Monster Burger: A zombie horror comedy (24/7 Demon Mart)

by D. M. Guay

  “Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!” For the record, that was Kevin screaming, not me.

  Clunk. Crunk. We hit the curb. The passenger side front tire went up and over.

  Pop. Pop. Ffffffffffff.

  Aw, man. Don't tell me. That was the sound of my brand new tires dying, wasn't it?

  The headlights passed by. They were attached to a large pickup truck. Expletives poured from the driver's side window.

  “Fine. You win!” I yelled at no one and everyone.

  I turned off the car. All of a sudden, the sky cleared, and the sun returned in all its blazing glory. It's like someone had flipped a switch.

  “Take the hint, kid. I didn't come this far to let your dumb ass kill me again.”

  “What? Shut up. You didn't have to come with me, you know.”

  “Faust only gave me so many portals. Look at these legs. I can't walk to the liquor store. It'd take weeks!” Yes, he was wiggling all six of his legs, just to emphasize his point.

  I looked around. The neighborhood was bright, sunny. The sky was clear, cloudless and blue. The ground was dry, like it'd never rained at all. This had to be a joke.

  I started the car again. The sky immediately went black, and the rain turned on like a spigot.

  I turned the car off and took the keys out. Bright sun, clear sky. I put the keys in and started the car. Lightning, black sky, torrential rain. I turned the car on and off again. And again, just to be sure. Each time, the same result. Car on: Pouring rain, howling wind, utter darkness. Turn off the car: Sunny sky. You have got to be kidding me. Fine. I admitted defeat.

  I stepped out of the car and stomped around to the sidewalk. Two completely blown-out tires. The rubber was shredded. The hood had dozens of tiny dents in it from all the hail. Fuck me. The devil had just helped me fix this car, and heaven had busted it up again.

  And the rest of the neighborhood? Like nothing happened. Kids rode bikes with their friends. Fat grandmas pulled weeds in the flower beds. That storm appeared to be a punishment tailor-made only for me.

  Kevin slipped through the crack in the passenger door, jumped onto the grass and kissed it. “Land! We're safe on dry land! Thank you, Jesus!” Then he looked at the sky and pointed to me. “I'm not with this guy.”

  “You're the worst. Do you know that?”

  He shrugged. “Duh.”

  Angel eight ball was waiting for me in the driveway when I walked up. All that white-knuckled driving had landed me less than two blocks from home.

  “You're a total jerk,” I said. “Did you really have to blow out my brand new tires? I just got that stupid car running again. I saved the earth, and that's how you thank me?”

  “Don't blame me. That was Him.” The triangle turned, flashing a finger pointing up. “I told you to ride your bike. I warned you.”

  “Why would God go through all that for a bike ride?” Boom. Answer that. The big man surely had more important things to do.

  “Look. This isn't about a bike ride. It's about keeping promises. It's the principle.”

  “I didn't make any promises.”

  The triangle turned. “Yes, you did. When those beasts attacked, you prayed to God. In exchange for His help, you promised you would do whatever He asked of you, including squats and cardio.”

  “No, I did not.”

  The triangle flipped, and once again I swear I heard the sound of paper rustling. “And I quote: 'If you get me through this, I promise I will get my life together. I'll do whatever you ask, whatever it takes. Pinkie swear.' And don't forget: 'If I live through this, I am definitely doing more cardio. I swear.' Your own words. Clearly, you are contractually obligated to ride your bike. Just do it. Trust me. You don't want to see what happens when God gets really angry.”

  Chapter 3

  I admitted defeat. Sure, it took God slashing two of my tires, threatening to kill my cat, and nearly slicing me in half with lightning, but I knew when to quit. So here I was, twenty minutes later, zooming across town on my Huffy, pedaling as fast as a fat guy can, panting and out of breath, sweat flying. Dude. This was not by choice. I would have loved to leisurely ride to Monster Burger, but do you think the man upstairs cut me some slack? Hell no. Every time I slowed down, a dark cloud formed three feet above my head and thunder rumbled. So I pedaled, fast and furious, because I did not want to play “What Would Jesus Do?” when all that stood between me and the wrath of God was a cheap plastic bike helmet.

  At least Kevin was having fun. He hung out of my hoodie pocket, wind ruffling his antennae, yelling “ha ha ha! Faster, kid!” and “weeeeeeeeeee!” the entire way.

  This was not fun for me. For lots of reasons, but mostly the primal need to avoid Demon Mart at all costs. I couldn't deal. No one in their right mind would go anywhere near there. Would you go back to your neighborhood beer cave if a colossal spider popped out from behind the Pabst and tried to eat you? No. You wouldn't. You'd find some place else to buy beer.

  Maybe angel eight ball was right. Maybe I did have PTSD. I took the long way to Monster Burger because the thought of riding past Demon Mart made me break out in a cold sweat. I couldn't completely avoid it. The restaurant was catercorner across the intersection. But, I did cut through a couple of alleys then loop around the backside of Doc's pawn shop by Henrietta's store. The display of life-sized plastic Marys in the window of the Jesus Saves Discount Religious Supplies was a marginally less disturbing view.

  I put my hand up to block any accidental, peripheral glimpse of the Demon Mart as I pedaled into the Monster Burger lot. I parked my bike in the wide swath of perfectly manicured green grass under Frankenstein's left neck bolt. Did I mention the Monster Burger sign was a neon green Frankenstein's monster biting into a neon yellow bun with a red ketchup splurp in the middle? A light-up whiteboard underneath had movable type advertising the daily specials.

  Mr. Jimmy, the restaurant's elderly owner, stood near the top of a wobbly ladder rearranging the letters. Honestly, I didn't know why he bothered. The restaurant rarely had any customers. The drive-thru never had a line, and the parking lot was always empty. God only knew why. The burgers were amazing.

  “Well, it must be my lucky day. A customer! How's my Number One fan?” Jimmy waved to me, his salt-white comb-over flapping up in the wind. His hair was like a tumbleweed, so thin and aloof it looked wholly unrooted to his totally bald, shiny scalp.

  Mr. Jimmy held a big letter C printed on a clear plastic rectangle. He was posting a special that likely involved chicken. Or hillbillies. Hard to tell, because all that was on the board so far was “hick.” In Ohio, this could go either way.

  “How you doing, son? I heard you're working over at the Dairy Mart,” he said. “Don't know what you boys were up to the other night, but Mr. Faust came by and said you'd be closed for renovations. Must be serious, because that store has never closed once in the sixty years we've been here. Looks like it's coming along, though. I'll tell ya. That crew never stops, works day and night. They never get tired. Boy, if I had a crew like that, there'd be no stopping me! I can't wait 'til it's finished so I can see what the ole devil did with the place.”

  Um, yeah. This conversation made me a little uncomfortable. Was it just me or did it kinda sound like Mr. Jimmy was in on it? I didn't dare ask. Kevin's “Fight Club” rule, remember? So, I smiled and nodded, and said “yeah” and “me, too,” on cue, all the while trying not to look across the intersection.

  I totally failed. I couldn't not look. It's like talking to someone with a gigantic volcano zit, topped with an oozing pus whitehead, right in the middle of their forehead. You look at that zit, no matter how hard you try not to look at that zit. Because you have to look, because it's right there, screaming at you. Demon Mart was that big pus-filled zit. So I looked, and what I saw was, well, normal.

  The hole in the roof had been repaired. The shattered glass had been replaced, and the stickers advertising beer and hot dog specials reapplied in neat lines along squeaky clean new windows. The buildi
ng was nearly perfect, unruffled. Even the Temptations Tavern next door had a fresh coat of paint. The type below the neon 24/7 Dairy Mart sign said, “Pardon our progress. Closed for renovations. Reopening Monday.”

  That was tomorrow. And I was on the schedule. Gulp. Was it getting hot in here? Are you sweating bullets? No? Just me?

  Caution tape and panels of chain-link fence blocked off the parking lot. A couple of plain white contractor vans with ladders on top, along with pallets of bricks and concrete block, sat around the building. Two dozen men in tan coveralls painted the outside with rollers on sticks. It looked like a normal construction site.

  Until I looked away. For a split second, the scene morphed like a hologram in my peripheral vision. The sunburned and tanned faces of the workmen slid away, replaced by gray skin, blue lips. Pink flesh turned rotten. Oh God. I should have known. The tan coveralls. It was a zombie crew. Outside, in broad daylight, where everyone could see them, like it was nothing.

  I instantly felt ice cold. Dear God. What was stopping them from wandering off and starting the zombie apocalypse? Some “Do Not Enter” tape? I felt the sudden urge to call in the National Guard. Or the Umbrella Corporation? Wait. No. They were the bad guys, right? Who were you supposed to call to stop the zombie apocalypse again? Think, Lloyd. Think!

  “Relax, kid. As long as the collars are on, it's fine. It alters their brainwaves. Keeps all the grrrr and the brain-eating in check.” Kevin sat on my shoulder watching the crew. “Not that you have anything to worry about. They'll never come after you.”

  “How do you know that?” I looked at him.

  He looked at me. “Because you don't have any brains.”

  “Ha ha. Very funny.”

  Kevin stared at the zombies for a minute, then shivered. “Poor bastards. If it comes down to it, I'll never let you go zombie, kid. I'll pop you right in the brain. I'll kill you dead dead. Just promise you'll do the same for me. Squish me real good so I can't come back.”

  “What? No!” I couldn't kill someone, even if he was a roach.

  “Oh, excuse me, snowflake. I thought we were on the same page.” Kevin folded his arms and turned away from me. “That's what pals are supposed to do for each other in the zombie apocalypse.”

  Wait. We're pals now?

  “Apparently not. It's cool. Go ahead. Go full zombie. See if I care.”

  I could tell by his tone that he did care.

  “No, I don't,” Kevin snipped. “Can we go in already? I'm starving. Order me a Number Two, and double monster size it. No salt. It gives me diarrhea.”

  “Enjoy your food, boys!” Jimmy said, then turned back to the sign.

  Wait a minute. Did he say “boys?” Did he know about Kevin?

  I was about to ask him, when something small, a bird maybe, fluttered in a circle around him. He swatted at it. “Shoo! Go away. Shoo! Stupid buggers.”

  The ladder wobbled. He grabbed the sign. “Oof, steady there. Phew. Okay. It's okay. Now where was I? Oh, yes...”

  “Get moving, kid,” Kevin snipped. “I'm so hungry you're starting to look like a chicken leg.”

  I shook off my suspicions and stepped inside. The dining room was the same neon yellow as the bun on the sign. It was empty, a ghost town. There was no line, as usual.

  “There's two things you can count on in the world. One: Monster Burger will always be dead,” Kevin said. “And two: Earl will always be stuck in 1984. Poor bastard.”

  “Says the guy who's obsessed with Ronnie James Dio.”

  “Hmph.” Kevin crossed his arms and looked away. Again. I was not winning any Kevin points today.

  But Kevin wasn't wrong. Earl stood behind the counter, waiting to take our order. He wore a tracksuit with a stripe running down the arms and legs, a color-coordinated sweatband and a pair of mesh, fingerless driving gloves. He always looked like he'd just stepped off the set of Breakin'. Always. He wasn't doing it to be ironic. He was just stuck in 1984.

  Earl was a little older than my Mom, with dyed black hair and a mustache that lay over his top lip like a fat black banana slug. His body was rounded and soft like an eclair. He was also the one and only employee of Monster Burger. He was the cashier, the fry cook, and the drive-thru order taker. Probably not too difficult, considering Monster Burger never had customers. He did all of this while moonwalking and robot-dancing between stations. Go Turbo, go. Indeed.

  “Hey! Number seven extra salt, extra onions, no mayo! My main man!” Earl said as he popped and locked to the store's synthesizer beat-box soundtrack. “The usual?”

  “Jesus. How often do you eat here?” Kevin looked me up and down. “Never mind It's obvious.”

  “Are you calling me fat?”

  “Yeah. And you don't look like the kind of fat guy who shares, so don't forget to order my food.”

  “The usual. But can you add a Number Two, double monster size, too? No salt?” Yuck. Who eats fries with no salt? Oh, that's right, the roach with the old man digestive issues.

  Kevin flipped me the bird. Four times. I think. Roaches don't really have middle fingers, but he held up four little legs at me like he did.

  “Woah there. Mixing it up, huh? Keeping me on my toes. Owww-ah!” Right then, Earl arched his back and went up on the very tip-toes of his white Adidas like he was a ballet dancer. “All right.”

  The register beeped as Earl—moving like a robot, naturally—typed in the order. “The weirdest thing happened today, Number Seven,” Earl said. “I swear I saw Ed McMahon steal a piece of lettuce then fly right out the window.”

  Uh, what? You heard that right?

  “He was naked. He had wings, and he was this tall.” Earl held his fingers about six inches apart.

  “This dude is bat shit crazy,” Kevin said. “Is it safe to have him near food?”

  “Did I ever tell you about that time I auditioned for Star Search? Junior dance competition.”

  “Well, shit. Here we go again. This guy is obsessed!” Kevin said.

  Yes. Yes, he was. I'd heard some version of this story at least a hundred times. Although, this was the first time it involved Ed McMahon naked with wings.

  “Star Search woulda changed my life,” Earl put his arms down at his side and did a full spin. “That'll be thirteen twenty three.”

  I handed him my twenty. He gave me my change, then electric slid to the fryer to drop a basket of fries. “Always fresh for you, my man. I didn't make the cut because Ed McMahon didn't like me. The producers said it was because I couldn't caterpillar, but I can and I did. I'll prove it. Hold on.”

  Earl had the burgers, fresh off the grill, finished by the time the timer on the deep fryer chimed. He lifted the fries, grabbed a gigantic round salt shaker and said, “extra salt, for my main man.”

  “Wait! No salt on half.”

  Earl scooped Kevin's sad saltless fries into a separate sleeve, then liberally shook the shaker over mine. He bagged everything up, then came out from behind the counter. “Food's ready, but before you go, it's caterpillar time.”

  He dropped to the floor and undulated across the tile, his spine whipping and rolling him back and forth.

  “Huh. He really can do the caterpillar,” Kevin said. “Earl's got some abs under all that dough. Who knew? What about you, kid? You got any abs under there?”

  Kevin pulled on my shirt collar and looked down in.

  “Get out.” I smacked his hand away.

  “Didn't think so,” he said.

  Earl hopped up, spun around, then he handed us two paper bags filled with french-fried, all-beef deliciousness. I praised his caterpillar, then made a hasty exit. I knew better than to stick around. Earl could talk about his near-miss at Star Search—for which he squarely blamed Ed McMahon—all day if you let him.

  I scanned the receipt as I pushed the door open with my butt. “You owe me seven fifty.”

  “Uh, this one's on you, bub,” Kevin said.

  “That wasn't the deal,” I said. “I know you've got cash. Y
ou have a job!”

  “Yeah. I have money. In a bank. Where am I supposed to keep cash or cards? This suit doesn't come with pockets.” Kevin rolled his arms up and down his tiny brown roach body for emphasis.

  Gah! I had the distinct feeling Kevin wouldn't pay me back. DeeDee probably kicked him out for freeloading.

  “Hey. She did not kick me out. I left because she didn't have any good snacks.”

  “Yeah right.” But the second I stepped outside, I no longer cared about the money. I dropped the receipt and the food. The bags thumped to the sidewalk.

  “Seriously, butterfingers? Half my fries are on the sidewalk! Fine. You made your point, stingy pants. I'll Venmo you when I get home.”

  “Kevin.” My voice shook.

  “What?”

  “Look.” I was shaking all over now.

  “What's gotten into you?”

  I pointed.

  “Oh. Shit.”

  Mr. Jimmy lay motionless on the ground. The bottom half of his body lay in the patch of soft green grass under the Monster Burger sign. Unfortunately, the top half had splattered across the asphalt entrance to the drive-thru lane. And I mean splattered. Blood everywhere. The ladder lay on top of him. One of the wooden rungs had snapped in two. Mr. Jimmy must have fallen. Judging from the unholy angle of his neck, he was clearly dead. He was still clutching the plastic letter C in his hand.

  I looked up at the sign. The daily special read, “hick sandwich, $3.”

  Chapter 4

  Every time I closed my eyes, I relived the moment Earl fell to his knees, tears flying, fists punching the sky, screaming “Nooooo! I'll get you Ed McMahon!” before collapsing in a heap of tears on Mr. Jimmy's body. I couldn't stop thinking about it, or about the squad coming and taking the old man's body away. Poor Earl. Poor Mr. Jimmy.

  I couldn't deal with it, so I did what I always did when life was overwhelming. I shut myself in my room and alternated between hiding under the covers, sleeping, and binge-playing Call of Duty: Black Ops 3 with Big Dan. (Dude. Zombies were real. Fuck Diablo 3. I was training for the apocalypse now.) We played online only. Because I was not leaving the house. Ever again. Nope. No way. The world was too dangerous and too scary.