Matt Hults - Anything Can Be Dangerous

He turned and started back toward the restaurant at a fast walk.

From here, all he saw of the building was the white rectangle of light that marked the open back door. Wendy’s silhouette stood at the threshold, eagerly awaiting his signal to join him.

He shook his head as he neared, praying she saw it.

Don’t come out! he wanted to scream. Whatever you do, don’t come out here!

He’d closed to within sight of her when he spotted a new employee enter the room behind her.

“Wendy!” he cried, voicing her name far louder than intended. He’d meant to warn her that his plan had failed, that she should stay put, but she must’ve misread the horror on his face and thought he was reacting to the thing approaching behind her.

“Phone call for you, sir,” the worker announced.

She spun to face the man, and when she did Ron had a clear view of the creature.

It was Greg.

Though torn limb from limb just hours ago, the man appeared whole, pieced back together like some horrific jigsaw puzzle. Thick black sutures followed the bloody lines of his wounds like a network of interconnected rivers, crisscrossing the visible parts of his body. He had on the same type of grease-stained apron worn by the kitchen staff—which bowed inward over his stomach, as if covering a huge hole—as well as a creased paper hat.

Wendy ran.

She charged forward without a sound, bolting into the unknown.

Ron lunged for her as she ran past, but only grazed the soft skin of her hand.

“No! Don’t!” he cried.

He turned around to see the darkness flow forward, coming at them like a wave. Wendy froze at the sight of it, watching as it swallowed the dumpster and lamppost, racing toward her.

Ron grabbed her. Pulled her back to the doors.

But then something had her.

Both of them screamed as her feet got yanked out from under her, and Ron swung around to see her legs lift off the ground, immersed up to her knees in the darkness.

“Ron!” she cried.

He held her with one hand, seized the push-bar of the door with the other.

Greg’s corpse watched them indifferently.

“Ron! Oh, God! Help, me!” she screamed.

The darkness consumed her up to the waist, pulling her higher, until Ron was looking up at her as he fought the pull her inside.

Grunting, he held on with all of his might, feeling his muscle fibers stretch to their limit. The veins of his arms stood out like lightning bolts. But he wasn’t only fighting the brute strength of the entity outside, he discovered; he was straining against uncounted hours of sweating over a hot grill, handling food drenched in oil.

Skin slid over skin.

First he had her whole hand.

Then just her palm.

Then only her fingers.

He looked into her face as he felt her nails reach the edge of his grip, knowing that in the next second he’d lose her. With tears slipping from his eyes, he tried the only thing left that might save her.

“Wendy!” he shouted.

The terrified girl looked down, meeting his eyes.

“You’re fired!” he yelled.

Her screams cut off, replaced by stunned silence.

“Effective immediately,” he added. “Get off the property!”

She held his stare even as the darkness seeped over her face.

And then she was gone, pulled out of his hands.

The doors flew shut. Ron collapsed to his knees.

He sat on the floor in the aftermath of his actions, doubling over as a flood of emotions washed over him. “Oh, Christ,” he cried. “What’ve I done?”

Behind him, the thing that was once his friend repeated its message. “Phone for you, sir.”

Ron faced it, finding no hint of compassion.

He pushed to his feet, wiping tears from his face. “Where?” he asked. “There’s no phone in the office?”

“Up front, sir.”

He pushed past the thing, striding down the hall, trying not to dwell on the fact he’d just lost his last tether to the rational world.

Please, God, let her have made it out…

He didn’t look at the swarm of customers as he rounded the corner. Instead, he focused on the black rotary-dial phone mounted beside the notorious sign that outlined the restaurant’s enigmatic rules.

He snatched up the handset, expecting some disgusting slurping noise or something requesting an order of flame-broiled afterbirths.

“Hello?”

“Finally!” Diane’s voice spoke from the receiver. “You’ve had me worried sick for hours!”

Ron’s heart convulsed at the sound of his wife’s words. He almost dropped the handset as his whole body went weak. “Diane!”

“What’s going on up there? I thought you’d be back by now. Do you know how long it took to track down this number—?”

“Diane, listen,” he cut in, unable to suppress his desperate tone. “I need help! Call the police, or—”

Ron fell silent as he saw a fresh batch of customers enter the restaurant. It was the first time he’d seen the doors open since setting foot inside, and his eyes boggled at the warm yellow sunlight glowing outside.

Where he spotted a van sitting in the parking lot.

Cartoon letters announced “We Deliver!” across the vehicle’s side.

Ron licked his lips, thinking fast. Four feet away, a decomposing cashier turned from his register to face him.

“Place an order!” Ron whispered into the phone.

“An order?” his wife echoed. “But I thought—”

“I know, I know,” Ron said. “Just do it. Whatever you want! Please!”

“You know I don’t like the kids eating that stuff.”

“Please!” Ron nearly screamed.

“All right…” his wife answered. “Just bring home some hamburgers, I guess. But no pop! You know how Eric reacts to sugar.”

“Four hamburgers to go!” Ron called to the kitchen, almost laughing. “Right away, ma’am! Thank you for ordering! I love you!”

“Are you sure you’re—”

Ron hung up the phone.

“Let’s go!” he shouted. “I got a VIP order to deliver, pronto!”

He moved through the kitchen, spurring the workers faster, simultaneously searching for keys. Miraculously, he found a set on a pegboard not far from the phone.

“Are we ready?” he called.

Four burgers were passed to the front, boxed for delivery.

He placed the keys on top of the stack, scooped them into his arms.

And turned around to meet the cadaverous face of a young man sporting a mouthful of worms. A glossy tag pinned to his shirt identified him as a “Deliveryman.”

“I’ll get that for you, sir,” he said, taking the boxes.

And before Ron could react, the thing was walking away, vanishing into the throng of inhuman customers.

Ron stared after him, numb. He spun to reach for the phone, but now the wall showed no sign of ever having had one installed.

Thoughts clashed in his mind, from the question of whether or not Wendy had returned to the real world and was even now trying to find help, to the idea that a reanimated corpse was driving cross-country with four boxes of god-knew-what, bound for his family.

In the end, he pushed those mind-shattering contemplations aside.

He’d wait, bide his time. But he had to remain sane.

At the counter, he slipped on an apron, faced the masses waiting to order, and stepped up to a register.

He cleared his throat.

“Next.”

Jacob wiggled his toes inside his loafers, finding that the soft material of the shoes had almost frozen solid. He wondered how long it would be before his flesh did the same.

He hugged himself tighter, drawing his wool dress-coat snug to his body. Though no wind gusted along the narrow mountain road, the thieving winter air had already seeped through his clothing and gone to work at stealing his body heat. If another vehicle didn’t come along soon, he knew the situation would become far worse than a mere inconvenience.