“Yes, sir.”
“All right,” said Grace as she eyed them both suspiciously. “I’ll take your word for it. But you’d better keep an eye on him for me.” She pointed the eraser side of her pencil at Raymond as she talked about Desmond. “He likes to pretend to be a good boy, but you and I know the truth. Don’t we?”
Raymond snickered and nodded. “Yes ma’am.”
“What’s it going to be today?” asked Grace, ready to write down their order. “Same as always?”
Desmond nodded. “I’ll have the Salisbury steak, and Ray will have the BLT.”
“Actually,” said Raymond, “could I get the grilled chicken sandwich?”
Grace looked over at Desmond, surprised at Raymond’s order. “Well, heavens to hogs, the boy’s changing things up on us, Dezy.”
Desmond looked nervous. “I guess so. His taste buds must be changing or something.”
“No,” said Raymond. “I just want to try something new.”
“Juan’s going to have to throw the chicken on the grill, so it might take a few extra minutes,” said Grace. “I’m happy to have you around as long as you’ll stay, but I know you’re in a hurry to get fishing.”
“That’s okay,” said Raymond as he glanced out the window beside their booth. “We’re too late already. It’s past three. I want to try something different this time.”
“You got it, kiddo,” said Grace. “Want fries with that? Or are you going to throw me for another loop and order coleslaw?”
Raymond shook his head and chuckled. “No, ma’am. Fries would be fine. Thank you.”
“Sodas for 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 looked up calmly at his father. “Yes there is.”
“Darling,” said Grace as she moved beside Raymond. “There’s nothing to be worried about.” She stood behind the boy and held him up against her waist with her hands crossed over his chest as she kept the phone perched between her shoulder and her ear. “I’m sure it’s just a freak storm or something. Nothing to be scared about. Okay? Nothing to be scared about.” She was clearly terrified.
“Then why lock the doors?” asked Raymond in a near whisper. They all knew there was something worth fearing in the mist. It was as if there was an innate knowledge bubbling to the surface in all of them.
Desmond spoke over his shoulder as he walked to the door, “Juan, if there’s a back door you should go lock it.”
“Yeah, Juan,” said Grace. “Stop being a useless turd and go lock the back door.”
Desmond turned the lock and Raymond pulled out of Grace’s arms as he screamed, “Dad, get down!”
“What?” Desmond turned, perplexed.
A brick flew at the front door from out of the fog. The glass shattered and the brick struck Desmond in the back of the head as shards crashed down around him. He staggered as Juan screamed. The cook’s voice was than a man of his girth should possess. Grace dropped the phone and tried to grab Raymond, but the boy was too fast for her. He bounded around the counter, still holding the steak knives, to save his father.
The brick had broken the upper half of the entrance, and the mist surged in through the hole. Shards of glass broke and fell as the mass moved in, as if the mist carried weight with it. Desmond was on his knees as the crackling green electricity zapped on the metal door behind him. The silhouettes of children in the mist focused on the Salt and Pepper Diner. Dogs barked and growled as the children rushed toward the restaurant.
“Ray!” Grace cried out for the boy, but didn’t know how else to react. She was dazed, terrified, and frozen in place. The phone at her feet continued to ask for her patience; her call would be answered in the order it was received.
Desmond crawled toward the counter, and held the back of his bloodied head. Raymond ran past him, into the surging mist. He swiped his knives through the incorporeal mass and the blades sparkled with green electricity.