by Tony Urban
Emory stayed until the class ended and waited for Grant to exit the changing room. When he did, he saw the young man was stunning up close too. He asked Grant if he’d ever been to New York City and, when he said no, Emory offered to take him. Within a year, they were living together and would have married if such a thing were possible.
The first few years of their coupling were full of love and passion, but as that wore off the differences in their personalities took a toll. Grant loved the money. Emory did too, mainly for the freedom it provided, but Grant became addicted to it. Shopping trips to London and Paris. Vacations in Tahiti and Tuscany. The winter home he had to have in Key West.
Emory loved making his beautiful beau happy, but sometimes happiness seemed as elusive to Grant as a trip to Jupiter. He acted the part, went to all the galas, sat on numerous charity boards, dined with the city’s elite, the things rich people do, but Emory often thought his lover never looked as happy as he had that first time he saw him, jumping into the air under the purple and pink stage lights.
As they grew older, it was clear their love story wasn’t the storybook romance Emory always longed for. Neither broached the subject of separating and, as far as Emory knew, there had been no trysts or affairs, but they felt more like roommates living under one huge roof. Ships meeting only occasionally at port. Emory sometimes felt his greatest failure in life was that he could never give his one, true love the happiness he deserved.
Their glorious mansion on the hill felt more like a prison than home for the past 14 months. That was after a three pack a day smoking habit and lung cancer put Grant in the ground and ever after became never was. Emory kept meaning to find a Realtor and list the house. He wanted rid of it and fancied he might buy one of those obnoxious motor coaches with names like Born Free or Renegade and drive it around the country while there was still a country worth seeing. Maybe it would even inspire him to write the book he’d always talked about writing, and which Grant had so encouraged, but never got around to doing.
Just as he began to think he must have mixed up his days, something that happened more often than he cared to think about lately, the whiny drone of Christopher’s moped came within earshot. A grin which deepened the road map of wrinkles that etched Emory’s face appeared and he skipped down the porch steps to meet the boy in the driveway.
Christopher’s moped skidded to a stop and he jumped off without bothering to drop the kickstand. It crashed onto its side as the boy yanked off his helmet. He was tall and built like an athlete which he was. Emory had gone to every one of his football games and cheered him on like he was his own son. The boy’s actual father had never been around and his mother died in a traffic accident a few years earlier. He lived with an aunt who worked too much just to stay ahead of the bill collectors and Emory knew much of the money he paid Christopher also went toward those bills.
Emory had given him generous Christmas bonuses and raises at every opportunity, but was wary of appearing as if he was trying to buy the boy’s affection. He was enamored with Christopher and didn’t want it to show. Nothing sexual — Emory’s sail hadn’t flown past half mast in over a decade and that didn’t bother him in the least — but the boy’s very presence was intoxicating.
Emory lusted after Christopher’s youth because, even if he was less than two full calendars away from becoming an octogenarian, he still felt like he was Christopher’s age in his mind. He would have eagerly traded everything he owned for that youth. For the chance to live life all over again. Impossible, of course, but the daydreams alone could brighten his mood on even the darkest day.
“I was worried you weren’t--” Emory stopped when he saw Christopher’s panicked, wide-eyed expression. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s my aunt. I think she’s dying.”
“Oh, my. I’m so sorry, Christopher. You certainly didn’t have to come here today if she--”
“I need you to help her. You have to. Right now!”
“I--” Emory paused, confused. “Why didn’t you call for an ambulance?”
The boy pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “The phones are all out. Nine one one doesn’t answer. I tried the hospital too and it won’t go through either.”
Emory tried his own cell, a Nokia so old it was practically an antique. He attempted to make a call and in his ear heard only the dull, continuous tone signaling a line out of order.
“Please, Mr. Prescott, I didn’t know where else to go.”
The boy, all six feet and sixteen years of him, was on the verge of tears
“Of course. Of course I’ll help, Christopher. Get in the Mercedes.”
15
Eight months in culinary school and this was the result. Slicing off fatty roast beef and gristly ham and shoving it onto plates at the Hearty Buffet. Mead hadn’t graduated from the culinary academy, of course. He rarely finished anything. He dropped out of high school junior year. He had a nine month marriage when he was 23. He had a kid that he hadn’t seen in three years. No “Father of the Year” or “World’s Greatest Dad” t-shirts coming in his future, that was for sure.
Being a chef would be different though. He’d wanted to be a chef since he was seven years old and always knew it was his destiny. But culinary school wasn’t any different than high school. Asshole, know it all teachers that treated him like shit. Uppity classmates who refused to talk to him after realizing he was white trash. He wanted to cook but he couldn’t deal with that bullshit. Life was too short.
He was 29 and thought he’d have accomplished something meaningful by now, but hadn’t. This job would turn things around though. It was close to his shitty apartment, which was good because his rusted out Cavalier knocked like the engine would blow any day now. The $9 an hour pay wasn’t great, but wasn’t terrible for the area. And best of all, he’d finally get to do something he loved.
That’s what he thought when he landed the job. Reality was less romantic. The most cooking he’d done in three months was frying omelettes every Sunday morning, but even those eggs came pre-scrambled and poured out of a box. Every disgusting piece of food on the buffet, except the salad, came in frozen. Occasionally they’d fire up an oven but most of it got nuked in the industrial microwaves they kept out of sight in the back. Yet the poor, fat clientele that voted the buffet “Johnstown’s Best Value Eatery” three years running ate the shit up like it was farm fresh and made of gold.
A wheezy, old woman with blue hair sidled up beside Mead’s station and looked at the two hunks of grayish meat. “Is there MSG in this?” She asked.
“Probably.”
“I can’t eat MSG. Gives me the trots.” She rubbed her ample belly as she said that.
“That’s why we have plenty of bathrooms, Ma’am.”
She examined him for a moment, trying to decide whether he was being rude or funny, decided on the latter, then chuckled.
“Give me a slice of each. You only live once. Isn’t that what you kids say?”
It flattered Mead to be referred to as a kid, even if she was old enough to be his grandmother, and gave her two extra large portions. She grinned at her haul but before she could walk off she was surprised by an almost violent sneeze. Ropes of green snot hit the plexiglass covering the meat with a wet thwack. Mead was never so happy for the sneeze guard in his life.
“Scuse me.” She said and didn’t bother to clean up her expelled fluids before walking away.
Mead tried to ignore the ooze but, as it precariously neared the edge and risked dripping onto the ham, he gave up, pulled a food-stained rag from his apron and wiped it away. A foggy haze remained behind but he pretended not to see it as he deposited the rag straight into the trash bin.
He noticed that there was a lot of sneezing going on around him. Coughing too. The Hearty Buffet was hardly the pinnacle of health, but the amount of audible sickness unnerved him. Wasn’t cold and flu season supposed to be in the fall?
A middle aged man topped with a 10-gallon cowboy hat o
n a 12-gallon head was next in line. He was about as wide as he was tall and his plate was already overflowing with food. “I’ll take the beef. Slice her thick.”
Mead did as told and, after he moved one slice to the plate, the Cowboy tipped his head. “One more.”
“Sure thing, Partner.”
Cowboy’s grin faded and he stomped away after getting his second helping.
A 6-year-old that Mead could tell was a brat just by looking at his carrot red hair and pointed, squirrelly face sprinted toward his station, almost crashing into it. He stared up at Mead quizzically. “You look funny.”
So do you, twerp, Mead thought but didn’t say. He was aware that he looked different. The hairnet containing his thick, drab, brown locks bulged out at the sides like Princess Leia’s buns. Add in a pencil-thin mustache and a head shaped like a Lego character and he got his share of curious looks
Before Mead could put on his fake smile and ask the brat what he wanted, a scream drew everyone’s attention.
“My Henry!”
The voice was shrill and old. Mead looked for the source and saw it was Blue Hair. In the booth across from her a man, presumably the aforementioned Henry, had slumped face first into his instant mashed potatoes.
Even though Mead had only been there a few months, this was not the first person he’d seen die at the buffet. If Henry was indeed dearly departed, he’d be the third fatality on Mead’s shifts alone. Says a lot about our clientele.
Wendy, a chestnut haired waitress who put both the big and beautiful in BBW, and an Asian busboy named Pan rushed to Henry’s side. Pan pulled Henry’s face free from the potatoes. White starch and brown gravy filled in his wrinkles like spackle. Pan held his ear close to Henry’s mouth.
“Call an ambulance!” Wendy shouted and Mead couldn’t help but notice her tits jiggled like jello as she yelled.
Pan’s face shriveled up as he tried to listen for breathing sounds over the growing commotion around him. Then, his squinted eyes grew wide, and he shoved Henry backward in the booth.
Mead saw a spurt of red and noticed that Pan’s ear, or at least the bottom half of it anyway, was missing. Pan clasped his hand over his ear and screamed something in Chinese or Korean, Meade wasn’t sure which. Maybe even Thai for all he knew.
Wendy grabbed on to Pan, pressing her ample bosom against him, and tried to lead him away but by that point pretty much everyone in the restaurant had crowded around to gawk at what had happened.
Everyone but Mead, who was content to take in the events from afar. While all the lookie loos focused on Pan with his one and a half ears, Mead watched Henry. What he saw was the elderly man slumped back into the booth and chewing on the hard cartilage of Pan’s ear like it was a piece of saltwater taffy.
“Henry! What are you doing?” his blue-haired wife shrieked. She reached across the table and toward Henry’s mouth where a piece of Pan’s ear extruded and tried to pull it free.
“Bad idea, lady,” Mead muttered to himself.
Bad idea indeed. Henry snarled like a dog and snapped at her. He caught the first knuckles of her middle and index fingers between his yellow choppers and bit them clean off.
She screamed again, but that faded away when she fainted and sprawled across the table.
Someone else shrieked and Mead found himself longing for a return to the coughs and sneezes. This time he saw Wendy, Wendy with the huge, jiggly titties he so longed to bury his face in, squealing in agony as Pan took a massive bite out of the side of her neck.
Everything shifted into fast-forward after that. Mead saw Blue Hair rise from her faint, grab the arm of a teen with one of those out of fashion Justin Bieber haircuts and devour it.
Wendy pounced on a woman in a motorized scooter. Pan moved on to a waiter. Then the Bieber wannabe had his teeth buried in the plus-sized stomach of the cowboy. It seemed like everyone at the buffet was eating someone or being eaten.
It spread at lightning speed, one after another after another. And through it all Mead watched Henry casually gnaw away at his wife’s fingertips.
His attention was diverted when he caught the little ginger who had earlier almost taken out the meat station staring at him. The brat’s left eye hung from its socket and dangled back and forth like a yoyo at the end of its string. He had a gaping wound in his neck that gushed blood by the pint, turning his lower body crimson.
The brat sprinted toward his station for the second time, only this time Mead wasn’t afraid he’d upset the cart, he feared for his life. Mead shoved the wheeled cart toward him, knocking the boy onto his back.
The cart tipped over and fell onto the brat but he squirmed out from beneath it with little effort. Then he jumped on top of it, and leaped into the air, diving straight for Mead.
The kid hit him in the chest and wrapped his skinny legs around Mead’s waist to hold on. He clawed and scratched at Mead who desperately held him back. The brat’s jaws snapped together so hard Mead thought his teeth would break.
With his free hand, Mead grabbed the large serving fork. He looked into the brat’s eyes, or eye as it was. The pupil was fully dilated and he couldn’t see but a hint of the iris. It looked dead, like a shark’s eyes.
The little fucker’s a zombie.
Mead plunged the two prongs of the fork into the brat’s good eye. He felt it pop like a water balloon and bloody, vitreous gel splashed out. He kept pushing the fork into the cavity until he buried it up to the handle. It was only then he noticed the brat had ceased moving.
Mead shoved him away and the lifeless body hit the carpeted floor with a muffled thud.
“Take that you little ginger zombie fuck!”
Mead looked up and saw everyone in the restaurant staring back at him.
They ran all at once. Mead spun on his heels and sprinted in the opposite direction. He dashed through the kitchen slowing only to pull down a few food carts to throw obstacles into the course behind him.
The zombies scrambled after him. Some fell over the metal shelves and the ones on their heels crawled over them with ease. They closed in on Mead as he neared the rear exit.
He hit the metal door and slammed down the handle but the door wouldn’t open. He tried again with the same result.
“Shit!” He remembered the door needed to be unlocked and searched his pockets for his card.
Mead risked a glance back. The closest zombie was only yards away.
He found his key card and swiped it. The door unlocked. Mead thrust it open and fell out into the parking lot. He spun on his knees and shoved the door closed. He could hear the zombies hit the other side, pounding against it, but the heavy, steel door held them back.
Just as he tried to catch his breath, he thought about the front entrance. With what little energy he had left he ran around the building, grabbing his keys from his pocket and thanking God because the only reason he had them was because he was scheduled to close that night.
The front of the restaurant was clear. Mead slid his key into the lock and sealed the door tight. The creatures inside heard the click and the few zombies which hadn’t chased him all the way through the kitchen ran toward the door.
The first one there was Wendy, and Mead couldn’t help but take a longing look as her breasts pressed against the smoked glass.
“What a waste.”
The zombies beat their fists against the door, but they were trapped.
Mead backed away from the restaurant, toward employee parking. He pulled off his hair net and his greasy hair tumbled to his shoulders. He threw the net onto the pavement and climbed into his Cavalier. It started with a bang and as he drove away, he couldn’t resist a glance at the huge “All You Can Eat” sign perched atop the roof.
“You’re not eating me. Not today, anyway.”
16
Wim’s farm stood about 12 miles from the nearest town and he only made the trip once or twice a month when he needed groceries or had to pick up parts for something that had broken down. Calling it
a town was a stretch. There was one stop light which marked the intersection of Elm and Main Street and it turned into a blinker after 5 pm. Along those roads were two bars, a gas station & sub shop, a market, and three churches along with rows of old, residential homes.
After killing Hoyt the mailman, Wim had decided that his only option was to go to town. The way he figured, there were two possible outcomes. Either everyone would be normal and he’d be arrested for murder or maybe lynched on the spot if he dared share his crazy story. Or, there would be more zombies. If the latter were to occur, he decided it was best to be prepared, so he loaded up his old Ford Bronco with every gun he had on the farm.
His father had been a collector and all together Wim found 14 firearms. There were six rifles, two shotguns, four revolvers and two pistols. He had ammunition for each and Wim loaded them all to capacity, then put the remaining ammunition in the truck, just in case.
Wim didn’t pass a living, or dead, soul on his way to town. The first building he came across was the post office. The small, red brick structure stood a quarter mile outside of town and when Wim turned into the parking lot, all the spaces were empty. In a village of less than 1000 that wasn’t an unusual site. Since the man he’d earlier murdered was employed there, he figured it was as good a place to start as any.
Although he knew that it was a crime to take a firearm into a federal building, Wim grabbed a snub-nosed revolver that was small enough to fit into his pocket before he headed inside. Under the circumstances, he wasn’t too worried about being a scofflaw.
Brass bells above the door jingled as he walked inside. All the lights were off and the lobby was empty.
“Hello?”
He walked to the counter and peered into the mail sorting area where he saw no one. Large bags of undelivered mail were strewn about the floor.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
Silence.
As he looked around, Wim noticed the cash register drawer was hanging open and filled with undisturbed money.
