Anything Can Be Dangerous by Matt Hults

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-normal 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!”