Kirk saw Randy now and then and he was worried about him because he was drinking a lot. Too much. They saw Liz in early August and were surprised by how skinny she was––she had lost at least twenty pounds she could not afford to lose, because Liz was a very slender girl. Kirk suspected she had developed an eating disorder, but it never came up in their brief conversation.
Kirk did not sleep much. When he did sleep, he heard Baltazar’s shrieking, piglet-like squeal and Natalie’s endless screams. He saw the bird tearing her puckered nipples from her deflated breasts, eating her filmy eyeballs. The Wyattweed helped, while it lasted.
One evening in early August, while Kirk was playing a game on his computer, Dad came to his room.
“Have you decided what you want to do with yourself, Kirky?” he asked. “You can take some classes at Shasta College, or get a job––whatever you want.”
“I want to be able to sleep again.”
“You will. It’ll just take time. Meanwhile, you’ve got to get back on your feet. You’ll be living with this the rest of your life.”
“Randy’s drinking a lot. I think Liz is bulimic, or something. I’m just… numb.”
“Then you’ve got to snap out of it now while you still can,” Dad said. “Mom and I are worried about you. Even Kevin has noticed something is wrong.”
“I keep thinking… what else is going on out there that I don’t know about?”
Dad frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Mrs. Kobylka really is a witch who can raise the dead. Zombies are real. So what else is true that I’ve been laughing at my whole life? Are there space aliens? Werewolves? Vampires?”
“Kirk, you can’t think that way. It’ll make you sick. You’ve got your future to think about. Whatever Mrs. Kobylka did, whatever that was, it was… wrong, unnatural. If it weren’t, we’d all be doing it. It’s not a part of our lives, it has nothing to do with our world, so there’s no reason for you even to think about it. What happened… just think of it as a bad dream. Put it behind you. And do it quickly. Because if this keeps up… well, you won’t be able to get any counseling, because you can’t tell anyone what’s bothering you. You have to snap out of this, Kirk, because you don’t have a choice.”
The next day, Kirk went to Rite-Aid and bought a picture frame. At home, he put on some music he and Natalie had liked. He found a picture of himself and Natalie taken at a spring dance. He put the picture in the frame and placed it on his bedstand.
He started looking for a job. He got a catalog of the classes being offered at Shasta College and browsed through it.
He went to bed every night hoping he would be able to sleep. But he did one thing differently.
He closed and locked his window every night, the window Natalie used to climb through to come to bed with him. Kirk could not help wondering how many dead pets were wandering through the night, how many dead loved ones were shuffling around with an insatiable hunger to feed. It did not feel safe to leave the window open anymore. He no longer knew what was out there.
Feeding Frenzy
MATT HULTS
The restaurant stood less than forty feet away, small and unimpressive in comparison to the encompassing forest landscape, but also the blackest thing in sight on an otherwise bright and sunny day.
Ron parked the rental car just outside the entrance to the parking lot, pulling to a stop amid a small pile of animal bones that crunched beneath the tires.
He switched off the engine. “Not exactly the first impression I was hoping for,” he said.
Beside him, Greg seemed undeterred. Minus his beer-gut and his rapidly receding hairline, the older man looked like a six-year-old kid on a jackpot Christmas morning. “Don’t worry about it,” he replied. “They told me the property was a little messy. Look at the building, though! Are you sure this is the right address?”
Ron nodded to the realty sign standing to the left. “This is the place, all right.”
“Jeez… It’s in great shape!”
Maybe, maybe not, Ron thought, but he decided to hold his tongue. They were already falling into their usual mode of operation, Greg seeking out the sweet deal while Ron remained ever-watchful for the lemon that could sour it.
They got out of the car.
Outside, the smell of dry oak leaves instantly enveloped them. Ron drew in a long breath of it, cleansing the stink of the rental company’s pine-scented air freshener from his sinuses. He glanced behind them, to the dirt lane that tethered the old restaurant to the highway, frowning at the distance. It couldn’t have measured more than fifty yards in length—he spotted traffic blinking between the trees—but the silence here made it seem immeasurably farther than it looked.
“It’s kind of out-of-the-way, don’t you think?” he asked.
Greg had already reached the building and was tugging at the locked doors. He glanced over his shoulder. “Are you kidding? This is a prime location. We’re surrounded by farmland and national forest. We’ll get all the traffic between Brainerd and Clearwater Creek. Cut down some of those trees and we can put up a sign that’ll practically be on the highway!”
Farmland and forest, Ron thought, but again he kept his comments to himself.
“The realtor must be running late, huh?” Greg asked. He cupped both hands over his face and leaned forward, trying to find a chink in the plywood armor that covered the building’s windows.
Ron strolled across the lot. He studied the dimensions of the restaurant, guessing that the original owner had attempted to emulate the layout of a traditional fast-food business but with a slightly higher-scale motif, to set it apart from the larger chains that dominated North America’s roadways.
He’d never seen a fast-food joint with a black slate-shingled roof and widow’s walk. Or wrought iron lampposts shaped to resemble a cluster of entwined tentacles. Still, despite its unorthodox appearance, Ron thought the building looked good and sturdy. That, coupled with the rock-bottom price tag, opened a world of possibilities for improvements. Nevertheless, he didn’t want to get too excited too fast.
Greg joined him as he made his way around the side of the building to get a look at the back.
“You said this was a fixer-upper, right?” Ron asked.
Greg nodded. “The ad mentioned ‘extensive fire-damage’ but this looks a lot better than I imagined.”
Ron stopped walking.
“Oh, hey, a takeout window!” Greg said, pointing. “This is great! That’ll save us even more money on the renovation!”
But Ron wasn’t looking at the takeout window. “What’s that?” he asked.
Focused as he was on the drive-thru, Greg had failed to notice the giant hole in the wall of trees beyond the restaurant, or the enormous four-lane road that extended off the parking lot, stretching to a pinpoint in the far depths of the surrounding forest.
Greg gaped at the sight. “Holy, shit!” he laughed. “And you were worried about being too far from the highway!”
Ron ignored the comment and approached the road. A gust of wind ushered a group of dead leaves across the concrete, but, other than that, the vast avenue appeared as vacant as a desert wasteland.
No cars.
No people.
Just a wide lane of unbroken grey cement that receded into the distant shadows.
“You don’t think this is a bit strange?” he asked.
Greg shrugged. “Could be under construction… Maybe it’s a new expansion to the Interstate?”
“Leading to a restaurant?” Ron replied. “There’s no median, no streetlights—”
The sound of wheels crunching over gravel broke into the conversation, and they both looked toward the parking lot.
“That must be the realtor,” Greg remarked. “We can ask her about it.”
They headed back toward the car. Ron let Greg lead the way, lingering behind just long enough to cast one last glance at the unusual forest road. They’d walked only a short distance, but from his new perspective he noted how the trees shield
ed it from sight, the branches interlacing overhead, enclosing it like a tunnel.
Greg threw a hand against his chest, halting him in his tracks.
“God bless the locals!” his friend said. Then, before Ron had a chance to get his meaning, the man resumed walking, stealthily adding, “Be a pal and let the single guy do the talking… ”
Ron followed his line of sight to where he spotted the realtor exiting her vehicle.
Dwarfed by the SUV she’d arrived in, the petite young woman looked in need of a climbing harness to get from the driver’s seat to the ground. On the contrary, she moved with an athletic grace, seeming to flow from one position to the next. Out in the open, her long blonde hair caught the full radiance of the sun, contrasting with the black material of her pants and jacket, which hugged the trim contours of her body.
He thought of Diane back home, so far away, knowing that if they did indeed buy the restaurant he’d become a local himself for the first several months of operation, overseeing the renovation and training all the staff.
Ahead of him Greg looked back, twitched his eyebrows.
Ron shook his head and followed.
This is business, he opened his mouth to say before the other man was out of earshot, but stopped short when his gaze once again shifted to the girl. She still stood next to the open door of her sport utility, a blatant expression of perplexity creasing the skin across her brow. Her full attention remained focused straight ahead, staring at the restaurant, and she didn’t even notice Greg approaching until he’d closed within the last ten feet of her.
She spun to face him as if suddenly realizing she was in the shadow of a grizzly bear.
“We’ll take it!” Greg declared before she had a chance to say anything.
Ron watched the look of fear mix with another fleeting flash of bewilderment, and then she was laughing with embarrassment. Her voice sounded melodic in the open woodland air.
“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 jump
ed.
“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?”
Best New Zombie Tales Trilogy (Volume 1, 2 & 3) Page 11