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 nightmare. 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:
“…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 nightmare. 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:
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