Morning Rush
Mark Mitchell
Oliver stood in his usual spot for that time of the morning,
jockeying the many orders on the flat top grill in the Tumbleweed Cafe. The
cafe rested along a dusty highway between where people came from and where they
were headed. Hardly a spot on the map at all. The cacti outnumbered the locals.
Still there were enough patrons at seven in the morning to fill every seat.
Over Oliver’s shoulder, a TV
fuzzy
with snow, played the recap of yesterday’s ball games.
“Hey, Ollie, you mind?”
One of the
patrons at the counter shouted. “I want to hear how the Cards did last night.”
“In a minute,” Oliver
said. A
cigarette bounced in the corner of his mouth. Ashes fell into the eggs below.
Frequent guests knew the ashes came free of charge. Part of the place’s charm.
After Oliver flipped the hashbrowns
and bacon, he reached up and adjusted the rabbit ears on the back of the
outdated television. The scrambled picture matched the ashy eggs. When he was
through fiddling with the antenna, it was worse than before.
“Better?”
“Perfect,” the patron
said. He slurped
his coffee and looked down the counter for support.
No one noticed the stranger walking
into the cafe. The bell’s soft jingle wasn’t heard over the sizzling bacon and
small talk. The stranger walked with a limp, as if his foot had fallen asleep.
He struggled up to the counter.
“Excuse me,” the stranger
said.
Oliver turned and blew out a puff
of
smoke in the man’s face. The stranger had pale skin. His hair matted against
his forehead with sweat. One arm hooked around his midsection.
“You from the health inspection
office?” Oliver asked. The man gave a confused expression, prompting the cook
to add, “You’re not here to assess the place?”
“Oh,” the man said and
glanced over
both shoulders. “No, I’m not.”
“Alright then.” Oliver
blew out
another cloud of smoke. It lingered like a halo around his head with his paper
cap tilted at a jaunty angle. He said, “What’s yours?”
The men at the counter assessed the
stranger with side eyed glances. The man looked in rough shape. The stranger
managed to ask, “Do you have a restroom?”
Oliver remained silent. He took a
drag
off his cigarette and puffed a bout of smoke.
“Bathroom’s for paying
customers,” he
said, turning back around to face the grill.
“Ok. Coffee and toast.”
A pause.
“Please.”
“Ninety-five cents.” Oliver
wiped his
hands off on a towel draped over his shoulder and waited for the stranger to
pay.
The man fumbled in his suit pocket
for
his wallet. The wallet fell to the floor. He gave out a groan and bent down to
retrieve it. When the stranger stood back up his face had transformed. His
intense eyes flashed green with flecks of gold before blinking back to normal.
His breathing had become more strained. His cheeks sallow. The patrons at the
counter looked away.
The stranger slapped a sweaty dollar
bill down. Oliver picked the bill up by its corner.
“Bathroom’s over there.”
He nodded to
a door at the back of the cafe.
“Thanks,” the man said.
He covered his
mouth as he coughed up dark brown spittle. Large droplets dripped from his chin
onto the counter. The nearest patrons leaned away.
“Sorry,” the man said.
He wiped his
chin and shuffled toward the restroom, hiding behind his coat as he passed the
other customers. Having overheard the conversation at the counter, everyone
turned to watch. At the last table he passed, a woman tried to coax her infant
child into eating. The child caught a glimpse of the stranger’s burning eyes
and burst into tears. The woman gave a scornful glance as the stranger ran into
the bathroom. The door slammed. The lock turned.
“Jesus,” the man at the
counter said.
“What was with that guy?”
“I don’t know,”
Oliver said. He used
his rag to clean the brown droplets, then flung the cloth over his shoulder.
“He better not make a mess in there though. Not with a nickel tip.” He
harrumphed and slipped the dollar into the register.
Oliver finished the outstanding orders
and plated the food. A fresh sprinkling of cigarette ash fell on top. He placed
them on the counter and hit the bell with his palm.
Ding!
A busser came out from washing dishes in the back and
delivered the breakfast plates where they were supposed to go.
Oliver adjusted the rabbit ears on the TV, somehow making
the picture even worse—if that were possible. He gave up his efforts and
snuffed out his cigarette before lighting another one.
Grunts and groans came from the bathroom; as plain as the
slanted daylight coming through the dust coated windows, illuminating the layer
of grease around the cafe.
“You better go check on that guy,” the patron said. He held
his mug out for more coffee. One of the few things not contaminated by ash.
“Sounds like he’s delivering a baby.”
Oliver rolled his eyes and refilled the man’s mug.
“I think I’ll let it air out first,” Oliver quipped. He
replaced the coffee carafe on the hot plate. He took a drag and turned around
in time to see another man frantically entering the cafe. “Now what?”
The new man was dressed in a blue jumpsuit with a black bow
tie. Oliver recognized him as one of the bus drivers who would from time to
time stop in for a bite while passing through town. Something about his
demeanor told Oliver hunger hadn’t brought him in this time.
“Help you?” Oliver asked between drags.
“I’m missing a passenger. Thought maybe he came in here.”
“Pale skin. Wispy hair. Clutching his midsection?”
“That’s him,” the bus driver said.
Oliver nodded toward the bathroom. Smoke curled up,
stinging his eyes, and forced him to squint. As if on cue, the stranger howled
a painful cry behind the closed door.
“What’s his story?” Oliver asked. He stubbed out the
cigarette.
“Don’t know.” The bus driver took off his cap and scratched
his balding head. “Last thirty miles he started complaining about stomach
cramps.” The driver leaned closer. “He’s frightened some of the other
passengers.”
“I’d believe it.”
Another cry, more animal than human, caught the attention
of everyone in the cafe. All eyes turned to the bathroom door.
“Better go get him. Before he scares away all my
customers.”
“For Pete’s sake,” the bus driver said. He replaced his
cap. “Why do I always get the oddballs?”
The bus driver made his way over to the bathroom and
knocked politely on the door. “Sir? I have a schedule to keep. We have to
depart presently.” He turned around and saw everyone watching with great
interest.
There was no response from inside the bathroom, prompting
the driver to knock harder.
“Sir? Are you in there?” He put his ear to the door.
Faintly he could hear scratching, like rats crawling through the walls. “Sir?”
“I’ll be out in a minute,” a voice boomed from the other
side and startled the poor bus driver. He stood up and straightened his uniform
to show some sign of dignity.
“Well,” he said. He met Oliver at the far side of the
counter. “He said he’d be right out.”
“How about a cup of coffee,” Oliver said. “On the house.”
“Thank you.”
The bus driver looked around the cafe. Most people had gone
back to their own conversations and meals.
Oliver placed a cup and saucer on the counter. He grabbed
the coffee carafe off the hotplate and began pouring the steaming liquid into
the cup.
A loud crash came from the bathroom. Oliver spilled the
coffee onto the counter, cursing at his blunder.
“What the hell was that?” he asked. He mopped up the split
liquid with his trusty rag.
“Sounded like he knocked something over in there? Maybe the
stall doors?” the driver offered.
“He better not…”
Oliver lifted the flap at the end of the counter and this
time knocked on the bathroom door himself.
“Open up, will you? I’ve had just about enough, I want you
out. You hear me?”
A second crash came from behind the closed door, followed
by cries of anguish. Instinctually Oliver tried the door handle. Locked. He
banged his fist against the door.
“Open up! Right this minute!”
A scrap of paper, about the size of a business card,
slipped out from under the door. Oliver bent down and picked it up. It was a
business card. A few words, barely legible, were written out in a scrawly hand.
The corners were damp with the same brown moisture the stranger had coughed
across the countertop.
Oliver held the card to the light and read: Sorry about
noise. Be out soon.
He flipped the card over. The stranger’s name was Gregory
Sampson. A traveling salesman out of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.
The bus driver stood behind Oliver who handed him the card.
“This your guy?”
The driver read the card and nodded his head.
“I’m giving you to the count of three to come out. If I
have to break down this door, you’re paying for it. I have your home address
now. I will track you down if I have to. Understand?”
Oliver pressed his ear to the door. Inside he heard
shuffling, what sounded like nervous footsteps to him.
“One…”
More shuffling, but the door remained locked.
“Two…”
The footsteps stopped.
A weak voice said, “Please don’t…come…in.”
“Three.”
The cafe collectively held their breath waiting for what would
happen next. Oliver exchanged a glance with the driver.
“Looks like your bus will be behind schedule. Give me some
room.”
Oliver pushed the driver back and gave himself space to ram
the door.
“This is your last chance!”
No reply.
Oliver muttered under his breath. “Stupid, piece of…”
He charged at the door, leading with his shoulder. The
hinges groaned from the impact, but the door remained firm. Oliver backed up
for a second attack.
Before he could ram the door again, the cries from inside
the bathroom turned blood-curdling. They were followed by the sounds of a
struggle. Glass shattered on the ground. Something thumped against the other
side of the door.
Oliver stepped back.
“Wally, my bat,” he said.
The bus boy grabbed the wooden bat Oliver kept behind the
counter. Could never be too careful with all the riff raff coming through town.
Wally ran the bat over to his boss, then retreated to the relative safety of
the kitchen.
Oliver spit into his hands to get a good grip on the bat.
Any patrons who’d been foolish enough to stay in their
booths near the bathroom now took the opportunity to scatter. Everyone grouped
together on the far side of the cafe, away from the commotion.
Oliver lifted the bat over his head and broke off the door
handle on the down swing. It bounced across the floor. The door inched open.
Oliver kicked it the rest of the way and held his bat ready to swing.
The inside of the bathroom was empty.
On the ground were the tattered remains of the stranger’s
suit. Oliver prodded them with the toe of his shoe, unsure what he expected to
find underneath. Certainly not a man. The broken glass crunched under his
weight. Blood covered the sink and walls. Oliver’s first thought was the man
had spontaneously combusted. Then pushed the idea from his mind. That sort of
thing only happened in bad B-horror flicks.
Oliver pushed the door of the stall open with the end of
his bat; afraid to get too close in case Gregory Sampson waited to ambush him.
A solitary toilet, missing its seat and with a putrid
orange rust ring in its place, stared back at him.
The stranger was nowhere to be found.
A few of the braver patrons crowded around the bathroom’s
threshold and peered inside with fearful eyes.
Oliver turned around to face them. His countenance turned
up in a look of confusion. He shrugged and kicked the pile of clothes again.
Sampson’s wallet flipped across the floor.
“Where did he go?” Oliver asked.
He felt a gentle pitter patter on his left shoulder.
Turning his head, he saw his faded white shirt slowly turning brown. The same
shade of brown the stranger…
Oliver’s face dropped. He tilted his head toward the
ceiling. His eyes went wide as he gasped for breath.
Staring back at him was a large creature similar in
appearance to a praying mantis. Pieces of human flesh were stuck to its body,
as if it were still shedding its exoskeleton. Where Sampson’s arms used to be,
they were replaced by two large pinchers. They snapped with a loud clacking
noise.
Oliver saw his reflection in the green bulbous eyes with
flecks of gold.
The creature’s head jerked around, taking in its prey. Its
mandibles clicked together. The mouth opened with a terrible screech. The
creature lunged at the quivering cook.
“Ah, hell no,” Oliver said as the creature came at him. He
brought his bat up and delivered a vicious blow to the side of the thing’s
head. The creature yelped, maybe from surprise, and surely from pain.
The morning rush of patrons stormed out of the cafe,
screaming and pushing to be the first to get to safety. They left the cook to
take down the creature on his own.
The thing’s pincers snapped
at the air
as Oliver ducked out of the way. He delivered a blow to the thing’s thorax. The
body crunched from the impact.
“I’ll teach you to come
into my
establishment and destroy things.”
Oliver gritted his teeth and whomped
the creature with his strong maple bat over and over and over. The life began
to go out of what had formerly been Gregory Sampson. The pinchers raised, not
to attack, but to protect now. Oliver stood over it and beat upon the creature
until it was nothing more than a soup of green blood and brown spittle on the
red tiled floor.
The cook backed away heaving for
breath. Maybe time to think about quitting those cigarettes, though he sure
could use another one right about now. He was covered head to toe in that
thing’s blood.
He dropped the bat. The wooden sound
echoed in the quiet of the cafe. Oliver made his way out of the bathroom,
leaving behind size ten and a half footprints of neon green blood.
“Excuse me,” a man said
from the
cafe’s entrance.
Oliver swung around to find a middle-aged gentleman in a
smart gray suit and a bowtie stepping into the restaurant. The man had a pair
of glasses on the end of his nose, behind which his eyes darted all around the mess
of Gregory Sampson.
He asked, “Is this the Tumbleweed
cafe?”
“You’re going to have
to give me a
minute there, pal,” Oliver said as he groped his way behind the bar for a clean
towel in which to wipe his face off with. The man walked over to meet him at
the counter.
“Perhaps, I’ve caught
you at a bad
time?”
Oliver hurrumped. “I’ll
say. I’ve
never seen a bug that big before.” He wrung the towel out over the slop bucket
used to collect the grease from the grill. “Damndest thing, I tell you.”
With his eyes clear of the creature’s
blood, Oliver saw the man writing on a pad of paper.
“What a minute,” Oliver
said. “Are
you–”
“The health inspector,”
the man
confirmed. He clicked his pen off and stuffed it in his breast pocket. “I think
I’ve seen enough here. I’m afraid I’ll have to shut you down.”
The man ripped the top sheet off his
notepad and set it on the counter.
“Have a good day.”
After emitting a half smile, the man
walked out of the restaurant. Oliver slipped his last cigarette from the pack and
crumpled the box in his hand before tossing it on the ground. He lit a match
and touched the flame to the end of the scrap of paper from the health
inspector, using the notice to then light his cigarette.
He blew out a puff of smoke and let
the ashes fall onto the front of his stained shirt.
The End.
