Carver Pike - Scalp

“Hey, good morning,” Sally said to the woman. It was clear she sensed something off about the customer too, because her voice cracked as she added, “Ma’am, are you okay?”

“Sally,” Grant said, standing from his stool.

The Diner went silent. Everyone stopped chatting to see what was going on. It was the usual town gossip manner in which the people here conducted themselves. They were sweet, charming people, but they loved to tell stories, and they needed to hear the facts if they were going to pass this one on to their families and friends.

Sally took another step closer to the woman, but Grant was right there behind her, grabbing hold of her shoulder and gently pulling her back.

“She ain’t right,” Grant whispered. “Back up a bit.”

“Ma’am?” Sally repeated.

The woman didn’t answer. She only inched forward, sliding her feet one at a time. Grant glanced down and noticed she was only wearing one shoe. The other foot was bare and filthy.

Through the window behind the woman, Grant saw a man stumble into the middle of the street. The man dropped to his knees and scratched at the top of his head, screaming in agony.

The old couple about to visit their granddaughter at her college looked out the window and saw him too. The old man pointed at the window, but no words came out of his mouth.

“My lord,” his wife said as she stood from the table.

She was closer to the new customer than Sally was. The customer turned, and the light caught the side of her face. A large, deep gash ran from her forehead across her cheek and all the way to her chin. It was opened so wide her teeth could be seen beneath the flesh. It was like someone had taken an ax to her face.

“Oh my God,” Sally said.

“That man outside is screaming,” the old lady said, clearly forgetting about the new customer standing right next to her.

They couldn’t have been any closer than four feet when Grant saw movement at the strange woman’s head.

“Do you see her hair?” Grant whispered.

Sally nodded. “Mrs. Floyd? Why don’t you back up a bit?”

The old lady looked over at Sally, and as she did, it looked like something passed from the strange woman’s hair to the old lady’s. Mrs. Floyd’s short grey hair moved a bit like a light wind was blowing against it, and then the old lady’s eyes opened wide.

She stared down at her husband, who looked confused, and said, “James?”

James took her hand and pulled her onto the seat next to him.

“James, it hurts,” Mrs. Floyd said.

Then her face twisted in pain and she screamed.

Grant’s reaction was to grab Sally by the hand and pull her deeper into the diner, as far away from the front door as possible. The other patrons could fend for themselves. He had only enough time to make sure she was safe.

Glass exploded as the front door crashed inward. People ran through it, and all Grant heard was screaming. Over his shoulder, he saw Ronald Mosely throw his newspaper onto his table and run at the door. He was a big, proud man and wouldn’t go down without a fight.

A hunched-over man with blood dripping from his head dove at Ronald and the two collided. Ronald swung a heavy fist at the man, but this wasn’t a fight. It was a slaughter. Ronald was on top of the man and when he brought his fist down for a second time, the man beneath him opened his mouth and chomped down on Ronald’s fist. Teeth shattered, and blood ran. Suddenly Ronald’s back arched, and his entire body went rigid. He fell off the man and rolled onto the floor, screaming and clawing at his head.

Harold and Constance were still seated at their booth. A woman with long, scraggly hair was on top of their table, on all fours. Constance’s arm was in her mouth, and the woman was yanking back and forth, thrashing as blood flew from the old lady’s forearm. Harold was fighting her off. There was so much screaming.

“The kitchen!” Grant yelled as he pulled Sally behind the counter and through the double swinging doors. The last thing he saw was the old couple’s plate of biscuits and gravy hit the floor and shatter into a broken, muddy mess.

Sally just made it through the door when a hand shot through and reached for her hair, catching the collar of her shirt instead. She screamed and jerked back on Grant’s arm. He turned and threw his body against the doors, stopping them from opening all the way, but putting himself dangerously close to whoever was on the other side, clawing at Sally through the three-inch gap it had created.

It thrashed wildly at her, and Grant was too busy trying to hold the doors closed to help much. Through the circular, bubble-like window set in the door, Grant saw his friend, Lyle the barber, with his face twisted in rage. Bloodshot eyes looked like they might burst from their sockets at any second. Blood trickled down his forehead and face.

“It’s Lyle,” Grant said through shaky breath.

Roy, the cook, left the grill and ran to them, prying the hand away from Sally. He was a bull of a man, with his head completely shaved except for a mohawk on top. Crucifixes were tattooed on each side of his head.

“Let him in,” Roy said. “I got something for him.”

“Roy!” Grant yelled. “This ain’t the time for tough-guy antics!”

Roy picked up a hot frying pan filled with oil. “Let him in.”

“I hope you’re right about this,” Grant yelled as he let go of the door and ran.

Sally joined him as they made their way toward the rear exit. Grant glanced back in time to see Lyle barrel through the swinging doors. Roy stood his ground and dumped the pan full of hot oil on the old man’s head. Lyle screamed and fell to his knees, clawing at his face, which instantly blistered under the searing liquid.

Grant heard the old man’s wails and felt bad for him for a second. He might have been trying to attack them, but that wasn’t the old man he knew. Something had changed him into an animal.

Through the old man’s cries, Grant was sure he heard something else.

A high-pitched screaming that wasn’t coming from the barber’s mouth.

It came from his head.

As he watched the old man crumple up on the ground and go silent, he still heard the scream of what sounded like a hundred crying kittens burning alive in sizzling oil.

His attention was on the old man for only a moment when a second and third growling customer ran through the door, stepping over the body of the dying old man, and launching themselves at Roy, who was only quick enough to grab a kitchen knife and plunge it into the first man’s throat.

It was Ronald Mosley who made it past the knife and wrapped his body around Roy. Then Roy’s screaming began.

“This way,” Sally whispered as she pulled Grant out the back door.

Inside the diner, everyone was either screaming, growling, or both. Grant would never forget the sounds, and he knew Sally wouldn’t either.

They ran alongside each other, racing toward nowhere in particular. Grant’s truck was in a dangerous place. The streets were no longer safe. As they ran along the backs of the shops on Main Street, they peered through the alleyways and saw the same thing at the end of each one.

The silence Grant noticed earlier that morning existed no more.

Downtown was dying, not in sleepy silence, but in agonizing wails.

Nitsy’s eyes burned. She needed Starbucks for a day like this. Whatever coffee the staff at Stonewall Forge was serving wasn’t doing the trick. Today was the big day. She was going to stand in front of her peers and discuss their project. She and the rest of her team had worked together, scrambling all morning to create a security protocol since the person she’d put in charge of security, Elias, was a no-show.