Free 314 by A.R. Wise Page A

both of you?” asked Grace.
    They nodded.
    “All right, boys. Back in a minute.” She
sauntered off and stuck her pencil behind her ear. Two plates were
already set in the ready window between the counter and the
kitchen, under the heat lamps. One was a Salisbury steak and the
other a BLT. Grace tapped her palm on the shelf and her rings
clattered on the metal, alerting the chef.
    “What’s up, Gracie?” asked Juan as he
scraped the grill.
    “The kid wants a chicken sandwich, not a
BLT.”
    Juan set the metal scraper on the edge of
the flat grill and walked to the window. “No shit?”
    Grace stuck her ticket on the clip wheel
above the divide and spun it for him. It was the only ticket on the
wheel and he snatched it away to look it over. “What do you know
about that?”
    “Times they are a changing,” said Grace.
    Juan looked as if he was about to respond,
but then stared at something over Grace’s shoulder. “What the
heck?”
    Grace turned to see what he was looking at.
The street outside had been blanketed by a green fog. It was as
thick as smoke and wafted over the street as if made of liquid. “Oh
my gosh,” said Grace.
    “Do you know what that is?” asked Juan. “A
fire or something?”
    “Not sure, but I saw something like this
once. Back when I lived in Gary, Indiana, there was a junkyard that
caught fire and all the tires burned up; sent a big cloud of green
smoke over the whole damn place. Dollars to donuts the old Sanchez
yard caught fire.”
    A blast of green electricity rippled across
the air outside, sticking to light poles and dancing along the edge
of a UPS truck down the road. The fog billowed and puffed,
encompassing more of the view every second.
    Juan cursed and then said, “That’s no tire
fire.”
    Dogs barked and small shadows raced through
the fog, as if children were running by. “What in the blazes?”
asked Grace as she stared out into the thickening mist.
    “Call the cops,” said Desmond as he walked
with his son toward the front of the restaurant.
    “Yeah,” said Grace. “Juan, get the
police.”
    “I don’t have no phone back here. You call
from out there.”
    “God dang it, Juan, the phone’s two feet
from you.” Grace walked behind the counter to the white phone
beside the door that led to the kitchen. Juan stayed in his window,
staring at the bizarre scene on the street. She dialed 911 and then
waved at Desmond and Raymond to come stand by her. “Get over here
you two, behind the counter.”
    “What do you think’s going on?” asked
Desmond as he held his son’s hand and walked around the counter to
join Grace. There was a black rubber matt on the ground that was
perforated to keep the area behind the counter from getting
slippery, but Desmond still slipped on its greasy surface as he
walked over it. His palm thudded on the counter as he caught his
balance.
    Grace shrugged as she listened to the
pre-recorded message from the Widowsfield Emergency Services. “Hell
if I know. Probably just some prank or something.”
    “Prank?” Juan’s skepticism came off as rude
and demeaning. “Get real, girl. That’s no prank.”
    “Well, darn it Juan, stop just standing
around,” said Grace. “Do something to help.”
    “Help with what?” he asked, still standing
uselessly behind the window between the kitchen and front end.
    “Lock the damn doors or something.”
    “Shit,” he said as if she were being funny.
“I’m not going near that door. Looks like the devil farted pure
hell out there.”
    “I’ll get it,” said Desmond.
    Grace grinned at him and then turned to
sneer at Juan. “Thanks, Dezy. At least we’ve got one man in
here.”
    Desmond let go of his son’s hand to head for
the door, but heard Raymond begin to rustle the silverware beneath
the counter. He saw his son rummaging through the steak knives.
    “It’s all right, kiddo,” said Desmond.
“There’s nothing to be scared of.”
    Raymond held two knives, one in each hand,
and