Chapter 11

 

Jimmy and his fellow bartender Brent took the back door out of the bar and into the kitchen, hoping to escape the madness of the Cougar’s Den and meaning to warn everyone in the adjoining Cougar Café restaurant, but just past the walk-in coolers and freezers, Jimmy stopped, teeth bared. The kitchen was smoky, filled with the stench of burning meat and hair.

A waitress, the new blonde, was draped across the grill, sizzling, her clothes and hair burning low.

Jimmy’s stomach did a slow roll.

Behind him, Brett said, "Shit, it’s happening in here, too."

"On your toes," Jimmy said, and grabbed a long steel ladle off the counter. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was the best thing in reach.

One of the busboys—Jimmy recognized his face but had never known his name—ran around the steam table holding what looked like a tablecloth to his arm. Jimmy saw red there, blood.

"Get away!" the busboy shouted.

Dutch, the big chef who sipped away every shift, staying one step from blitzed, stalked the busboy, a bloody cleaver gripped in one meaty hand. He stepped over the corpse of a waitress—Shit, was that Ginny?—and dragged the cleaver across the stainless steel counter.

"Get away!" The busboy repeated. Something in him had snapped, surrendered to the terror, taken him back a dozen or so years mentally, turning his plea childlike, almost comical: "Get awaaay-uh!"

This is fucking crazy, Jimmy thought.

"Come on, bro," Brent said. "We gotta go. Those assholes are coming in behind us."

Jimmy heard them now, too, heard them coming in from the bar, heard the blast of the music as doors opened, heard whooping crazies coming this way.

Big, crazy-ass Dutch lifted his cleaver and started trotting, laughing as he chased the busboy, still oblivious to Jimmy and Brent.

"Move," Brent said.

Then, just as Dutch did see them, grinning, his teeth green—What the hell was up with that?—Lenny, the stubby stoner who washed dishes and kept Jimmy in clean pitchers and glasses, stepped out of the alcove and sprayed Dutch in the face with a heavy jet of steaming water.

Dutch roared and turned into the spray, head back, tall white hat flying away, and lumbered toward Lenny, slicing the air with his cleaver.

Jimmy rushed him.

Dutch forced his way into the alcove, and Jimmy heard a meaty thwack, a scream, and then a louder thud as Dutch spilled onto the wet tiles. Lenny slipped free, his shoulder streaming blood, and sprinted out of the kitchen. He pounded out the door and into the restaurant, affording Jimmy with a flash of the chaos taking place on that side.

Dutch slipped, trying to regain his feet. The handle of a recently washed knife jutted from his crotch. A bad joke about Dutch "having wood" tumbled topsy-turvy through Jimmy’s head, but he let it go in favor of driving a sneaker into the big lunatic’s face. Dutch flopped over, flailing his arms and spitting green.

The busboy was nowhere in sight.

"Look out, Jimmy!" Brent cried, and Jimmy heard a bottle shatter. Loonies boiled into the room. Brent jumped backward, and the crazies streamed past, oblivious of him and Jimmy and Dutch, who was up again, stooping for his cleaver. They rushed along the other side of the steam table, howling through the kitchen and into the café beyond. More would come. And Jimmy was very much afraid they wouldn’t be so oblivious to Brent and him.

Dutch staggered toward him. He looked rough as hell, his checked chef’s pants soaked in blood, the big knife handle still poking out in want of a lame joke. He drew closer, raising the cleaver.

Jimmy dropped one foot back, holding the ladle out in front of him like a fencing foil. Shit. What the hell am I doing?

Something big and bright flew over him and smacked into Dutch’s forehead. It fell to the tiles with a clatter—a bread rack, Jimmy saw—and the cook followed it down. Then Brent was over him, stomping and stomping.

Jimmy joined in. It was horrible. He drove his heel into Dutch’s gut and ribs while Brent worked the head. The big guy bellowed and rolled, but he was hurt too badly to do much. Closing his eyes, Jimmy kicked down on the knife handle. He felt it shove inward then slipped on the bloody floor and dropped onto his ass. Brent backed off, breathing hard. Dutch twitched and was still.

"Look out," Brent said as Jimmy stood. "Someone’s coming in from the restaurant."

Jimmy tensed as a pair came through the doors. In front, a man with reddish hair scanned the kitchen, saw the bartenders, and lurched to a stop. Behind him, a tall dark-haired woman let out a short shriek.

"They’re okay," Jimmy said. "No green." What had really decided him, though, was the wife. Her face showed such raw terror she had to be sane.

"Are you normal?" the red-haired guy asked, and when Jimmy and Brent said they were, he demanded to know just what the hell was going on here.

His guess was as good as theirs, they assured him. They went down the narrow hallway that led past the manager’s office and to an inconspicuous, windowless door that opened onto Short Ridge and the center of town.

"Take a look," Brent said.

Jimmy cracked the door, bringing a slice of the outside world into view. A second later, a girl spilled onto the pavement in front of him, stood up laughing, and ran on. In that brief moment, Jimmy saw skinned knees, a bloody shirt, and something dark and flowing clamped in her mouth. Was that hair? Did that girl have someone’s scalp in her teeth?

She was gone.

Jimmy closed the door. "It’s no better outside."

"Let’s hide, then," Brent said.

"Let’s do something," the red-haired guy said.

"What about Tom’s office?" Jimmy said, and pushed a door on the adjacent wall. Tom was the blond-haired weasel that ran the bar and restaurant, a prissy over-demanding prick who drove Jimmy out of his mind. Opening the door, Jimmy saw that he didn’t have to worry about Tom anymore. The manager lay atop his desk, arms and legs spread out like he was sunbathing. His chest was torn open.

Standing nearer, crying, was Erika, one of the waitresses Jimmy had been trying to bang over the last couple of months. She had her back turned, but it was Erika, all right. He’d spent enough time staring at this same view—long, silky black hair, perfect ass in thin black stretch pants, and the tight yellow waitress tee, stretched over a rack to die for and a back that always seemed just a little arched.

"Erika."

She cried out and spun.

Jimmy took a step back.

Erika was covered in blood. Black streaks ran from her eyes. She held a bloody knife. Seeing Jimmy, a smile spread across her face.

Jimmy raised his hands. He didn’t want to hurt her.

"Jimmy," she said, and dropped the knife. He shuddered with relief, for he was sure now: the crazies did not talk, and she came into his arms, sobbing. "I think…Tom’s dead…I think I…he was crazy."

Jimmy rubbed her back. "It’s okay, doll. Look, we have to hide." Here? Looking over at Tom’s corpse, he thought, Fuck that noise.

They rejoined the others. Brent hurried past the guy and the woman and glanced once more into the kitchen. He motioned them on, and they followed. Jimmy didn’t like the sounds he heard coming from the bar or the restaurant, louder than ever, and the smell of the waitress on the grill almost made him puke. Brent opened the large silver door to the walk-in cooler.

The red-haired guy and his wife slipped inside. Erika paused, wide-eyed, in the doorway. "We’ll be trapped."

"In," Brent said, pushing her along. "There’s nowhere else to go."

Jimmy agreed, but God, did he hate to go in there. Erika was right. With all these psychos on the loose, the last thing he wanted to do was back into a corner, but what other choice was there?

So in they went. Erika held out her hand. Jimmy took it and pulled her into him, where she shook but did not cry. Talk about irony. He chuckled to himself. He’d been trying to get his arms around this girl for months, and now he did, but shit, this wasn’t exactly what he’d envisioned.

Brent closed the door, and everything went dark. The hum of the air conditioner muffled the sounds from outside.

At first, the cold air was refreshing. Then it just got cold. Erika pressed against him, shivering harder.

Something scraped in the darkness…the red-haired guy’s lighter. He held it near his face, which looked unnaturally gaunt in the light of the flame. He was older, a parent, an alumni, maybe both.

"Well," he said, "now what?"

Jimmy saw Brent shrug. The guy’s eyes shifted to Jimmy. Jimmy shrugged, too, adding, "I just work here."

The guy’s wife offered a pitiful laugh then put the back of her wrist to her trembling mouth and started crying again.

"That does a hell of a lot of good," the red-haired guy said.

She just cried harder.

"So does that," Brent said to the guy.

The guy let the lighter go out. In the darkness, he said, "Why don’t you do me a favor and shut your mouth."

"Get fucked, asshole," Brent said.

"Knock it off," Jimmy said. "You guys can kill each other later. Right now, I think we ought to keep it quiet." Erika squeezed him, and he rubbed her back in the darkness. For a long time, everything was quiet, save for the muffled weeping of the woman.

Then the guy’s lighter came on again, and he went to the door.

"Bill," the woman said.

"Hold it," Brent said, grabbing hold of the guy’s sleeve.

"Take it easy, kid," Bill said, pulling his arm free. "I’m just checking if I can hear anything. He leaned against the door, scowled and shook his head. "Not much. This door’s thick, and that fan’s too loud."

And too cold. Jimmy was shivering, too.

"Here we go," Bill said, and bent, holding his lighter over a stack of beer boxes. With his free hand, he pulled a pair of bottles. "Who’s up for a beer? They’re on me."

"I’ll take one," Brent said.

Bill handed him a beer. "Janice? Beer?"

"What the hell," Bill’s wife said, taking a beer.

"Miss?"

Jimmy felt Erika shake her head.

"Here you go, buddy," Bill said, holding one out to Jimmy.

Jimmy took it and thanked him, not really wanting the beer. It was cold. He was cold. He wanted out of here, wanted a warm shower, and wanted this shivering girl in it with him. There was a thought. Beer, though? Not now. He wanted to stay sharp, because he was sure, sooner or later, the lunatics would get around to checking the cooler, and then…oh, Jimmy, then it was on.

"Cheers," Bill said. "Here’s to getting out of here alive."

He reached out, and they all clinked bottles. Then Bill cut the lighter and all went dark again. Janice was mumbling concerns over someone named "Suzie", probably a daughter, Jimmy figured. His own mind drifted into a sea of questions. Just what was going on? When would it end? Just how widespread was it? Why weren’t they affected? And, always, behind all other questions: Would they survive?

"Gaaark!" someone—Brent or Bill, Jimmy thought—yelled.

Someone else bellowed in return. Glass shattered on the floor. Someone slammed into the boxes with a muffled thud, and something toppled from the shelves, shattering more glass and filling the cooler with the smell of vinegar. Brent and Bill roared and grunted, and Jimmy heard the unmistakable sound of punches being thrown. Janice shrieked in the darkness then laughed. She’s lost her mind, Jimmy thought. They all have.

"Stop!" Erika yelled. "They’ll hear you, you assholes!"

Something whistled through the air, ending in a wet whack, and one of the men bellowed again. The cooler filled with noises: the crack of knuckles on bone, growling, snapping, a scream, and a sound like a dog shaking dying prey.

"Stop!" Erika repeated. "Stop!" Then, to Jimmy she said, "Make them stop. They’re going to get us killed."

Putting himself between Erika and the others, Jimmy pulled his own lighter, struck it, and wished he hadn’t.

Bill brought the cleaver down hard, whack! And again, whack! then pulled away the severed arm of Brent, who lay sprawled across the floor and boxes, staring blankly at the overhead fans, his own mouth oozing green. His body still shook lightly, and jets of blood sprayed from the stump, steaming in the cold air. Janice was crouched down on all fours—You hit him high, Honey, and I’ll hit him low!—teeth locked on Brent’s Achilles tendon. Like a wolf at the kill, she shook her head, growling, and Jimmy heard a gristly snap.

Erika cried out behind him as Bill brought the cleaver down fast and hard whooshthwokk! burying it in the skull of his wife. She toppled, taking the weapon with her. Bill turned and faced them, grinning, a long strand of green slime hanging from his smile. He held Brent’s severed arm in both hands, smacking it against his palm like a meaty ball bat.

Jimmy pitched his untouched bottle. It was a hell of a throw. The bottle smashed against Bill’s face, and he staggered, tripped over the body of Brent, and went over backwards onto the floor. That’s when Jimmy saw the knife handle jutting from Bill’s thigh. They don’t feel pain like us, Jimmy noted, moving now, tugging at the cleaver stuck in Janice’s head. It wouldn’t give.

Bill regained his feet, laughing.

Jimmy tugged harder. No luck. He didn’t dare use both hands. That would make it dark again. No thanks. He wanted no more darkness.

Bill yanked the knife from his own leg and a jet of blood sprayed from the wound.

Jimmy pulled again, and the cleaver came free, but it was too late. Bill was already moving toward him, raising the knife.

A box tumbled through the air, striking Bill in the chest. It wobbled him. Another bounced off his head. Erika was buying him time, pelting Bill with boxes, Jimmy realized.

Bill laughed, throwing out an arm to deflect another box.

Jimmy dipped low and swung the cleaver, taking a lesson from Bill’s dead wife. The blade angled down and chopped into Bill’s ankle just below the cuff of his khakis. Jimmy yanked the cleaver free, and Bill squealed, and Jimmy swung again, coming out of his crouch. The cleaver hacked into Bill’s shoulder. Bill stumbled, and Jimmy swung again and again hit the shoulder, opening a gaping wound, blood spraying everywhere, closing one of Jimmy’s eyes. Bill’s back hit the cooler door, and Jimmy swung again and again, no longer aware of where he was hitting him, for he’d dropped his lighter and it was dark, completely dark, and he kept swinging and hitting, swinging and hitting, and Erika cried his name, and then he felt Bill punching him in the stomach, over and over, matching him, strike for strike, and Jimmy felt crazy now, too, determined to finish this fucker off, and then his cleaver really sunk in, and the gut punching stopped, and through the cleaver, up his arm, he could feel Bill’s final shudder.

Jimmy yanked the cleaver free, and Bill spilled backwards.

A thump, a click, and light.

Bill’s body slid to the floor, pushing the door further open.

Jimmy doubled over.

Oh no. No, no, no.

It wasn’t the light he was protesting, even though he heard the crazies coming, close now, he was thankful for the light—it was his gut. Those hadn’t been punches, he realized. In his rage, his adrenaline-fueled mania, he hadn’t felt the blade jamming again and again into his body, into his guts. Now those same guts, sliced to ribbons and leaking awful smells, spilled between his fingers, steaming and slippery, and he fell with them, onto the cooler floor, vaguely aware of Erika screaming his name over and over behind him.

The last thing he saw before the darkness closed over him forever was the feet…the bottom of the door swung wide open and the feet—so many feet: sneakers, dress shoes, heels—flooded into the cooler.