Third Shift
The rhythmic scrape-scrape of the grill stone against the flat-top filled the quiet restaurant. Randall “Randy” Deveaux pressed down hard with the heavy black stone, grinding away the day’s carbon until the silver steel shone beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. It was three in the morning on a Tuesday, the deadest hour of the third shift at Waffle House Unit 336 in Richmond Hill, Georgia.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, neon-lit highway signs from the nearby travel centers blazed through the humid night. They threw artificial colors across the parking lot in splashes of red, blue, and yellow. The old coastal exit from the 1990s had long since vanished under progress, but inside everything stayed small and familiar.
Randy still remembered the area from thirty years back, when he was just a boy of eight or ten. The exit sat empty then. Richmond Hill was still a sleepy coastal town. His Aunt Janet had dated a Yankee soldier from Fort Stewart, a nice enough fellow named Eric who talked funny. Sometimes another soldier came around with him, a Georgia boy from over near Columbus. Jackson Harlan was his name.
Protocol held firm as always. The back door stayed locked tight against the dark highway. Betsy, the overnight server, wiped down the laminate tables with a rag that carried the sharp scent of bleach. Her smartphone rested safe in her apron pocket. Over by the dry storage, Joe the shift supervisor helped restock the condiment caddies with steady hands.
The store held only two customers at that hour: a tired truck driver waiting on his Texas Melt and a local morning regular named Zach who stared blankly into a fresh cup of black coffee at the low counter. Randy paused his scrubbing, adjusted his red-lettered name tag, and drew a deep breath. The air hung heavy with hot waffle batter, Pine-Sol, and the faint salty tang of the Ogeechee River marshlands just down the road.
Betsy pulled out her smartphone for a quick break. She scrolled through the news and shook her head. “This Cough thing is getting crazy,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear. “They say it’s spreading fast up north.”
The trucker grunted from his stool. “Heard the same. Folks coughing, then just dropping. Hope it don’t reach down here.”
Randy overheard it all but paid little mind. His world turned on work at the Waffle House and his son Archer. It had been just the two of them since his wife had walked out on them years ago. Other than that, there was his love of apocalypse and fantasy fiction and his sometimes girlfriend Lauren.
Zach coughed again, a wet ragged sound that cut through the quiet. Betsy glanced over with a frown. “You okay there, hon? That cough sounds rough.”
Zach did not answer. He kept staring into his coffee. Then his head jerked once, sharp and unnatural. His body convulsed in the seat. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered across the clean laminate tables and caught the first spray of blood as Zach rose with a snarl that no human throat should make. Sugar shakers and coffee mugs rattled on the counter like spent brass. Before anyone could move, he lunged at Joe first.
The supervisor barely had time to shout. Zach slammed into him with impossible strength, teeth sinking deep into Joe’s neck. Blood sprayed across the condiment caddies and the freshly wiped tables. Joe’s scream died in a gurgle.
Betsy shrieked in terror. The sound snapped Randy out of his shock. He dropped the grill stone and grabbed the long metal scraper, a solid tool about a foot and a half long with a razor-sharp edge. Four pounds of modern kitchen battle axe. It would have to do.
The trucker moved in fast to help, big and beefy from years on the road. He grabbed Zach from behind, but the thing that had been Zach twisted with hideous power. It threw the trucker into a table, then tore into him with claws and teeth. The big man fought hard, yet the monster overpowered him in seconds. Fresh blood splattered and mixed with spilled sugar and broken mugs.
Betsy fumbled in her apron and pulled out a small pistol. She had taken those women’s self-defense classes. Her hands shook as she fired twice into Zach’s chest. Just like they’d taught her. The shots cracked loud in the confined space, but the creature did not slow. It dropped the trucker’s body and rushed her. Betsy realized her mistake too late. She tried to aim higher, but the thing was already on her. Her scream cut short as teeth found her throat.
Randy charged out from behind the counter with the scraper raised like a battle axe. This might be his only chance. He swung hard from behind, the sharp edge biting deep into the back of the monster’s skull. Bone cracked. The creature spun with a hiss, but Randy did not stop. He struck again and again, putting all his weight and years of grill work into each blow. Blackish blood flew. On the final swing the thing’s head caved in with a sickening crunch. It collapsed beside Betsy’s body in a heap of broken glass and ketchup bottles.
Randy stood breathing hard in the sudden silence. The quiet dead hour had become the Dead Hour. Bodies lay twisted across the floor. Sugar shakers and coffee mugs lay shattered everywhere. The smell of blood mixed with the familiar scents of waffle batter and Pine-Sol in a nauseating cloud.
His left arm burned where the creature had bitten him during the struggle. The wound pulsed hot and angry. Randy had read every zombie story and apocalypse tale on the market. Slow realization dawned on him. What came next was going to be ugly.
He bent slowly and picked up Betsy’s little pistol. It felt cold and heavy in his hand. For a long moment he simply stared at the chaos around him. Then his thoughts turned to Lauren and Archer waiting at home, to Aunt Janet, and to the wider world that had just cracked open. He thought of Jackson Harlan too, that old soldier from his childhood memories, and wondered if men like him would see this coming.
Randy pulled the slide back a little way. The dull brass of the round showed up. He let the slide travel forward. He knew what he had to do.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, steady and indifferent. Outside, the highway signs still blazed their false welcome into the Georgia night. Inside Unit 336, the third shift had ended for good.
A short I submitted in Sum Flux’es The Waffle House contest
Bougie Apocalypse
A serialized military-flavored post-apocalyptic pulp story about heirloom beans, De Buyer carbon steel skull-crackers, good coffee, and refusing to let the apocalypse win.
#BougieApocalypse #StayingHuman #Shorts
Next chapter drops soon → Start Here & Full Reading Order