medium-rare porterhouse and baked potato, she would have felt a little guilt at helping him die slowly with dessert. The man shook his head. Something about his demeanor worried Nikki. Sweat beaded across his round face, his skin was waxy and white. Good God, she thought. A heart attack would just top off this night.
“I … uh…” wheezed past his lips in great blasts, his breath pinching Nikki’s face tight.
Christ. What’s that smell? She coughed, the taste of vomit in her mouth.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her left wrist over her mouth.
“I’m … I’m …” he heaved. “Oh, God. I don’t feel so good.”
“I’ll get the …” manager, Nikki tried to say, but the blood stopped her. Tendrils of thick, crimson liquid shot from the man’s nostrils. He coughed, the rancid, sweet smell of death brushed over Nikki, a clot of blood splattered across his plate.
“Benny,” she screamed, backing away from the table. “Benny. Benny. 9-1-1. Oh, my God, 9-1-1. Benny, 9-1-1.”
“What the hell?” came from behind her from one of Tammy’s rednecks Benny hadn’t been able to make leave. “What the … holy shit.”
“Heh… heh… help me,” the businessman hissed, grabbing for Nikki’s uniform, blood now running from his nose like his face was a dam about to break. A red spot grew in his left eye and popped, sending another red river pouring down his cheek. Nikki screamed and stumbled away from the man’s grasp.
“What the fuck?” Tammy’s redneck whispered, backi
ng away from the bleeding man who had fallen to the floor, and crawled toward Nikki.
“Do you have a phone?” Benny screamed at the redneck.
“What?”
“Do you have a God damned fucking phone?” he screamed again, grabbing and shaking the man’s Toby Keith concert T-shirt.
The man nodded.
“Then call the cops,” he hissed. “And if you ever harass my waitresses again, I will personally kick the shit out of you.” Benny rushed to Nikki, pulling her away from the bleeding customer, and sat her in a booth. “You’re going to be okay,” he said, and turned to the redneck. “You got someone?” The man nodded. “Then tell them to send an ambulance here now. NOW.”
“That was some fucked up shit,” Tammy said, finishing a beer. “Did you see all the blood on the carpet? No way am I cleaning that up.”
Nikki sat at the bar with Tammy, the lights low, the storm outside off somewhere to the east. Police filed through Hooligans, taking blood samples, food samples, and statements from the few people there. Nikki just wanted to go home. She saw a man bleed like he’d been hacked by Freddie Krueger, and drop over a booth table in a fat wet slap. Then he stood, pushing himself up from the table, and stumbled around, like he was dumb in every sense of the word. The EMTs put the man on a gurney, but his legs and arms moved like he was still walking. And he didn’t make a sound, not even a moan. The EMT said the man wasn’t dead, yet. No amount of beer with Tammy would change any of that.
“Did you even see it?” Nikki asked.
“No,” Tammy said. “I got there for Benny saying ‘if you ever harass my waitresses again, I will personally kick the shit out of you,’ though. That’s manager of the year stuff right there. I will nominate him.”
Nikki took another drink. The beer was cold, sending alcohol dancing across the scene in her head, but it didn’t change anything. The fat man, blood spewing from his nose, his mouth, his eyes, and his horizontal legs trying to walk on air, burned themselves into her memory.
“Did you see the blood on his face?” Nikki asked.
“Yeah,” Tammy said, sliding out of her seat. “I’m going for another beer. Want one?”
“It was gushing,” Nikki said, ignoring her. “Gushing.”
Tammy walked behind the bar, slid open the cooler, grabbed a Bud Light and sat it in front of Nikki. “I had a customer the other night with a nosebleed,” she said. “Nice guy, cute. Kinda dorky.”
“And?”
Tammy shrugged. “I don’t know. His friend was worried because he’d just taken an Ophiocordon. Something about it sending too much blood to his junk and not enough to his brain.”
Nikki grabbed the beer and took a drink. “Were either of them worried about it?”
Tammy shrugged and opened another beer. “I don’t know. They were pretty drunk, and I was showing these off pretty good,” she said, pushing her arms under her breasts. “They tipped well.”
“Did the man mention anything about his nosebleed?”
Tammy shook her head. “No. He just had a hell of a time stopping it. This might not sound attractive, but watching a drunk nerdy guy flirt while drinking beer through a straw because he has a paper napkin shoved up his nose is actually pretty cute.”
A large body stood between them.
“Miss Holleran, Miss Dankenbring,” a police officer said. Dan, Nikki remembered, his name was Dan. “I have your statements, and I’m sorry you young ladies had to see something like this. You can go home now. If you’d like, I can have an officer take you.”
Nikki shook her head. “Thank you, Officer Dan, but I need to be alone right now. I can take Tammy home if she’d like.”
Tammy shook her head. “I’m good. I just need sleep.”
He nodded. “Understood. Just remember we’re out there. I hope you’re okay to drive.” Nikki nodded and Officer Dan walked away.
The yellow glow from streetlights glistened off Hooligans wet parking lot as Nikki and Tammy walked across the asphalt, the storm long since gone.
“What do you think that was?” Tammy asked, stopping in the middle of the lot, fishing a cigarette out of her purse. The rush of the Ophiocordon must be wearing off, Nikki thought. “I mean, the fat guy. I saw him when he came in. Hell, I seated him. He looked fine. What do you think happened to him?”
Nikki shrugged. “I don’t know. He just. He just started to sweat blood.” Tears welled in her eyes. “It was awful,” she said, stopping, words choked in her throat. “Just awful.”
The yellow-orange flame of a cheap convenience store lighter erupted in the night as Tammy lit a Pall Mall and took a long, slow drag. “Not awful,” she said, smoke rolling from her mouth. “Totally fucked up. We will never – never – see anything like that again. I guarantee it.”
“I hope you’re right,” Nikki said, pulling keys from her purse and stepping toward her scooter. “And at least he’s not dead.” She paused to look at Tammy who stood in the full light of Hooligans parking lot. Things weren’t right; they weren’t right at all. They were very, very wrong.
“Shit, Tammy,” Nikki said. “Your nose is bleeding.”
June 6: Allenville, Missouri
Chapter 2
Goddamned Posey. The old man sat on his front porch with his fat old wife watching Craig mow the lawn, their stupid yip-yip dog Doofus barking the whole time. Craig knew Posey would let the little yapper loose on him if it were a Rottweiler; let him loose and laugh as it ripped Craig’s face off. Dick. Craig pushed the red Craftsman mower across his crabgrass-choked backyard, over dandelions and burr patches. Posey’s yard was immaculate. Deep green Kentucky bluegrass without a weed in it. No dandelions, no thistles, nothing. How the fuck does he do it? Voodoo most likely. Crazy old bastard. Craig wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his powder blue Kansas City Royals T-shirt; the thunderstorm that passed last night about 40 miles south in St. Joseph left Craig’s corner of northwest Missouri untouched.
“Your yard looks like shit, McAllister,” Posey yelled across the yard. “Why don’t you do the neighborhood a favor and eat a bullet? And do it outside. Your yard could use the fertilizer.” Craig’s hands pulled tighter on the mower’s black metal handle and pushed harder as he fought to keep his eyes on the lawn. Goddamn him. Worst neighbor ever. Worst damned loser asshole neighbor ever. Craig didn’t turn his head because he knew what he’d find; Posey and his fat assed wife asleep in their lawn chairs, their barking rat pissing on the potted plants. Voodoo. The man was getting inside Craig’s head.
The Poseys had once tried to lull Craig into a false sense of safety. Fat Lilith Posey even brought Craig a casserole the day he moved to town. An egg casserole with mushrooms and sausage. Craig smiled and thanked her, even though he knew she was trying to poison him. He had no idea what was in that yellow slagheap, probably toadstools; he just fed the cheesy glop to the garbage disposal. “Hurry your fat ass up, McAllister,” ran through Craig’s head as he rounded the corner of the house and Posey’s own home disappeared from view. The casserole was twelve years ago and that cocksucker hadn’t shut up yet, except when Craig mowed on the north side of his little two-bedroom house. For some reason, it was quiet there. Craig thought he should sit out here in a lawn chair after he finished with the yard work and have a beer, or eight. Craig couldn’t hear Posey very well after eight beers.
Craig moved to town after the accident. Some moron had dropped a board from the third floor of a construction job and it smashed into Craig’s hardhat. Rang his bell pretty good. Craig woke two weeks later in St. Joe Regional Hospital with a hell of a headache and a card from a lawyer who later told him he (they) were due a hell of a payday. Negligence, the lawyer said, even though they both knew it wasn’t negligence, it was just an accident. A stupid accident and Craig happened to be in the wrong place. Didn’t matter, the lawyer told Craig, “hire me and you’ll never have to work another day in your life.” The lawyer was right. The most work Craig has had to do since the accident is mow his yar
d in the summer and move snow from his driveway in the winter. His life was nice enough, but why did he have to move next door to Posey? It was that damned real estate agent, fat-assed Billy Bob Purdy. Craig knew he’d see him dead one day.
Craig quickly finished the small slip of shaded side yard. He’d finished the back yard and the Posey side of the house; he always got that one done first. Posey only badgered him a little as he mowed the back yard; the Posey side was a constant barrage. The only thing left was a small patch of yard in front of the house. He stood at the corner, the mower handle vibrated through his hands and up his arms, but Craig didn’t notice. He was focused on Posey; to mow the front yard, Craig would be in full view of Posey’s house, that old fart sitting out there, laughing at him. Why wouldn’t he just die? Craig steadied himself and stepped into the sun. He chanced a glance at Posey’s house. The old man and his wife – his murdering wife, with her poisoned toadstool and dog shit casseroles – pretended to be asleep. Doofus had sniffed its way into a corner of Craig’s yard and squatted, looking squarely at Craig. That little fucker is taking a dump. In my yard, ran through Craig’s head. I’m going to run your little ass over with this mower one of these days you little bastard. “You like that, McAllister?” came Posey’s words. “A little present from the Poseys to you. Merry Goddamned Christmas, McAllister. Doofus has a lot more for you, McAllister. A lot more. We feed him well, better than you eat.”
“I’m going to kill that dog, Posey, you old fuck,” Craig mumbled under the roar of the mower. “Kill it dead.”
“Over my dead body,” Posey said loud in Craig’s head, then laughed. “Over my dead body.” Craig smiled. That’s the best thing he’d heard all day.
He didn’t know why Posey had it in for him. Craig moved into the house quietly, a moving company carrying in his scant belongings. It’s not like they parked their truck on Posey’s lawn. Craig’s old Toyota pickup didn’t leak oil in the street, he kept his yard clean and trimmed, and he was quiet. Posey couldn’t see Craig at night, sitting in his darkened living room a few feet back from the window so the faint yellow glow from the streetlight didn’t betray his presence, a beer on the table next to him, and binoculars pressed tightly against his face, glaring at Posey as the old man sat in his Archie Bunker easy chair, drinking beer and watching The Weather Channel. Posey was up to something, something dark; Craig just didn’t know what. He was, however, going to find out.
