FOUR
SO MUCH FOR THE NIGHTLIFE; THIS PLACE IS
deadsville.
Claire had seen a couple of people wandering
around as she'd pulled into Raccoon, though not
nearly as many as there should have been. In fact, the
place seemed spectacularly deserted; the helmet
blocked out a lot of visual evidence, but there was
definitely a lack of business going on at the east end of
town. A lack of traffic, as well. It struck her as weird,
but considering the disasters she'd been imagining all
afternoon, not all that ominous. Raccoon still existed,
at least, and as she headed for the twenty-four-hour
diner off Powell, she saw a fairly large group of
partyers walking down the middle of a side street.
Drunken frat boys, if she remembered her last visit
clearly. Obnoxious, but hardly the horsemen of the
apocalypse.
No bombed-out ruins, no dying fires, no air-raid
sirens; so far, so good.
She'd planned to head straight for Chris's apartment
before she realized that she'd be passing Emmy's
on the way. Chris couldn't cook worth a damn;
consequently, he lived on cereal, cold sandwiches,
and dinner at Emmy's about six nights a week; even if
he wasn't there, it might be worth it to stop in and ask
one of the waitresses if they'd seen him lately.
As Claire pulled the Softail to a gentle stop in front
of Emmy's, she noticed a couple of rats scurrying for
cover from atop a garbage can on the sidewalk. She
put down the stand and unstraddled the bike, taking
off her helmet and setting it on the warm seat.
Shaking out her ponytail, she wrinkled her nose in
disgust; from the smell of things, the trash had been
sitting out for quite a while. Whatever they were
throwing away gave off a seriously toxic stink.
Before going in, she chafed her bare legs and arms
lightly, as much to warm them as to wipe off the top
layer of road grime. Shorts and a vest were no match
for the October night, and it reminded her once again
of how dumb she'd been to ride bare. Chris would
give her one hell of a lecture ...
... but not here.
The building's glass front gave her a clear look at
the well-lit, homey restaurant, from the bolted red
stools at the lunch counter to the padded booths
lining the walls and there wasn't a soul in sight.
Claire frowned, her initial disappointment giving way
to confusion. Having visited Chris pretty regularly
over the last few years, she'd been to the diner at all
hours of the day and night; they were both night owls,
often deciding to go out for cheeseburgers at three in
the morning - which meant Emmy's every time. And
there was always someone at Emmy's, chatting with
one of the pink polyester-clad waitresses or hunched
over a cup of coffee with a newspaper, no matter what
time it was.
So where are they? It's not even nine o'clock. . .
The sign said Open, and she wasn't going to find
out standing in the street. With a last glance at her
bike, she opened the door and stepped inside. Taking
a deep breath, she called out hopefully.
"Hello? Anyone here?"
Her voice seemed somehow flat in the muted
silence of the empty restaurant; except for the soft
hum of the ceiling fans overhead, there wasn't a
sound. There was the familiar smell of stale grease in
the air, but something else, too - a scent that was
bitter and yet soft, like rotting flowers.
The restaurant was L-shaped, booths stretching off
in front of her and to the left. Walking slowly, Claire
headed straight; at the end of the lunch counter was
the wait station, and past that the kitchen; if Emmy's
was open, the staff would probably be hanging out
there, maybe as surprised as she was that there were
no customers . . .
. . . except that wouldn't explain the mess, would it?
It wasn't a mess, exactly; the disorder was subtle
enough that she hadn't even noticed it from outside.
A few menus on the floor, an overturned water glass
on the counter, and a couple of randomly strewn
pieces of silverware were the only signs of something
amiss, but they were enough.
To hell with checking out the kitchen, this is too
weird, something is seriously fucked up in this city or
maybe they got robbed, or maybe they're setting up for
a surprise party. Who cares? Time for you to be
elsewhere.
From the hidden space at the end of the counter,
she heard a gentle sound of movement, a sliding
whisper of cloth followed by a muffled grunt. Somebody
was there, ducked down.
Heart thumping loudly, Claire called out again.
"Hello?"
For a beat, there was nothing - and then another
grunt, a muted moan that raised the hair on the back
of her neck.
In spite of her misgivings, Claire hurried toward the
back, suddenly feeling childish for her desire to leave;
maybe there had been a robbery, maybe the customers
had been tied up and gagged - or even worse, so
badly injured that they couldn't cry out. Like it or not,
she was involved.
Claire reached the end of the counter, pivoted left. . .
. . . and froze, eyes wide, feeling as though she'd
been physically slapped. Next to a cart loaded with
trays was a balding man dressed in cook's whites, his
back to her. He was crouched over the body of a
waitress; but there was something very wrong about
her, so wrong that Claire's mind couldn't quite accept
it at first. Her shocked gaze took in the pink uniform,
the walking shoes, even the plastic name tag still
pinned to the woman's chest, what looked like "Julie"
or "Julia." ...
... her head. Her head is missing.
Once Claire realized what was wrong, she couldn't
force herself to un-realize it, as much as she wanted
to. There was only a pool of drying blood where the
waitress's head should have been, a sticky puddle
surrounded by fragments of skull and dark mashed
hair and chunks of miscellaneous gore. The cook had
his hands over his face, and as Claire stared in horror
at the headless corpse, he let out a low, pitiful wail.
Claire opened her mouth, not sure what would
come out. To scream, to ask him why, how, to offer to
call for help - she honestly didn't know, and as the
man turned to look up at her, hands dropping away,
she was stunned to hear that nothing came out at all.
He was eating the waitress. His thick fingers were
clotted with dark bits of tissue; the strange and alien
face he raised into view was smeared with blood.
Zombie.
A child of late-night creature features and campfire
stories, her mind accepted it in the split-second it
took for her to think it; she wasn't an idiot. He was
deathly pale and ripe with that sickly-sweet scent of
decay she'd noticed earlier, his eyes cataracted and
gleaming white.
Zombies, in Raccoon. I never expected that.
With that calm, logical realization came a sudden
rush of absolute terror. Claire stumbled backwards,
feverish panic turning her guts into liquid as the cook
continued to turn, rising from his crouch. He was
huge, easily a foot over her 5'3", and broad as a
barn . . .
. . . and dead! He's dead and he was EATING her,
don't let him get any closer!
The cook took a step toward her, his stained hands
clenching into fists. Claire backed up faster, almost
slipping on a menu. A fork clattered away from
beneath one boot.
GET OUT NOW.
"I'll be on my way now," she babbled. "Really,
don't bother to show me out. . ."
The cook staggered forward, his blind eyes glowing
with dumb hunger. Another step back and Claire
reached behind her, felt air, felt nothing -
- and then the cool metal of the door's handle. A
shot of adrenaline triumph bolted through her as she
spun, snatched at the handle...
... and screamed, a short, sharp cry of horror. There
were two, three more of them outside, their disintegrating
flesh pressed to the glass front of the diner.
One of them had only one eye, a suppurating hole
where the other should have been; another had no
upper lip, a ragged, permanent grin scrawled across its
lower jaw. They clawed mindlessly at the windows,
their ashy, ravaged faces awash with blood - and
from the shadows across the street, dark shapes
shambled out into the open.
Can't get out, trapped ...
... Jesus, the back door!
From the edge of her vision, the glowing green exit
sign shone like a beacon. Claire spun again and barely
saw the cook reaching out to her from a few feet away,
her full attention fixating on the only hope of escape.
She ran, the booths whipping by in a flash of unseen
color, her arms pumping for speed. The door opened
out into the alley, she was going to hit it running and
if it was locked, she was screwed.
Claire slammed into the door and it flew open,
crashing into the brick wall of the alley ...
... and there was a gun pointed at her face, the only
thing that could possibly have stopped her at that
second, a man with a gun ...
She froze, raising her arms instinctively as if to
ward off a blow.
"Wait! Don't shoot!"
The gunman didn't move, the deadly-looking weapon
still aimed at her head ...
- gonna kill me -
"Get down!" the gunman shouted, and Claire
dropped, her knees buckling as much from the command
as from the cold fingertips suddenly groping at
her shoulder ...
Boom! Boom!
The gunman fired and Claire snapped her head
around, saw the dead cook falling backwards from
directly behind her, at least one massive hole now in
its forehead. Sluggish spurts of blood jetted from the
wound, the white eyes filming over with red. The
fallen corpse twitched, once, twice - and stopped
moving.
Claire turned back to the man who'd saved her life,
and his uniform registered for the first time. Cop. He
was young, tall - and almost as terrified-looking as
she felt, his upper lip beaded with sweat, his blue eyes
wide and unblinking. His voice, at least, was strong
and sure as he reached down to help her up.
"We can't stay out here. Come with me, we'll be a
lot safer at the police station."
As he spoke, she could hear a closing chorus of
gasping moans from the street, the wails of hunger
growing louder. Claire let herself be pulled up, gripping
his hand tightly, taking small comfort in the fact
that his fingers were as feverish and shaky as hers.
They ran, dodging dumpsters and heaps of flattened
boxes, chased by echoing, haunted cries as the
zombies found the dark alley and started after them.
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