by Apex Authors
And the old chef knew that one way or another, the strange meat was bringing the customers in.
Even though Sonada's served a broad variety of Asian food, no one ever ordered fried rice anymore, or sesame chicken. Egg rolls had all but vanished from the menu, and Baku couldn't remember the last time beef was required for a dish.
Everyone wanted the sushi, and Baku knew why.
And he knew that something was happening to the regular patrons, the ones who came every night. From the kitchen window that overlooked the lobby he saw them return for supper like clockwork, and with every meal they took, they were changed.
They ate faster, and walked slower. They talked less.
Baku began to stay longer in the kitchen and rush hurriedly to the bus stop at night.
* * * *
Baku paused his unending slicing, cutting, scooping and scraping to use the washroom. He closed the door behind him and sighed into the quiet. For the first time all evening, he was alone—or so he thought.
All the stall doors were open bar the one at the farthest end of the blue-tiled room, which was closed only a little way. From within it, someone flushed.
Out of politeness, Baku pretended not to see that the gentleman had left the door ajar. He stepped to the nearest sink and washed his hands. He covered them with runny pink soap and took his time building lather, then rinsing under the steamy tap water. He relished the heat.
The kitchen had become so cold in the last week since the grills were rarely working and the air conditioner was running full-blast. Instead of sporadic warmth from the stoves, the refrigerator door was incessantly opened and closed—bringing fresh meat for the sushi rolls. The chefs handled cold meat, seaweed, and sticky rice for six hours at a time.
His knuckles never thawed.
But while he stood there, warming his fingers beneath the gushing stream, he noticed that the restroom's other occupant was behaving strangely. From within the stall with the half-closed door the sound of repeated flushing foamed its way into the tiled room.
Dampness crept up the sole of Baku's shoe. Water puddled on the floor around his feet. He flipped the sink's chrome lever down, shutting off the water.
He listened.
The toilet's denouement was interrupted before the plumbing could finish its cycle and another flush gurgled. A fresh tide of water spilled out from under the door. It smelled like blue detergent and wet paper.
Baku craned his neck to the right, leaning until he could see the square of space between the soggy floor and the bottom of the stall. Filthy gray sneakers stood ankle-deep in overflow. The laces were untied; they floated like the hair of a drowning victim.
"Hello?” Baku called softly. He did not want a response. “Can I help you with something, sir?” His English was heavy, but he was careful with his pronunciation.
He took a cautious step forward, and that small shuffle cleared nearly half the distance between him and the stall door. He took a second step, but he made that one even tinier than the first, and he put out his hand.
The tips of his fingers quivered, as they tapped against the painted metal door. He tried to ask, “Sir, are you all right?” But the words barely whispered out of his throat.
A groan answered him without offering specifics.
He pushed the door. It crept open.
He found himself staring at a man's hunched back and a sweaty patch of shirt between his shoulder blades. The shirt itself was the beige kind that comes with an embroidered nametag made in dark blue thread. When the man at the toilet turned around, Baku read that the tag said “Peter,” but he'd guessed that much already. He knew the shirt. It was the uniform worn by the man who drove the delivery truck each Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday.
Peter's eyes were blank and watery. They were no more alive than olives in a jar.
The deliveryman seemed to know that his peculiar ritual was being questioned, and he did not care for the interruption. With another petulant groan he half lunged, half fell forward.
Baku recoiled, pulling the door closed with his retreat.
Peter was thwarted. Perhaps it was only his innate imbecility that made him linger so long with the slim obstacle, but it bought the old chef time to run.
He slipped first, falling knee-down with a splash, but catching himself on the sink and rising to flee. Back into the hall and past the ice machine he stumbled, rubbing at his knee and shaking from the encounter. It had been too strange, too stupidly sinister. At the far end of the dining area a big round clock declared the time. For a moment he was relieved. He needed to go home, and if the clock could be believed, he had less than an hour remaining on his shift.
But his relief dissolved as quickly as it had blossomed. The scene beneath the clock was no more reassuring than the one in the bathroom.
Dozens of people were eating in silence, staring down at their plates or their forks. They gazed with the same bland olive eyes, not at each other but at the food. The waitresses and the one lone male waiter lurked by the kitchen window without talking. The cash register did not ring.
Where was the manager? He'd been in and out for days, more out than in. The assistant manager, then. Anyone, really—anyone who was capable of sustaining convincing eye contact would suffice.
Into the kitchen Baku ducked, anticipating an oasis of ordinary people.
He was disappointed. The cooks stood in pockets of inattentive shoe-gazing, except for the two who had made their way back into the refrigerator. From within its chilly depths, Baku heard the sounds of sloppy gnawing.
Was he the only one who'd not been eating the sushi?
Baku searched desperately for a pair of eyes to meet his, but he found none. He turned just in time to hear the bathroom door creak open. Peter moaned as he made his way into the corridor and then began a slow charge towards the chef.
The grunting, guttural call drew the attention of the customers and the kitchen staff. They turned to see Peter, and then turned to see the object of his attention. All faces aimed themselves at Baku.
Two nearby customers came forward. They didn't rise from their seats or fold their napkins, and they didn't put down their forks. Together they stood, knocking their chairs backwards and crashing their thighs against the table, rocking it back and forth. The woman raised her hand and opened her mouth as if she meant to speak, but only warm air and half-chewed sushi fell out from between her lips. Her dinner companion managed a louder sound—like an inflatable ball being squeezed flat—and the low, flatulent cry roused the remaining customers and the kitchen staff alike. In a clumsy wave, they all stumbled towards Baku.
On the counter, he spied the folded roll of his fine German knives. He fired one hand out to snag it; he tucked it under his arm and pushed the glass door with his elbow.
Behind him the crowd rallied, but it was a slow rally that was impeded by everything in its path. The sushi-poisoned people were single-minded to the point of losing all sense. Chairs thwarted them. Counters baffled them.
Baku hurried.
Outside the sky was growing dark with a too-early dusk brought on by a cloudy almost-storm. He tumbled into the parking lot and pulled the door shut behind his back.
The bus stop was empty.
The chef froze. He always rode the bus home. Every night. Rain or shine he waited under the small shelter at the corner.
Over his shoulder he watched the masses swarm behind the windows, pushing their hands through the blinds and slapping their palms against the glass. They were slow, but they wouldn't give him time to wait for the 9:30 bus to the downtown terminal.
He crushed at his knives, taking comfort from their strength wrapped inside the cloth. His knuckles curled around them, and flexed.
As a young man he'd confronted the ocean with nets and hooks, drawing out food and earning his livelihood. Then he'd been called as a soldier, and he'd fought for his country, and to serve his Emperor. In the years that followed he had put away his bayonet and had taken up the knives
of a cook; he had set aside the uniform of war and put on an apron.
But knives like these could be weapons, too.
"I am not too old,” he breathed. Behind him, a dozen pairs of hands slapped at the windows, rattling the blinds. Shoulders pummeled at the doors, and the strained puff of a pneumatic hinge told Baku they were coming.
"I am not too old to work. Not too old to cut fish. I am not too old to fight."
Peter's delivery vehicle sat open in the parking lot's loading zone. The refrigerated trailer compartment hung open, one door creaking back and forth in the pre-storm breeze. A faint briny smell wafted forth.
Baku limped to the trailer door and took a deep breath of the tepid air. The contents within were beginning to turn.
He slammed the metal door shut and climbed into the cab. He set his knives down on the passenger's seat and closed his own door just as the first wave of angry patrons breached the restaurant door.
At first, he saw no keys; he checked the ignition, and the glove box. But when he checked the visor a spare set tumbled down into his lap. He selected the engine key without a tremor and plugged it into the slot. The engine gagged to life and with a tug of the gearshift, the vehicle rolled forward—pushing aside a pair of restaurant patrons, and knocking a third beneath the van's grille. Baku did not even check to see them in the rearview mirror.
Downtown, to Manufacturer's Row. That's where the manager had said the new meat came from. That's where Baku would go.
He roughly knew the way, but driving was something he'd forgotten about years before. Busses were cheap to ride, and cars were expensive to maintain. The van was tall and top-heavy. It reacted slowly, like a boat. It swayed around corners and hesitated before stopping, or starting, or accelerating.
The streets were more empty than not. The roads were mostly clear and Baku wished it were otherwise. All the asphalt looked wet to him, shining under the streetlamps. Every corner promised a sliding danger. But the van stayed upright, and Baku's inexpert handling bothered no one.
He arrived at the distribution center and parked on the street in front of a sign that said “Loading Zone.” He half climbed, half fell out of the cab and let the door hang open. So what if it was noted and reported? Let the authorities come. Let them find him and ask why he had forced his way into the big old building.
At first he thought this as a whim, but then he began to wish it like a prayer. “Let them come.” In his arm there was a pain, and in his chest there was an uncomfortable tightness from the way he breathed too hard. “Let them bring their guns. I might need help."
From a sliver of light, Baku saw the front door was ajar.
Baku put his face against the crack and leaned on his cheekbone, trying to see inside. The space was not enough to peep through, but the opening was big enough to emit an atrocious smell. He lifted his arm and buried his nose in the crook of his elbow.
He wedged his shoulder against the heavy slab of the door and pushed. The bottom edge of the sagging door grated on the concrete floor; rusty hinges shrieked their objections.
Within, the odor might have been overpowering to someone unaccustomed to the smell of saltwater, fish, and the rot of the ocean. It was bad enough for Baku.
Two steps sideways, around the crotchety door, and he was inside.
His shoes slipped and caught. The floor was soaked with something more viscous than saline, more seaweed-brown than clear. He locked his knees and stepped with care. He shivered.
The facility was cold, but not cold enough to freeze his breath. Not quite. Industrial refrigerators with bolted doors flanked one wall, and indoor cranes were parked haphazardly around the room. There were four doors—one set of double doors indicated a corridor or hall. A glance through the other three suggested office space; a copy room, a lunch room with tables, and two gleaming vending machines.
Somewhere behind the double doors a rhythmic clanking beat a metal mantra. There was also a mechanical hum, a smoother hum. Finally there was a lumpy buzz like the sound of an out-of-balance conveyor belt.
In his hand, Baku's fist squeezed tightly around his roll of knives.
He unclenched his fingers and opened the roll across his palm. It would do him no good to bring them all sheathed, but he could not hold or wield more than two.
So for his right hand, he chose a long, slim blade with a flexible edge made to filet large fish. For his left, he selected a thicker, heavier knife—one whose power came from its weight. The remaining knives he wrapped up, tied, and left the bundle by the door.
"I will collect you on the way out,” he told them.
Baku crept on toward the double doors, pushing tentatively at them.
They swayed and parted easily, and the ambient noise jumped from a background tremor to a sharper throb.
The stink swelled too, but he hadn't vomited yet and he didn't intend to, so Baku forced the warning bile back to whence it had come. He would go towards the smell. He would go towards the busy machines and into the almost frigid interior. His plan was simple, but big: he would turn the building off.
All of it. Every robot, light, and refrigerator. He would break the machines if he had to, and deface every inch of the warehouse if it came to that, but he hoped it might not. He understood that there would be a fuse box or a power main.
As a last resort, he might find a dry place to start a fire.
On he went, and the farther his explorations took him, the more he doubted that a match would find a receptive place to spark.
Dank coldness seeped up through his shoes and his feet dragged splashing wakes along the floor. He slipped, and stretched out an arm to steady himself, leaning his knuckles on the plaster. The walls themselves were wet, too. He wiped the back of his hand on his pants. It left a trail of slime.
The clank of the machines pounded harder, and with it the accompanying smell insinuated itself into every pore, every living orifice of Baku's body, into every fold of his clothing.
Into the heart of the warehouse he walked—one knife in each hand—until he reached the end of the corridor that opened into a larger space—one filled with sharp-angled machines reaching from the floor to the ceiling. Rows of belts on rollers shifted frosty boxes back and forth across the room from trucks to chilled storage. Along the wall were eight loading points with trucks docked and open, ready to receive shipments and disperse them.
He searched for a point of commonality, or for some easy spot where all these things must come together for power. Nothing looked immediately promising, so he used his eyes to follow the cables on the ceiling, and he likewise traced the cords along the floor. Both sets of lines seemed to follow the same path—out into a secondary hallway.
Baku shuffled sideways and slithered with caution along the wall and towards the portal where the electric lines all pointed.
Once through the portal, Baku found himself at the top of a flight of stairs. Low-power emergency lights illuminated the corridor in murky yellow patches.
It would have to be enough.
When he strained to listen, Baku thought he detected footsteps, or maybe even voices below. He tiptoed towards them, keeping his back snugly against the stair rail, holding his precious knives at the ready.
Baku hesitated on the bottom stair, hidden in the shadows, reluctant to take the final step that would put him firmly in the downstairs room. There in the basement the sad little emergency lights were too few and far between to give any real illumination. The humidity, and the chill, and the spotty darkness made the entire downstairs area feel like night at the bottom of a swimming pool—a pool full of sharks.
A creature with a blank, white face and midnight-black, lidless eyes emerged from inside an open freezer. It was Sonada's manager, or what was left of him.
"You,” the thing accused.
Baku did not recoil or retreat. He flexed his fingers around the knife handles and took the last step down into the basement.
"You would not eat the sushi with us. Why?�
� The store manager was terribly changed without and within; even his voice was barely recognizable. He spoke as if he were talking around a mouthful of seaweed.
Baku circled around towards the manager, not crossing the floor directly but staying with his back to the wall wherever it was possible. The closer he got to the manager, the slower he crept until he halted altogether. The space between them was perhaps two yards.
"Have you come now for the feast?” the manager slurred.
Baku was not listening. It took too much effort to determine where one word ended and the next began. The message didn't matter anyway. There was nothing the manager could have said that would have changed Baku's mind or mission.
Beside the freezer with its billowing clouds of icy mist there was a fuse box. The box was old-fashioned; there were big glass knobs the size of biscuits and connected to wiring that was frayed and thick like shoelaces. It might or might not be the heart of the building's electrical system, but at least it might somehow be connected to the rest. Perhaps, if Baku wrenched the fuses out, there would be a chance that he could short out the whole building and bring the operation to a halt. He'd seen it in an American movie he had watched once, late at night when he couldn't sleep.
If he could stop the electricity for even an hour—he could throw open the refrigerators and freezers and let the seafood thaw. Let it rot. Let it spoil here, at the source.
The manager kept talking. “This is the new way of things. He is coming, for the whole world."
"So this is where it starts?” Baku spoke to distract the manager. He took a sideways shuffle and brought himself closer to the manager, to the freezer, to the fuse box.
"No. We are not the first."
Baku came closer. A few feet. A hobbled scuffing of his toes. He did not lower the knives, but the manager did not seem to notice.
"Tell me about this. Explain this to me. I don't understand it."
"Yes,” the manager gurgled. “Like this.” And he turned as if to gesture into the freezer, as if what was inside would explain it all.