Order Up

Chapter One

The coffee pot in Bunny Jenkins' hand had gone cold ten minutes ago, but she kept pouring anyway, watching the black liquid slosh against the glass carafe like it might reveal some secret if she stared long enough.

The truck stop hummed its usual midnight song. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that sickly yellow pallor that made even the freshest salad bar look like it had been sitting out since Tuesday. The tile floors, scrubbed to a dull shine hours ago, reflected the overhead lights in warped, wavering streaks.

Bunny checked her reflection in the stainless steel napkin dispenser. Almond-shaped eyes stared back at her, olive green and ringed with dark lashes that she'd spent way too long on this morning for a shift where the most exciting thing that ever happened was one of the regulars complaining about the meatloaf being too dry.

Stupid, she thought, tucking a strand of dark blonde hair behind her ear. Who are you getting pretty for?

She knew exactly who.

Every Wednesday, Deputy Harker Monroe walked through those glass doors like he owned the place. Six-foot-two of solid muscle wrapped in a county sheriff's uniform that fit him like it had been tailored by someone who understood exactly what they were doing. Once in a while, when a call ran long, he'd swing through the drive-thru instead and order his coffee to go, his voice crackling through her headset. But those nights had gotten rare. Lately, he always came inside. He'd take his usual booth, the one in her section, and order the same thing every time: coffee black, two eggs over easy, wheat toast, and bacon that he always asked to be crispy but never complained when it came out limp.

And he'd flirt.

Nothing overt. Nothing that would get him written up or her uncomfortable. Just small things. The way his eyes would find hers across the dining room and hold for a beat too long. How he'd ask about her classes at the community college, remembering details she'd mentioned weeks ago. The fifty-dollar tip he'd leave on a twelve-dollar check, tucked under his coffee cup with a receipt that sometimes had little notes scribbled on the back.

Have a good week, Bunny. Stay safe out there.

She'd collected those receipts like a lovesick teenager, stuffing them in her apron pocket until they piled up in her locker like evidence of something she couldn't quite name. All except the first one. That one still lived in her apron pocket, soft as cloth from handling, like a lucky penny she'd never admit she carried.

Three months of Wednesdays. Three months of flirting that never crossed the line into asking her out. Three months of her lying awake in her cramped studio apartment, replaying every word, every glance, every accidental brush of his fingers when he'd hand her back the menu.

The bell above the door jingled.

Bunny's head snapped up, heart doing that stupid little skip it always did when she thought it might be him. But it wasn't Harker. Just another trucker, this one older, heavyset, with a gray beard that looked like it hadn't seen a comb since the Reagan administration. He shuffled to a booth in the corner, the one farthest from her section, and slumped against the vinyl like all the bones had been removed from his body.

She grabbed a menu and headed over, pen already poised over her notepad.

"Evening," she said, keeping her voice light. "Coffee to start?"

The man didn't look up. His hands were shaking on the table, fingers splayed like he was trying to hold himself upright. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the arctic blast of the air conditioning.

"Sir?"

His head lifted slowly, and Bunny's smile faltered.

His eyes were wrong. Bloodshot didn't even begin to cover it. The whites were practically crimson, veins standing out like road maps. His skin had taken on a grayish pallor that made the fluorescent lights look almost flattering by comparison.

"Sir, are you okay? Do you need me to call someone?"

"Coffee," he rasped. "Black."

Bunny nodded slowly, backing away. "Coffee. Right. I'll be right back."

She turned and walked toward the coffee station, but her steps quickened with each pace. Something cold had settled in her stomach, that primal warning system that lived in the base of her spine and only spoke up when something was genuinely, deeply wrong.

Behind her, she heard the man cough. It was a wet, hacking sound, like he was trying to expel whatever had taken up residence in his lungs. Then came a low moan, and the creak of vinyl as he shifted in his seat.

Bunny poured the coffee with hands that trembled slightly. She told herself she was being ridiculous. The guy was probably just sick, had a fever, maybe the flu. Truckers were notorious for pushing through illness. He'd drink his coffee, maybe order some soup, and be on his way.

She turned back toward the dining room, coffee pot in hand.

And froze.

The man was standing now, but not in any way that made sense. His body was angled wrong, hunched forward at an impossible degree, arms hanging loose at his sides like they'd been disconnected from their sockets. His head lolled to one side, and that low moan had deepened into a guttural, animal sound that raised every hair on Bunny's arms.

Two other truckers had stopped eating. A man at the counter, Reggie, who came in every night for the meatloaf special, was staring with his fork frozen halfway to his mouth.

"Hey, buddy," Reggie said slowly, setting down his fork. "You alright there?"

The gray-skinned man turned toward the voice.

His mouth opened wider than it should have. Wider than jaws were supposed to go. And then he lunged.

The sound Reggie made wasn't human. It was high and thin and cut off abruptly as the gray-skinned man's teeth sank into his throat. Blood sprayed across the counter, dark and arterial, painting the ketchup bottles in a crimson arc that Bunny would see in her nightmares for the rest of her life.

Someone screamed. The cook, Mario, who'd been working the grill for fifteen years and had the burn scars to prove it, came running out of the kitchen with a spatula in his hand like that was going to do anything. He took one look at the scene and skidded to a stop. And then the gray-skinned man was on him too, teeth tearing, fingers clawing, and Mario was screaming and thrashing and then he wasn't.

Bunny didn't remember dropping the coffee pot. She only registered the shatter of glass, the hot liquid scalding her ankles through her sneakers. Her body was moving before her brain caught up, legs pumping, lungs burning, carrying her away from the dining room and through the swinging door into the kitchen.

The grill still sizzled with abandoned burgers. She ran past it, past the prep table, past the walk-in freezer. Every zombie movie she'd ever watched screamed at her to get inside it, and every zombie novel she'd ever read told her what happened next: a door that couldn't be locked from the inside, no other way out, and a cold that would get her long before help did.

The back door was ten feet away. A heavy emergency exit with a push bar that clanged like a church bell when it opened, letting out onto the dark lot behind the building. And she could hear them out there now, that chorus of moans and shuffling feet, more of them than there should have been, coming from every direction.

Not out. Not yet. She needed a door between her and them. She needed four walls.

The drive-thru booth was the only room in the building that closed. Bunny threw herself into it, a cubicle barely big enough for the register and her body, and dragged the folding door shut behind her. She was reaching for the sliding window to make sure it was latched when something heavy slammed into it from outside.

A face pressed against the glass.