by Matt Hults
“You must be Mr. Brunik,” the woman said, offering Greg her hand. “Wendy Thomas. We spoke on the phone.”
“It’s nice to finally meet the woman the beautiful voice belongs to,” he said.
Her smile stiffened at the corners, becoming more perfunctory than genuine.
A moment later Ron stepped up to join them, trying to think of something that would downplay Greg’s excitement until they’d viewed the entire property, and when the realtor faced him there was no mistaking the way their eyes locked. Her smile of sincerity returned and she instantly dropped Greg’s hand.
“And you’re Mr. Caldmond, correct?”
In her business-minded clothing, she looked like an office intern who’s college diploma was still a year or two away.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Thomas,” Ron replied, purposely emphasizing the prefix.
Her hand slipped neatly into his, smooth and dainty, but slightly chilled. It lingered there a heartbeat longer than what might’ve been considered professionally courteous.
“Miss, actually,” she corrected.
Behind her, Greg placed his hands together and mouthed ‘thank you’ to the sky.
Ron pretended not to see. He acknowledged the realtor’s smile with a polite one of his own, then pivoted away from both of them in an attempt to get things back on course.
He gestured to the restaurant. “So the bank is only asking for payment of the back taxes, is that right?”
The girl looked up at it. “Yes. Due to the fire…”
They started walking toward the building. “Greg mentioned that. May I ask what happened?”
“Arson,” she said, glancing between the both of them. “The previous owner tried to burn it down, possibly as an insurance scam. It was the biggest news story the town paper has reported in ages.”
“Nice,” Greg commented. “Free publicity!”
At the door, Wendy entered her security code on the digital lock that secured the two door handles together and the device unclasped.
Ron and Greg both took a handle.
Together, they pulled the twin doors open.
Their eager shadows leapt inside the room ahead of them, a trio of jet-black explorers in an even blacker realm of darkness. Having all the other windows covered, the spacious main chamber exuded the ambiance of an empty mausoleum. The predominant smell of smoke hung wraithlike in the air.
“Oh, I forgot,” Wendy said, then reached to extract a small—
Greg flipped a switch on the wall and the overhead lights clicked on.
—flashlight from her jacket pocket.
She glanced around.
“Juice works!” Greg cheered.
They stood before the main dining area.
Dozens of heaped tables and chairs lined the walls to either side, no doubt pushed aside by the responding firemen on the night of the blaze, but all the permanent structures remained in place—booths, condiment counter, waste bins—and Ron immediately recognized the familiar floor plan typical of any fast-food restaurant, one designed with the intent of facilitating an easy flow from the ordering counter to the seating area, thus maximizing turn over at the registers.
Wendy cleared her throat. “As you can see, all the related equipment is included. Everything from the kitchen appliances, to whatever toilet paper is left hanging in the bathrooms. Let me show you the work area…”
With a tap of his shoe, Ron set the rubber door-stoppers in place and proceeded inside. They crossed the tiled floor and passed through a partition in the far right side of the main service counter, moving behind the bank of cash registers.
“Feed the Customer… Obey the Rules!” Greg said.
Ron and Wendy both halted in their tracks and faced him.
“What?” Ron asked.
Greg pointed to a sign affixed to the wall beside the counter. “Must be a mission statement or something, huh?”
Resuming the tour, they migrated to the kitchen.
There, several overhead lights flickered in erratic bursts, their plastic diffusers hanging open. Rows of various stainless steel appliances lined the walls, veiled in streaks of soot and grease that reminded Ron of sunken ships overcome by rust.
Wendy pointed out the coolers, mixers, meat-slicers, microwaves, gas ovens, deep-fryers, hot-plates, and heat-lamps. The grill alone looked as long as one of the preparation tables, housing an amazing twenty burners, with a flattop fry-station at the far end. Overhead, all sizes of spatulas, ladles, whisks, colanders, pots, and pans hung from a ceiling rack. In the back, the door to the walk-in freezer hung ajar, emitting a smell that would make a health inspector’s head spin.
“This is great stuff,” Greg said, checking a giant mixer that stood tall enough to come level with his chest. “A little work and a few gallons of degreaser and it’ll be as good as new!”
Ron nodded his agreement, but remained silent. He spied the black residue of ash and cinders, still smelled the cloying stink of smoke—if anything, it was stronger here—but he had yet to see any real fire damage.
They moved along, visiting the dry-goods storeroom in the back—which seemed to contain all the original provisions that had been present at the restaurant’s closure—as well as the adjacent offices.
The manager’s office was crammed with all manner of clutter, from broken chairs that must’ve come from the dining room, to boxes overflowing with charred kitchen accessories and half-burnt legal papers.
Through the clutter, Ron spotted a large painting of The Last Supper hanging askew on the far wall. It seemed an odd choice of artwork to decorate a business office, and the peculiarity of it only magnified when he looked closer.
In the picture, behind Christ and his disciples, loomed the massive forest highway he’d seen outside. The sight produced a tingle of mixed puzzlement and unease, and he suddenly realized that somewhere during their round of introductions with Wendy he’d forgot to inquire about the road.
Now he opened his mouth to do just that when something banged deeper in the building.
They all jumped.
“What the hell?” Greg asked.
Then it came again, the noise of something crashing in the dining room.
“That sounded like the door,” Ron said.
He edged past Greg and Wendy, striding down the hall, to the front of the restaurant—
Where a man stood before one of the registers as if waiting to place an order.
All three of them jerked to a stop at the surprise.
The newcomer stood glaring at them from under a whirlwind of white hair, his eyes locked on them like gun sights. He wore a brown stain-splotched trench coat that looked as though it had seen a lifetime of squatting in abandon houses and sleeping under bridges. Although Ron had just laid eyes on him, the deep scowl of anger on the stranger’s face told him they were in for trouble. Across the room, the restaurant doors were closed.
“Food,” the derelict demanded.
Greg smirked. “Does this place look open to you, pal?”
The man hefted a double-bladed ax into view as his answer. It had been concealed by the counter, but now he brought it up fast, swinging it over his head and slamming it down into the register. The huge blade cleaved the machine in two. Sparks jumped into the air.
Greg flinched so hard he collapsed backwards on his ass.
“Food!” the crazed customer shouted. “Give me a burger!”
Ron stepped forward, shaking with adrenaline. The ax-wielder spotted him and readied another swing.
“We’ll get it right away,” he said, the words coming out of his mouth on autopilot. “How would you like that prepared, sir?”
It seemed surreal given the insane situation, letting his managerial instincts take over, hearing his voice adopt the familiar apologetic tone an angry customer always wants to hear, but amazingly it worked. The maniac relaxed, releasing his grip on the ax to scratch the stubble of his chin.
“Rare, I reckon,” he said in an almost-no
rmal voice. “With, ah…fries and a sody-pop.”
Ron forced a smile. “Rare burger with fries and a drink. That’ll be just one moment, sir.” He backed up as he spoke, urging the others to follow. Greg shuffled rearward on the floor.
“No goddamn onions, though!” the man roared after them.
“Hold the onions!” Ron repeated.
They retreated to the back of the building, all moving in reverse to keep and eye on the entry to the hallway. Ron expected the madman to come rushing after them at any second, but they reached the storeroom unmolested.
“Jesus!” Greg gasped. Sweat glistened on his brow. “What the fuck was that about?”
Ron didn’t bother speculating on an answer. Instead, he charged to the storeroom’s rear wall, heaving aside a hill of empty boxes and other useless scrap. There, hidden behind the heap, he uncovered the set of loading doors he’d been hoping he would find.
To his dismay, a padlocked chain secured the push-bars to the frame.
“Wendy, do you have a key for this?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
The girl shook her head. “Just the code for the one up front.”
“Shit!” Greg cried.
Ron dug into his pockets. Found his cell phone. “Look for something we can use as weapons!” he said, then glanced to the empty hallway, wondering how long they had before their disgruntled guest came to file a complaint.
He looked to the phone, but it didn’t even light up.
“My phone’s dead,” he said. “Anyone else—”
“In the car,” Wendy replied.
Greg shook his head.
Ron held back the avalanche of obscenities that almost rolled off his tongue and sat down on a stack of milk crates to mentally scrutinize his options.
No phone. No windows. And no key to the only door. Which leaves trying to get past the psychotic hobo with the ax.
Just then, he spotted several boxes of press-paper dinnerware and plastic utensils on the other side of the room.
Back on his feet, he crossed the floor and grabbed a package of paper cups, tearing it open.
“What are you doing?” Greg asked.
“I’m getting him his drink.”
“Are you nuts?”
“Would you prefer he come back here and look for it, where we don’t have any way to escape?”
The idea seemed to sink in, and the man sagged into silence.
Ron cracked open a container of plastic lids for the cups. “Look, you saw how he eased off when I said we’d feed him, right? So let’s keep it up. We’ll pretend to fill his order, and when we go back up front, we can try getting out the drive-thru window.”
“I don’t think I’ll fit!” Greg replied. “Jesus, man, you can’t leave me!”
“We’ll help Wendy out, then. She can go for help, and I’ll stay here with you…unless either of you have a better idea?”
They made a quick detour through the kitchen, rummaging through the equipment for whatever they could use. In the far corner, Ron discovered a ten-inch butcher knife in a plastic crate beside the wash-station. All three of them stared at it, seeing its horrible potential, but said nothing as Ron slipped it into his belt and covered it with his shirt.
“Let’s go,” he said.
He led them toward the registers, finding the wild-eyed derelict exactly where they’d left him—
But now there were six more people lined up behind him.
Ron’s stride faltered when he saw them, and Wendy and Greg almost ran into his back.
He saw a slack-jawed boy in tattered overalls holding a shotgun.
A grossly overweight woman sucking a pacifier.
A blindfolded girl with a badly bruised neck—
Greg gave him a shove, prodding him onward.
“Just one minute folks,” he mumbled, and then they were at the end of the counter, where they slipped into the drive-thru station alcove and mercifully out of sight of the patrons.
“What hell is going on?” Greg asked.
“Did you see their faces?” Wendy whispered. “My, God, did you see them?”
Ron nodded. He looked down and realized he’d crushed the paper cup into a wad. Now he tossed it away and moved to the window, sliding it aside. He stepped back and kicked out the plywood board covering the frame.
Static suddenly hissed out of the nearby intercom.
Ron jumped at the sound of it, facing the small metal box as an unearthly voice issued from the speaker. “…ausage … muffin… an… two sma… ingers wit… side… f brai… s.”
Ron gaped at it. Beside him, Greg pushed past him and stuck his face to the glass.
“There’s a car!” he cried. “Hey! Help us! We’re trapped in here!”
Ron heard the growl of an engine. A cough of exhaust.
A second later the car pulled parallel with the takeout area––it looked like a fusion of a hearse and a 1950’s Buick—and the driver’s window rolled down, revealing nothing but a solid, impenetrable darkness.
“Get us out of here!” Greg pleaded.
But before he could say another word, a hand extended out of the void inside the car, a green sore-speckle thing that stretched impossibly long, bridging the gap between the vehicle and the building to reach through the takeout window and grab Greg’s shirt.
“Get off me!” he bellowed.
Both Ron and Wendy seized his arms, yanking him free to the sound of tearing fabric.
The arm withdrew, taking a scrap of cloth with it.
“Fuck this!” Greg screamed.
Ron’s grip on him had loosened as he watched the elongated appendage vanish back into the inky darkness of the car, and the other man broke free, twisting away, running for the front.
“Greg!” Wendy cried.
Her voice snapped Ron back to attention, and he bolted after his friend, rounding the corner in time to see Greg vault the counter, half-leaping, half-falling off the other side.
Where now over thirty customers shuffled about the main room, falling into lines before each of the registers!
Ron watched with paralytic wonder as they turned on Greg in unison.
Before the man even managed to regain his balance, the customers tackled him to the ground, dropping over him like bloodthirsty monsters in a zombie film. Ron stepped forward, about to lunge after him, but several of the closest patrons turned on him, each holding something sharp.
He froze in place behind the counter, covering his mouth as he heard what sounded like ripping carpet arise from beneath the pile.
Followed by a piercing scream.
He watched the things tear and gnash and snarl, and finally spun away when he saw the creatures begin passing around severed limbs and handfuls of dripping crimson gore. Fresh blood drooled from their mouths.
Wendy shrieked the entire time, crying out so powerfully that Ron’s ears rang with each new exhalation. Without looking to the feasting masses, he clutched her to his chest and guided her to the kitchen.
“Oh, God!” she sobbed. “They’re crazy! They’re going to kill us! What do we do?”
Ron peered through one of the heat lamp stations, looking at the motley collection of customers now churning shoulder-to-shoulder in the dining room. Those who hadn’t attacked Greg clustered at the counter, no longer content to stand in orderly lines. They pressed forward, leaning over the edge, searching the cashier area.
A wrinkled old man crawling with bugs jabbed a pitchfork at a register. A one-armed lady whose eyes glared through a net of bandages threw a rock at the menu. Behind her, a pair of suit-clad young men wrestled over a dead rat.
But none of them followed us, he thought. Why not?
“Because customers aren’t allowed behind the counter,” he whispered to himself.
Wendy’s sobbing slowed. She gazed at him as though a third eye had opened on his forehead. Ron met her eyes, thinking of the green hand that had tried to seize Greg, stretching out to reach him like something from a night
mare. He sensed a revelation teetering at the edge of his understanding.
“We have to get cooking,” he said. “Before they eat us, too.”
A small smile ticked at the corner of the girl’s mouth, like a seam about to come undone.
“Cook…” she echoed in a tone of disbelief. “For them?”
Ron nodded, eyeing the sign over her shoulder, the one Greg had spotted earlier.
Feed the Customer… Obey the Rules!
He looked to the crowd once again, his gaze drifting over a dozen ghastly sights: a man with no eyes; a woman half-enshrouded by mold; a pale sexless figure covered in ants.
They were something else, he realized, something super-natural, and he and Greg and Wendy had somehow become trapped here, held specifically for their servitude.
But Greg had broken the rules…
Wendy was already shaking her head, fresh tears brimming in her eyes. “You’re crazy!”
Before he could explain himself, a chair from the seating area smashed against the opposite side of the wall, shattering two of the heat lamps, pelting them with hot glass. He looked up and saw the crowd massing before the registers like rioters lined up against a barricade. A hundred voices hollered, “Food!”
“Trust me,” he said, hauling Wendy to her feet. “We need to feed them! Start looking for anything we can use!”
Together they attacked the kitchen, clawing open cabinets, searching shelves, rummaging through the detritus scattered throughout the room. Ron had no idea what eatables they could possibly find—if any—but as they searched the building, they discovered hidden caches of all imaginable ingredients: buns, condiments, spices, vegetables, canned fillings, pre-made mixes that declared: Just add water!
Ron went to the walk-in freezer, certain that there couldn’t be anything salvageable inside—not with that horrid smell seeping from the door—but when he looked, he found row after row of plastic-wrapped hamburger patties waiting for the grill. The temperature inside the freezer easily rivaled that of the kitchen, and though Ron knew the patties had to be rancid, he snatched up a bag in each hand and called for Wendy to come help him.
Something growled.
The sound made him jerk with fear, dropping the bags of hamburger as he drew the butcher knife from his belt.
