Night of the Living Hunger!

The unmistakable sound of metal scraping against metal shrieks across the room. The man holding the knife and sharpener fixes me with a twisted grin, as though he gets some sort of sadistic pleasure from what is about to transpire. Behind him, the sickeningly wet crunch of flesh being separated from bone by a dull but heavy blade echoes off of the metallic and tiled walls, each weighty boom and thud further sealing my fate.

The man with the knife shouts an obscenity followed by a laugh that can only be described as volatile and unhinged. He drops a slab of meat on a plate, almost cracking the old porcelain under the pressure. "Order up!" He nods in my direction, "I prepared it special. We don't want our guests to be disappointed, do we?"

As unnerving as that man is, he's nothing compared to what waits for me on the other side of the silver door behind me. Moans, screams, and cries of the only thing to ever make me consider hiding under a bed and fill my pants: hungry customers. Swallowing what little saliva remains in my mouth, I steel my nerves, hoping I have what it takes to survive another Friday night.

The moment I'm through the door, my ears start ringing from the symphony of terror. If I'm lucky, maybe I can deliver the order without anyone spotting me. That's my only option for survival. Once the horde has you, they never let go. And they are so very hungry.

With practiced steps, I slip through and around, hiding behind cover so the ravenous horde doesn't spot me with their red-lensed searchlights for eyes. My lungs empty from relief, I've made it! But just as soon as my heart fills with hope, disaster strikes. A guttural cry calls out to me, "Excuse me, can I get a refill?" My veins feel empty of all life-giving blood, my chance at safety seems all but gone, all light eclipsed from this food-filled wasteland. "NOOO! You've had three already, anymore and we'll have to start using you for the drink fountain!" That's how I want to respond, anyway. Instead, I give a rictus grin, "Of course, sir. I'll be right back."

My black, no-slip shoes carry me as fast as my legs will move, away from the groaning hordes and back into the kitchen. The man with the knives now works furiously at roasting fresh meat over flames and I'm mercifully able to avoid his gaze on my way to the fountain. Kent, one of my fellow survivors, stands with his back against the wall with eyes clamped shut, clearly holding back a stream of tears.

"They never stop coming. Each one you take care of, ten more take their place. It's never going to end. None of us will make it out alive." Seeing him so broken clashes with my memories of watching him stand against waves and waves of ravenous beasts, silencing the shrill klaxon of the phone line after only a single ring all with a smile on his face. But the endless days of patrolling the entire floor, ensuring that not a single glass was more than half empty, not a single bowl of popcorn stood unfilled, all for a few dollars at the end of the night. It breaks down even the most steel-lined of hearts.

Kent's eyes, their former bold glimmer now replaced by a pale and dreary look of desperation. I've seen that look before. And every time I witnessed it in a person, they were gone within the next two weeks. Hope only survives so long out in this hellscape. Eventually we will all just be withered husks, destined to become one of those mindless drones that cry out for our blood and line the floor of the business.

My hand trembles as it reaches for Kent's shoulder, moving slowly as my mind searches for some words to rekindle his flame but no words can restore someone so broken. The best I can do is give him a nod of understanding and hope in my soul that he finds it in him to not abandon me tonight when the manager comes calling.

Drawn back to my task, the tray on my hand wobbles as it is lined with full glasses, each filled with a dark and bubbling liquid that must surely be toxic to humans. Facing the exit door, I draw what breath I can but my lungs almost seem to wish they could plug themselves so I wouldn't have to face even one more night like this. The cool of the door chills my hand as I start to force it ajar. A powerful hand on my shoulder stops me and forces me to turn around.

"Give those to Kent. You're full on hours this week so why don't you phase out." The manager, a man (by the farthest stretch of the definition) with little to no hair on his head except for the sinister stubble that lines his face, chokes out these words at me from behind eerily white teeth. He must have pulled those from his victims or just never drinks coffee. A mixture of hope and despair swell in my chest.

Turning my head towards Kent, I weakly vocalize the words: "His shift stared before mine though. Shouldn't he go home first?" The manager shrugs, "If that's what you really want. Is it?" My mouth flaps open like one of the fish so mercilessly butchered on our countertops, but words fail to be produced. An equal weight of loyalty to my fellow survivor and the need to preserve my own life tilt the scales nowhere. He should go home first, he's working a double today. But, it is Friday night. Ha. See you tomorrow, sucker.