Matt Hults - Anything Can Be Dangerous

He gestured to the restaurant. “So the bank is only asking for payment of the back taxes, is that right?”

The girl looked up at it. “Yes. Due to the fire…”

They started walking toward the building. “Greg mentioned that. May I ask what happened?”

“Arson,” she said, glancing between the both of them. “The previous owner tried to burn it down, possibly as an insurance scam. It was the biggest news story the town paper has reported in ages.”

“Nice,” Greg commented. “Free publicity!”

At the door, Wendy entered her security code on the digital lock that secured the two door handles together and the device unclasped.

Ron and Greg both took a handle.

Together, they pulled the twin doors open.

Their eager shadows leapt inside the room ahead of them, a trio of jet-black explorers in an even blacker realm of darkness. Having all the other windows covered, the spacious main chamber exuded the ambiance of an empty mausoleum. The predominant smell of smoke hung wraithlike in the air.

“Oh, I forgot,” Wendy said, then reached to extract a small—

Greg flipped a switch on the wall and the overhead lights clicked on.

—flashlight from her jacket pocket.

She glanced around.

“Juice works!” Greg cheered.

They stood before the main dining area.

Dozens of heaped tables and chairs lined the walls to either side, no doubt pushed aside by the responding firemen on the night of the blaze, but all the permanent structures remained in place—booths, condiment counter, waste bins—and Ron immediately recognized the familiar floor plan typical of any fast-food restaurant, one designed with the intent of facilitating an easy flow from the ordering counter to the seating area, thus maximizing turn over at the registers.

Wendy cleared her throat. “As you can see, all the related equipment is included. Everything from the kitchen appliances, to whatever toilet paper is left hanging in the bathrooms. Let me show you the work area…”

With a tap of his shoe, Ron set the rubber door-stoppers in place and proceeded inside. They crossed the tiled floor and passed through a partition in the far right side of the main service counter, moving behind the bank of cash registers.

“Feed the Customer… Obey the Rules!” Greg said.

Ron and Wendy both halted in their tracks and faced him.

“What?” Ron asked.

Greg pointed to a sign affixed to the wall beside the counter. “Must be a mission statement or something, huh?”

Resuming the tour, they migrated to the kitchen.

There, several overhead lights flickered in erratic bursts, their plastic diffusers hanging open. Rows of various stainless steel appliances lined the walls, veiled in streaks of soot and grease that reminded Ron of sunken ships overcome by rust.

Wendy pointed out the coolers, mixers, meat-slicers, microwaves, gas ovens, deep-fryers, hot-plates, and heat-lamps. The grill alone looked as long as one of the preparation tables, housing an amazing twenty burners, with a flattop fry-station at the far end. Overhead, all sizes of spatulas, ladles, whisks, colanders, pots, and pans hung from a ceiling rack. In the back, the door to the walk-in freezer hung ajar, emitting a smell that would make a health inspector’s head spin.

“This is great stuff,” Greg said, checking a giant mixer that stood tall enough to come level with his chest. “A little work and a few gallons of degreaser and it’ll be as good as new!”

Ron nodded his agreement, but remained silent. He spied the black residue of ash and cinders, still smelled the cloying stink of smoke—if anything, it was stronger here—but he had yet to see any real fire damage.

They moved along, visiting the dry-goods storeroom in the back—which seemed to contain all the original provisions that had been present at the restaurant’s closure—as well as the adjacent offices.

The manager’s office was crammed with all manner of clutter, from broken chairs that must’ve come from the dining room, to boxes overflowing with charred kitchen accessories and half-burnt legal papers.

Through the clutter, Ron spotted a large painting of The Last Supper hanging askew on the far wall. It seemed an odd choice of artwork to decorate a business office, and the peculiarity of it only magnified when he looked closer.

In the picture, behind Christ and his disciples, loomed the massive forest highway he’d seen outside. The sight produced a tingle of mixed puzzlement and unease, and he suddenly realized that somewhere during their round of introductions with Wendy he’d forgot to inquire about the road.

Now he opened his mouth to do just that when something banged deeper in the building.

They all jumped.

“What the hell?” Greg asked.

Then it came again, the noise of something crashing in the dining room.

“That sounded like the door,” Ron said.

He edged past Greg and Wendy, striding down the hall, to the front of the restaurant—

Where a man stood before one of the registers as if waiting to place an order.

All three of them jerked to a stop at the surprise.

The newcomer stood glaring at them from under a whirlwind of white hair, his eyes locked on them like gun sights. He wore a brown stain-splotched trench coat that looked as though it had seen a lifetime of squatting in abandon houses and sleeping under bridges. Although Ron had just laid eyes on him, the deep scowl of anger on the stranger’s face told him they were in for trouble. Across the room, the restaurant doors were closed.

“Food,” the derelict demanded.

Greg smirked. “Does this place look open to you, pal?”

The man hefted a double-bladed ax into view as his answer. It had been concealed by the counter, but now he brought it up fast, swinging it over his head and slamming it down into the register. The huge blade cleaved the machine in two. Sparks jumped into the air.

Greg flinched so hard he collapsed backwards on his ass.

“Food!” the crazed customer shouted. “Give me a burger!”

Ron stepped forward, shaking with adrenaline. The ax-wielder spotted him and readied another swing.

“We’ll get it right away,” he said, the words coming out of his mouth on autopilot. “How would you like that prepared, sir?”

It seemed surreal given the insane situation, letting his managerial instincts take over, hearing his voice adopt the familiar apologetic tone an angry customer always wants to hear, but amazingly it worked. The maniac relaxed, releasing his grip on the ax to scratch the stubble of his chin.

“Rare, I reckon,” he said in an almost-normal voice. “With, ah…fries and a sody-pop.”

Ron forced a smile. “Rare burger with fries and a drink. That’ll be just one moment, sir.” He backed up as he spoke, urging the others to follow. Greg shuffled rearward on the floor.

“No goddamn onions, though!” the man roared after them.

“Hold the onions!” Ron repeated.

They retreated to the back of the building, all moving in reverse to keep and eye on the entry to the hallway. Ron expected the madman to come rushing after them at any second, but they reached the storeroom unmolested.

“Jesus!” Greg gasped. Sweat glistened on his brow. “What the fuck was that about?”

Ron didn’t bother speculating on an answer. Instead, he charged to the storeroom’s rear wall, heaving aside a hill of empty boxes and other useless scrap. There, hidden behind the heap, he uncovered the set of loading doors he’d been hoping he would find.

To his dismay, a padlocked chain secured the push-bars to the frame.

“Wendy, do you have a key for this?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

The girl shook her head. “Just the code for the one up front.”