The ladder down from the roof looked like it had been installed during the Cold War and maintained by people who lost the war. Rust flakes sprinkled off every rung, ticking against the diner's siding like diseased hail. Wes descended first, palms sweating so hard he half expected the metal to dissolve. Rascal, still seat-belted in the Corolla below, seemed to watch through windshield eyes that said, "I told you to major in finance."
RayRay followed, cigarette ember painting the dark like a malfunctioning firefly. His burnt cheek had blistered into a grotesque balloon, but he moved like pain was just background music you learn to tune out. They hit asphalt and crouched between two overturned picnic tables, scanning the lot. Neon cast pink puddles across broken glass, giving every shard the glow of radioactive candy.
The National Guard trucks sat fifty yards away, noses pointed toward the highway like they meant to leave but forgot the way. One still idled, driver door open, interior light spilling a lonely rectangle onto the tarmac. No movement, no voices, only the engine's rough cough and the occasional metallic tick of cooling steel.
Wes tapped RayRay's shoulder. "Guard guys probably got bit, turned, wandered off to find TikTok or church. Trucks are ours if keys remain."
RayRay adjusted his grip on the cleaver. "Rule two of kitchen management: never trust a stove you didn't light yourself. We approach quiet, we peel eyes, we take inventory before we steal inventory."
They duck-walked through a maze of stalled sedans. A minivan's side door gaped wide, interior strewn with coloring books soaked in something thicker than crayon. Wes tried not to look. His brain already filed tonight under "do not process until therapy, assuming therapy survives."
Ten yards from the convoy they stopped behind an overturned motorcycle. RayRay peeked over the chrome handlebars and whistled low. "Jackpot and trouble both."
Wes looked. The nearest truck's cargo bay was stacked with olive crates labeled 5.56 MM and MRE CHILI MAC. A rifle rack inside held two M4s still strapped in place. But between them and the goodies sprawled three bodies in desert camo, helmets cracked open like dropped melons. One soldier twitched, fingers drumming pavement in lazy rhythm, eyes milk-white, lips chewed away. He crawled in slow circles, leaving a snail trail of brain matter that glistened under neon.
"Partial turn," RayRay muttered. "Cognitive rot set in but motor function persists. Like a line cook after payday."
Wes swallowed. "So we tiptoe, grab guns, tiptoe back?"
"Negative. Twitchy boy there will start screaming once we open metal. We put him down first, quiet style." RayRay handed Wes the rolling pin he'd kept tucked in belt. "You go left, distract. I go right, remove. Think of it as a choreographed dance, only the audience drools more than normal."
Wes's legs felt filled with wet cement, but he nodded. Images of virtual headshots flashed behind his eyes, none helpful. He stepped out, feet crunching glass, and immediately the crawling soldier's head snapped toward the sound. A gargling hiss leaked out, equal parts hunger and hello.
Wes raised the rolling pin like a sad Jedi. "Hey, G.I. Joe-ker. Over here."
The creature lunged, dragging useless legs behind. RayRay circled wide, came up behind, and buried the cleaver deep where spine met helmet. The body stiffened, then folded like a bad hand. No scream, only a wet exhale that smelled of sulfur and cafeteria Mondays.
They moved fast. Wes hopped into the truck bay, unstrapped rifles, tossed one to RayRay, pocketed two loaded magazines he found taped under the butt stocks. RayRay raided MRE boxes, cramming chili mac pouches into a backpack fashioned from an apron tied shut. He also found a battered first-aid kit and a road flare, both souvenirs of failed rescue.
A fresh chorus of moans drifted from the diner side lot. Shapes emerged from behind the semi rigs, maybe six, maybe ten, silhouettes jerking like broken marionettes. The neon sign flickered, strobing their movement into freeze-frame horror.
"Time to saute," RayRay said. He jumped from the truck, tossed Wes an MRE spoon. "Dig in later. Move now."
They sprinted toward the diner's rear loading dock, a concrete platform heaped with empty produce crates. Halfway there a teenage girl in a prom dress lurched into their path, corsage dangling by a thread, mouth smeared black with old lipstick and dried blood. She reached out with nails painted the same shade as her throat wound, gurgling what might have been "picture?"
Wes raised the rifle, finger on trigger, but the safety refused to budge under trembling thumb. RayRay shoved him aside, swung the rifle butt like a club, connected with her temple. She dropped, dress puffing up around her like a deflating cupcake.
"Safety's on three round burst," RayRay growled. "Click twice, then fire. RTFM later."
They vaulted onto the loading dock and shouldered through a delivery door into the diner's stockroom. Metal shelves of canned peaches and industrial ketchup formed narrow canyons. Wes barred the door behind them with a push broom, heart hammering so loud he thought it might alert every predator in the county.
For a moment they stood in darkness, catching breath, listening. The building creaked like an old ship. Somewhere beyond the walls the jukebox sparked back to life, now playing "Living on a Prayer," the irony so thick you could frost a cake with it.
RayRay clicked on the road flare. Red glare revealed aisles of comfort food that suddenly looked like survival gold. He tore open an MRE pouch with his teeth, slurped cold chili mac, and spoke around noodles. "Fort Diner begins here. We board windows, we rig grills into flame throwers, we inventory every can. Then we write a new menu: trespassers served rare."
Wes wiped sweat from his eyes, tasted copper fear and tomato sauce. He thought of Rascal still in the Corolla, thought of highways dissolving into darkness, thought of sunrise that might never bring rescue trucks, only fresher hungrier crowds.
"Chapter one of the cookbook," Wes said, voice steadier than he felt. "Ingredients: two idiots, half a plan, and a kitchen that never closes."
RayRay offered a chili mac smear across his burnt cheek, war paint for the doomed. "Tastes like teamwork."
Outside, the prom girl stirred, corsage rustling like dry leaves. Inside, the flare sputtered, casting demon shadows across canned goods that suddenly felt like sandbags in a war no one asked them to fight. The fifth night rolled on, and the next course was anybody's guess.