The kitchen smelled of scalded fat and printer paper. Steam rose off the grill like ghost breath, curling around the fluorescent tubes until the ceiling turned into a low white sky. Wes Huang pressed his back against a stainless steel prep table, gravy pot shaking in his hands the way his resume shook in real life. Somewhere beyond the swing doors the jukebox kept playing "Kokomo," only now every chorus ended with a wet ripping noise, like someone tearing drumsticks off a turkey that used to be human.
RayRay blocked the doorway, cleaver raised, biceps inked with dancing chili peppers that suddenly looked obscene. "We got two biters and one exit," he growled. "Priority list: close the gap, save the meat, clock back in before breakfast rush."
"Breakfast rush?" Wes echoed, voice cracking. "Dude, the clientele just went full all you can eat."
RayRay answered by kicking the doors open. Fluorescent diner light spilled into the dining area, illuminating a Jackson Pollock of red on mint green vinyl. Dr. Menendez knelt over Cass's body, face buried in her rib cage like he was reading a really engrossing medical journal. The trucker, CAT cap still somehow glued on, gnawed his own fingers down to wet straws, humming along to the Beach Boys between bites.
"Hey, Doctor Death!" RayRay shouted. "Table for one in hell!"
Menendez lifted his head. Ketchup and tissue clung to his chin; in the pink light it looked almost festive. He stood, joints popping like bubble wrap, and started toward the kitchen. The trucker followed, dragging one boot through the blood pool, leaving syrupy footprints that spelled murder in cursive.
RayRay slammed the doors shut, wedged a mop handle through the handles, and turned to Wes. "Plan B."
"We skipped Plan A," Wes said.
"Plan A was don't die. Failed." RayRay yanked a fire extinguisher off the wall. "You cook?"
"I burn water."
"Good. Burn this." RayRay tossed him a bottle of canola oil the size of a toddler. Wes hugged it, arms trembling. RayRay pointed at the deep fryer. "Dump it, crank the heat, make a moat. They step, they sizzle, we shove."
Wes unstopped the bottle. Oil glugged out, shiny and innocent, pooling around the fryer baskets like liquid sunshine. He twisted the thermostat to 450. The heating coils glowed angry orange, promising apocalypse in bubbling slow motion.
Back door, he thought. There had to be one. He scanned the kitchen: grill, walk in freezer, dish pit, prep station, NO EXIT sign anywhere. Only a screen door leading to the dumpster corral, latched with a rust hook. Wes started that way, but the hook refused to budge, frozen by years of desert nights. He pictured the raccoon on his rear view mirror, tiny plush paws covering sewn on eyes.
A thud rattled the swing doors. Then another. The trucker's voice gurgled through, singing off key: "Aruba, Jamaica, ooh I wanna take ya," each lyric punctuated by a meaty slam.
RayRay braced the mop handle with his boot. "They're learning rhythm," he muttered. "Not good."
Wes spotted a vent hood above the grill, big enough for a skinny ex techie if he inhaled and prayed. He dragged a flour barrel underneath, climbed, knees knocking. Grease slick metal greeted his palms. The vent shaft was dark, narrow, and smelled like burnt dreams and chicken skin. Perfect.
"Up there," he called. "Maintenance crawl?"
"Goes to the roof," RayRay said. "But hatch is padlocked. Boss keeps weed up there."
"Of course he does." Wes hopped down. "Keys?"
"On Cass."
Both men looked at the doors. Another slam. The mop handle splintered.
Wes swallowed. "Rock paper scissors?"
"Screw that." RayRay yanked a drawer, pulled out a rolling pin carved from maple. "Medieval mode."
The doors burst. Mop handle snapped in half. Dr. Menendez stumbled through first, slipping on the fresh oil slick. His feet shot forward, spine hit the floor, head smacking tile with a coconut thunk. The trucker followed, also slipped, but caught himself on the fryer basket handle. Grease hissed where blood touched hot steel, filling the air with the smell of human bacon.
RayRay charged. The rolling pin came down on Menendez's skull, connecting with a wet crack like a watermelon meeting a baseball bat. The doctor twitched, then reached up, grabbed RayRay's apron, and yanked the cook face first into the oil pool. RayRay screamed as hot grease kissed cheek and forearm, blisters blooming like pink popcorn.
Wes acted without permission from his brain. He hoisted the canola bottle, swung it like a championship bowling ball. Plastic met trucker temple with a hollow donk. The man staggered sideways, arms windmilling, and toppled backward into the fryer. There was a moment of almost comedic pause, then the oil volcanoed. A geyser of 450 degree liquid slapped ceiling tiles, raining fire drops onto every surface.
The trucker flailed, mouth open in a silent howl that turned into bubbling glug. His CAT cap floated like a sad lily pad. Skin peeled away in pale sheets, revealing scarlet muscle that looked weirdly supermarket fresh. The smell was Thanksgiving crossed with a tire fire.
RayRay rolled off the floor, skin already blistering, and slammed the fryer lid. "Pressure cooker," he rasped. "Buy us five."
Wes stared at the boiling vat. "He's still moving."
"Yeah, they do that." RayRay grabbed Wes by the collar, dragged him toward the freezer. "Walk in's steel. We regroup, find the damn keys, hit the roof."
They stumbled inside. RayRay kicked the door shut, spun the interior lock. Darkness swallowed them except for a single safety bulb painting everything zombie movie green. Shelves of ground chuck, bacon slabs, and pre sliced pies surrounded them like edible spectators.
Wes panted frost. "So we freeze while the world burns?"
"Better than sauté." RayRay pressed a hand to his burnt cheek, winced. "Listen, college, you want to live, grow a spine. Cass kept keys on a retractable clip. We go back out together, you distract, I grab. Then up the vent, padlock or no."
Wes nodded, teeth chattering from adrenaline, not cold. "What about the doc?"
RayRay hoisted the cleaver again. "We ask him to split the check."
From beyond the steel door came a new sound: metal scraping tile, slow and deliberate, like someone dragging a crowbar. Not one set of footsteps, two. Maybe three. The fryer bubbled, the jukebox kept spinning, and somewhere in the dark diner fresh throats cleared themselves for the breakfast rush.
Wes exhaled a cloud that froze in front of him. "Fifth night's looking long," he whispered.
RayRay grinned, half his face already swelling. "Long as we stay breathing, the punchline's ours."
Outside, the scraping stopped. A single knock rattled the freezer door, polite, almost customer service. Then silence, thick and expectant, the calm before the entrée