Loose Ends: A Zombie Novel (2 page)

“You checking out on us, Chef?” Doc asked. “You going to walk out and let them have you like old Brady did?”

“Easy, Doc,” Short Order said over a jaw full of apple flesh.

Short Order’s given name was Shaw Porter. He was five feet tall exactly. I was a few inches taller than Shaw even though he was an adult. I think I was fifteen at that point, but I don’t know exactly. I think I was five when the zombies came, but I don’t remember. People thought it was weird that I didn’t remember. They thought lots of things were weird about me.

I could only see the shadows of Shaw’s feet trailing off away from the front windows.

Doc walked around the counter and leaned against the wall with his back to the sunset blazing through the dining area and over the stovetops where Chef hunched. Chef stood up straight and flipped on a battery lantern that hung above the big hood in front of the tiles that spelled out Fourth Floor Bistro.

Chef said, “I just don’t know what we’re doing next.”

“We need to eat,” Doc said.

Chef turned to face Doc in the pallid, lantern light that we usually cleaned under rather than cooked or killed under.

After a good bit of silence, Doc shouted, “What do you want me to say, David? This shit sucks. We lost everybody. It sucks. I had to bash in the skulls of friends. Once we eat, I’ll have to drag bloody, diseased bodies to the roof and drop them off. We’ll spend days scrubbing floors and walls. Then we’ll probably find more we have to clean up. We’ll have to do the funerals too, along with an army’s share of chores for three people.  Our other choice is to stop surviving. So, what do you want to do, Chef?”

Chef asked, “How do we know which funerals to do?”

Chef’s taken name was David Sharp. He was older than Doc and taller than Doc, but he looked younger. I think it was because he kept his hair cut so close. The grey didn’t show as much until after this night and after we left the Complex.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

Short Order asked, “What do you mean, which funerals, Chef?”

Chef answered, “How do we tell who is dead, Short? How do we know who is missing, who shambled out, and who got kidnapped? Do we do funerals for the ones that got taken?”

Short Order asked, “You saying you want to go after them?”

There was a long silence again.

Doc cleared his throat, “We lost a lot of people whether they were ate or took. We could go running off in some random direction looking for revenge, but they outnumbered us before the slaughter and we’d might as well just lay down in the street, if we’re looking to commit suicide.”

Chef said, “I never said we run out the front door like regulators, but …”

“But what, boss?” Doc asked after Chef trailed off.

Short Order’s stool squealed on the tile as he scooted back and stepped down where I could see his feet again.

Short Order said, “Some of them were girls and it isn’t any good to know we can’t do anything about it, Chef.”

“Yeah, it ain’t,” Doc agreed.

Doc’s taken name was John Brown. The nickname came from some movie I had never seen. He was Sous Chef and technically I was apprenticing under him, but I learned from all of them.

“I just don’t know what we’re doing here anymore,” Chef said. “I don’t feel like cleaning up empty halls and I don’t feel like cooking for tables full of ghosts.”

“Well, I do want to cook something,” Doc said. “I spent hours bashing skulls and my back hurts, so I want to cook and feel normal again for a little while. We can do the funerals tomorrow.”

Short Order added, “It’s your kitchen, Chef.  We may think clearer, if we eat and going through the motions can’t hurt anything right now.”

“I guess,” Chef said, “We’ve been going through the motions for years. Why stop now, right?”

Short Order cracked his knuckles and asked, “What’s the challenge then, Chef? What sort of task fits the end of the world all over again?”

Chef coughed and cleared his throat. “I don’t know. The kitchen smells like death. I think that zombie left the place stinking like piss hanging out by the pantry there.”

Doc agreed, “Yeah, he was sure focused on something.”

There was a silence and then a shuffle as they approached my hiding place from around the counter. I didn’t say anything, but I moved back from the door to avoid being hit in the face. They heard me move and whispered something I couldn’t make out from the other side of the door.

The keys rattled in the lock outside. The door to the pantry whipped open and Doc was staring down at me with his metal pole over his head. He paused.

“Say something, if you’re alive, Mutt,” he ordered.

I just stared up at him from the floor.

Short Order looked around the door and then over at Doc. “Damn, Doc, is that supposed to be funny? Snap your fingers, if you’re lively, Mutt.”

At first my fingers were too slick with sweat to snap and I was afraid I was going to die because of it. Then, I got out one weak snap. Doc set down his pole and reached out his hand to pull me to my feet.

He said, “I was just kidding, Mutt. We’re real short on kitchen help. Even if you were a zombie, I might let you chew on my leg and be my apprentice still.”

I stepped out into the kitchen rubbing my eyes.

“We’re more short on customers,” Chef turned away and walked back to the stoves checking the burn boxes to see they were still stocked with wood.

“I’m glad to see you, Mutt,” he added, “Doc, set that pole outside the kitchen. It’s covered in brain.”

“Yes, Chef,” Doc said.

“What did you do in here?” Short Order asked leaning in the pantry door.

I looked back into the pantry and pointed at the drain.

Short Order whispered, “This is where we keep the food, Mutt. Chef is going to be pissed.”

“Pissed. That’s funny,” Doc laughed clapping me on the shoulder.

I pointed at the zombie out in the hall and then back at the pantry. I shrugged.

Chef said, “It’s fine. You’re going to scrub it up as part of your prep work, kid, but it’s fine.”

“What are we prepping for, Chef?” Short Order asked.

Everyone looked at him after he said it. They all looked so tired to me.

Short Order added, “What’s the challenge, I mean, tell us what we’re going for tonight.”

Chef took a deep breath.

He answered, “The last meal challenge.”

Doc said, “A little dark, David. Appropriate, yes, but dark.”

Chef explained, “If you had one meal left, what would you make? As a side note, keep in mind the refrigeration is down until we get around to resetting the generators, so use up the perishables as much as possible.”

***

Short Order slid over a note pad on the counter and began writing out a list. Doc picked up a piece of chalk from a board mounted near the corner by the pantry door. Instead of writing on the board, he started scratching out ingredients and measurements on the tiles on the wall itself.

I looked over Doc’s shoulder. He laughed and elbowed me lightly in the stomach.

He said, “No, no, Mutt, first things first. Your first utensil will be a mop. Hit the mess in the mess.”

The pee was in the pantry and not the mess area, but I understood what he meant.

Chef called out with his head down where he was lighting the fires in the wood burners, “Yes, please, I feel like I’m cooking in a urinal.”

I didn’t know what a urinal was. I did know where the mop was so I went and got it to clean up the mess and smell. I had to step over the body in the hall. When I came back by, the blood was spreading across the floor toward the opposite wall. I walked around and came up to Doc again.

He was looking at his chalky notes on the wall.

Doc was mumbling, “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the Lord. He is a tramplin’ out the vintage where the grapes of wrath were stored. He has … what you need, Mutt, mopping instructions?”

I pointed out at the blood in the back where only the zombie’s feet and broken toenails were visible from the kitchen. Doc looked over at the others and then back at the toenails and blood.

He whispered to me, “Yeah, buddy, just start with the piss smell in the pantry. It’s going to take more than a mop and a dinner prep to deal with that.”

I moved from mopping to actual dinner prep in a few minutes. The chefs were already moving on to cooking. The challenges were different from our usual mass meals. The cooks were all in their element. The smells of cooking pushed out all the evil smells and even some of the evil thoughts of what had happened and why it had happened. I moved to assist each of them as they went through their steps with their usual style.

It was unusual to have it so quiet though. There was no clatter out in the mess area where people usually set tables and talked. There was no banter in the kitchen as the chefs communicated with each other and whoever else was assigned to assist in the kitchen for that meal. They were working on their own pieces for the challenge.

I wasn’t talking either, but that was nothing new. Chef never liked that about me in the kitchen, but he tolerated it.

It took a lot for me to not think about all the people I had known ever since they brought me in all those years ago and all those months after I lost my mother to the dead. This was the only life I knew and it was over.

I was glad we were cooking because I didn’t want to think about any of the rest of it.  Heat applied to food was simple and pure. I had very little practice at pushing all the faces out of my mind. The chefs did, but that was all about to fall apart.

Doc took a taste and shook his head. He looked at me and handed me a spoon. I tasted. I wasn’t familiar with the dish, so I wasn’t certain what he was second guessing this time. I pointed to the salt. He shook his head and twirled his finger to tell me to stir.  He went back to his wall and began scratching out with the chalk.

Doc mumbled, “There is a name I love to hear. I love to sing its worth. It sounds of music to my ear. The sweetest name … the saltiest name … tangy?”

He scratched a little more and then wandered back into the pantry.

I jumped when Short Order broke the silence again with a loud curse.

“Why do I even bother?” he shouted as he threw the entire pan in the sink. “I’m not ending this damn day with something soupy.”

“Cool down, Shaw,” Chef said, “It’s just cooking. The loser doesn’t usually have to die. Make it happen, gentlemen.”

He never looked up from what he was doing. Doc came back out of the pantry with a generous helping of several items.

Short Order and Doc both called, “Yes, Chef.”

After a moment, Chef added, “I’m not in the mood for a ton of clean up tonight. Let’s keep the kitchen presentable at least.”

“Yes, Chef,” Short Order shouted alone this time.

Doc looked at Chef and then out at the growing gore from my zombie out in the hall.  He looked back again with his lips pursed. I knew the look. I was afraid he was going to break whatever fragile thing was going on in the kitchen at that moment. He surprised me by not saying anything.

He just went back to cooking.

Doc was the last of the three fulltime cooks to arrive at the Complex. They all came after I was here and replaced a rotation of cooks that treated cooking like every other chore. The others used to cook like they killed zombies or repaired roofs. The food tasted like it too.

David Sharp changed that when he came. Shaw Porter came to the Complex after David and immediately declared the kitchen was his skill. People were reluctant to let a new person handle their food, but Chef auditioned him and immediately demanded him.

Doc was a hard sell. He had trouble adjusting to the Complex and ran afoul of the leadership more than once. He sort of landed in the kitchen by accident. Short Order was pushing Chef to pick a third permanent to help manage the rotating help more efficiently.  Chef had rejected everyone twice when Shaw suggested John Brown after a couple food preps.

They started calling him Doc later.

Chef pushed taking him on to the leadership over their heavy objections. A lot of people were nervous about a guy they reprimanded more than once handling their food. Why having people live down the hall from where they slept bothered them less than handling food is a real mystery to me. I was eating garbage before I was found. There was not much that could be done to my food that passed that low starting point for me.

Doc still ruffled feathers around the Complex, but he was a different person in the kitchen. He was still an ass, but he was a different sort of ass. Not that it mattered much at that point. None of them were ever going to be bothered by him again.

I missed the people I had lived with for all the years I could remember well. We were doing something else at the moment, but I still felt it. We had lost people before and sometimes lost people regularly. This was everyone. They were all gone. The other three had been through that before in other places and I guess I had too, but it wasn’t something I remembered clearly.

They plated and we moved out to a table in the middle of the mess hall. It echoed as the plates were placed on the wood. Doc placed two wine bottles on the table. Short Order and Chef both set down two glasses each. I set down the extra plates and utensils.

Chef presented Sautéed duck in lyonnaise vegetable marrow farci. I hadn’t had anything like it exactly.

Doc nodded his head as he took another spoon full. He turned his back as he chewed and looked over in the dark corners of the room. I turned and looked too. I was afraid he saw something move, but there was nothing there. I’m not sure at what he was looking.

“That’s great as always, Chef,” Short Order noted.

“That’s funny,” Doc said turning back to halfway facing the table.

I turned and looked back over my shoulder at the corners again. Still nothing.

“How’s that?” Chef asked.

“Nothing. Let’s move on,” Doc said after a short pause.

Doc presented next. He had braised rabbit with mushrooms. He plated it with creamed carrots and chateau potatoes.

“Why these sides, Doc?” Short Order asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I burned the first crap I tried. I like to think the rabbit’s spirit is tortured by being on the same plate as the carrots.”