MicroHorror

There were a lot of them milling about on the other side of the counter at this point. The mob filled the whole floor and spilled out the windows into the parking lot. They were still too stupid to make it over the counter into the kitchen, though. If one of them had complained about getting diet soda I would’ve believed they were normal customers.

My old manager fell onto the counter and began to flounder his way past the registers back to where I rested among the cookware. I scooped up some boiling grease from the deep fryer and splashed it over him. He started tearing into his arm where the splash of grease had started to cook him. Several others made their “food moan,” just like customers that had been in line too long, and dragged him back over the counter and began to tear into his freshly cooked back with their teeth. The food moan traveled outward through the crowd in waves, and all of them tried to pack closer to the feeding frenzy.

My down-home, deep-fried zombie recipe had attracted every rotting carcass in the shopping center to the restaurant. I’d heard some cars start up and squeal out to the parking lot since my customers got thick. People were escaping while the horde gathered here. I felt vaguely heroic.

I felt an odd sensation in my arm, and looked down to see the boiling oil from the fryer splashing my arm. It didn’t really hurt. In fact, I wasn’t feeling anything except a dull ache from the bite on my ankle. It smelled kind of nice. My thoughts were coming slower, but a brilliant idea came to me.

I lowered the biggest pot in the kitchen into the fryer, filling it with the boiling, delicious fat. My hands felt tingly in the fryer and smelled mouthwatering as I pulled them out. I nibbled on my thumb. We should definitely add thumbs to the menu after this is over.

I climbed onto the counter and flung the oil out over the crowd. Then I dove into the frenzy as the feasting started.