The polite knock came again, three taps, like a waiter checking if the steak was sufficiently murdered. RayRay tightened his grip on the cleaver, burnt cheek cracking with every twitch. Wes held his breath and watched frost crawl across the steel door, tiny white fingers spelling doom in cursive.
"Count of three," RayRay whispered. "I crack the lock, you swing the door, we both charge. Goal: grab Cass's key clip, duck behind the counter, hit the vent. No hero shit."
Wes swallowed. "What if they're standing right there?"
"Then we find out if zombies appreciate dinner theatre."
One. Two. Three. RayRay twisted the lock and shouldered the door. Metal screeched, cold air swept out, and the kitchen slammed them with a wall of fryer-smoke and charred hair. The trucker's silhouette loomed directly ahead, arms dangling, CAT cap melted to his skull like plastic cheese. Behind him, Dr. Menendez crawled across the ceiling tiles, spine bent like a possessed inchworm, dragging a broken fryer basket that screeched across stainless steel.
Wes hurled the first object his hand found: a tub of coleslaw. The lid popped, cabbage confetti exploded across the trucker's face. The man paused, blinked, then licked mayonnaise from his blistered lips with a tongue that looked like a boiled sock. He stepped forward, slipped on the oily floor, and face-planted into the gravy pot Wes had abandoned earlier. Skull met cast iron with a gong. The trucker lay still, gravy bubbling around his ears like a slow crock-pot funeral.
RayRay did not celebrate. He charged straight for Cass's corpse, still folded near the pie case, and ripped the retractable key clip from her apron. The cord snapped free with a wet pop, splattering droplets of blood across his chef coat. He turned just as Dr. Menendez dropped from the ceiling, landing catlike between RayRay and the vent hood.
"Keys secured," RayRay barked. "Path not secured. Suggestions?"
Wes pointed at the extinguisher still clipped near the grill. "Chemical warfare?"
"Rock and roll."
They sprinted opposite directions. Wes yanked the extinguisher pin, aimed the horn like a bazooka, and blasted CO2 into the doctor's face. White clouds filled the kitchen, turning the scene into a snow globe full of teeth. Menendez coughed black sludge, eyes freezing shut, and swung blindly. His fist caught the fire-suppression sprinkler overhead. The bulb burst. Water erupted, drenching everything in icy spray. Grease fires hissed, smoke alarms shrieked, and every fluorescent tube flickered like a nightclub having an anxiety attack.
RayRay used the cover to scramble onto the prep table. He leaped, caught the edge of the vent hood, and hauled himself up, cleaver clenched between teeth like a pirate audition. Wes followed, adrenaline lending him monkey skills. They crawled into the narrow shaft, aluminum walls booming under their knees. Behind them, Menendez clawed at the opening, face a mask of half-frozen gore, but the hatch was built for grease filters, not human shoulders. He got stuck, snarling and snapping, while water cascaded off his chin like a morbid fountain.
RayRay crawled ten feet, stopped at the maintenance hatch, and tried the padlock. It held, brass stubborn. He jammed the cleaver tip into the keyhole, twisted, cursed. "Need the key after all."
Wes handed him the retractable clip. RayRay popped the tiny ring, slid the key home, turned. The lock sprang with a happy click that felt criminal in the apocalypse. He shoved the hatch open. Night air poured in, cold desert wind carrying sirens, distant explosions, and the smell of burning fast food franchises.
They climbed onto the flat roof. Below, the parking lot glittered with broken glass and toppled semis. A highway patrol cruiser had rammed the picnic tables, lights still strobing red-blue-red across overturned motorcycles. People shuffled between vehicles, outlines back-lit by the sign that still buzzed MOM'S 24-HOUR EATS in dying pink neon.
Wes bent over, hands on knees, vomiting nothing but coffee nerves. RayRay closed the hatch, wedged the cleaver through its handles, and sat on the warm compressor unit. He pulled a smashed pack of cigarettes from his apron, offered one.
"No thanks," Wes wheezed. "Trying to quit before I die."
RayRay lit up, sucked hard, exhaled through torn cheek. "We got roof, we got keys, we got front-row seats to the end. What's your next bright idea?"
Wes stared across the asphalt ocean. On the far edge, near the off-ramp, a convoy of National Guard trucks sat abandoned, rear doors yawning open like empty cereal boxes. Weapons crates glinted under moonlight. Hope or hallucination, he couldn't tell.
"Supply run," he said, voice steadier than his hands. "Get guns, get food, get back here before sunrise. Turn this place into Fort Diner."
RayRay studied the horizon, smoke leaking from his lips. "You ever fire a rifle?"
"Only in VR."
"Good enough. Virtual bullets still scare real rats." He flicked ash, stood. "We'll need bait."
Wes glanced at the hatch. Something heavy pounded from inside, cleaver handle vibrating. "I think we left bait cooking."
RayRay almost smiled, which made his burnt skin crack like old paint. "Rule one of kitchen management: never waste perfectly good leftovers."
They moved to the roof edge, boots crunching gravel, and started planning the descent. Somewhere below, the jukebox finally died, the neon sign flickered once, twice, then steadied, as if the building itself refused to admit last call. The fifth night had hours left on the clock, and the specials board promised fresh horror at dawn.