Drive-thru Menu - Published November 2009
November 29, 2009
Drive-Thru
Menu
“Can I take your order, please?”
The disembodied voice crackled through the rusted speaker-panel.
Gareth eyed the faded menu board,
its peeling plastic cover split leaving a water-damaged smudge of color where
illustrations of burgers, chicken combos, soft drinks and ice cream desserts
had once attracted the hungry traveler.
“Just a burger, mate.” It was
late; he was famished and exhausted and still had another few hundred miles’
worth of traffic to contend with before reaching home.
“The Big Boy Burger or
Flame-Grilled Mexicana?” The static-bored voice had said the line so many times
it had lost all nonsensical meaning.
Gareth had forgotten they used to
do the Mexicana–succulent one-hundred-percent beef with peppered cheese, onion
rings, salad, jalapeño sauce…
“Mexicana with cheese.” He could
already taste it, even though he hadn’t eaten one in more than ten years, back
when this fast food chain went belly up. He thought it strange when he first
spotted the weather-eroded hoarding, half-buried in bushes, along the motorway
embankment; flashing light atop the slanted wooden post catching his attention
from the monotony of the nighttime tarmac.
“Okay, drive round to the
collection point, might take a few minutes.” A surge of static reverberated in
his ears only to be lost again to the night air.
If it hadn’t been for the other
car ahead of him in the queue and the other two parked up around the side of
the building, Gareth might have doubled back out of there and drove on until he
found a McDonald’s or Burger King, convinced the place was an abandoned shell.
Maneuvering around the tight
bend, a dim light inside the restaurant cast a muddy aura over the kitchen area
and out through the closed window; a stack of grey cardboard drink holders
piled almost to toppling behind the frame.
Ahead, a steady breath of exhaust
cloud flicked against the red brake lights of the car waiting at the collection
window, driver’s door slamming shut as he braked behind him in line. Gareth
counted his change out ready, dipping his head toward the open window in an
attempt to catch a scent of that Mexicana burger they were preparing. But what
he caught smelled more like the residues of a bonfire than the burger he
remembered.
A purple-green-tinged privet
hedge, to his left, buffeted the passing traffic as they sped on toward
destinations unknown, while, in the middle distance, a car with foreign plates
reversed from a parking bay and disappeared from view, its driver-side door
badly dented.
He would park up there with his
meal and be back on the road before long; Joanne would be waiting up for him
like she always did, a tired smile on her lips, a table lamp left on in the
hallway that would guide them upstairs to bed.
A piercing scream rocked him out
of a daze and back to the queue, the car waiting at the window ahead dazzling
him with two blinding reverse lights before suddenly rocketing back toward him.
Before he could react, a jolt from behind splayed him forward, knocking the
change from his grasp and down across the carpet. Slammed back by the car in
front, halogen-bright brake lights ramping up onto his car.
To his right the stack of cup
holders behind the closed window were swept away to be replaced by a face that
would haunt his final moments on earth. In his rear view, another creature
swaggered forward, and from the car in front.
When they attacked, Gareth could
no longer taste that Mexicana but could hear a distant voice through the
intercom, placing their order.
●
Copyright: © 2009 Mark Robinson
Send No Money Now - Published October 2009
October 9, 2009
Send
No Money Now
“For just two pounds a month, you
too could sponsor the dead.” He had left the remote on top of the television,
again. “One hundred percent of the money we receive goes directly to caring for
the deceased of your choice.”
A moan from the next room told
Henry it was suppertime.
“We never, ever, destroy an
abandoned soul.”
Maybe they could take care of
him; if he removed the chains, bundled him into the back of his car and drove
him out into the middle of nowhere, he could finally be rid of him and his
stench. And, if he signed up to this sponsor-the-dead thing on TV, it wouldn’t
be like he was completely abandoning him. No, he would still be taking care of
him while doing his bit for charity.
“Each sponsor receives regular
updates from their chosen departed, including photos, and even a card at
Christmas.”
Looking back in the direction of
the hungry grunt, it seemed like sponsorship was the answer. Inching his finger
beneath the bandage, he scratched at the bite along his forearm. Two pounds a
month was a lot less to find than what it was costing him to keep his father
subdued. Especially if there was another repeat of yesterday.
“With today’s overcrowding issues
to contend with, our job is becoming increasingly difficult to fund, which is
why your support is invaluable.”
The Government’s label on the
situation; their euphemism of “Overcrowding” wasn’t the real problem. With all
the scientific advances made over the years, why hadn’t anyone thought about
what would happen when they had discovered the cure for everything? If people
weren’t dying of natural causes anymore, what would they, eventually, die of?
“Your donation not only helps your
sponsored relic, but also helps toward the upkeep costs of all our members.”
If he went now, while it was
still dark, he would be done and back before he had to be at work in the
morning.
“Send no money now; call the free
phone number at the bottom of the screen or complete the online form and we
will do the rest.”
Another thump from the other room
got him to his feet.
“Sign up before the end of the
month and you will receive this special introductory offer.” On screen he
recognized the decaying face of a faded Hollywood movie star, though couldn’t
place the name. “An exclusive signed photo of the dead celebrity of your
choice.”
Another angry
grunt focused his dwindling attention. “All right, Dad, I’m coming.” The old
man was gagged and shackled to his rocking chair.
“We’re going for a little drive.”
Biting back the tears; in the long run, it was for the best; this was no way
for either of them to live. If he had kids of his own, one day, he hoped they
would do the right thing.
“Up you get; we’ll stop by the
drive-through on our way.” Henry managed to get one padlock open and bent to
find the second, obscured beneath the chair. Above him his father moaned into
his gag.
When the second chain was free,
he felt those familiar hands rush at his throat before his father’s gravelly
voice hissed in his ear: “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
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