The remaining two employees in the kitchen came at him now, so Andy reached under the counter for the Happy Burger Happy Shotgun and happily blasted one guy onto the burger grill and the other into the milk-shake machine, releasing a spray of chocolate.
That left only the Mexican still standing, holding the bloody knife in his hand and blubbering like a baby over Chip, who convulsed at his feet in a puddle of blood, fries, and vegetable oil.
It was damn irritating.
So Andy swung the shotgun at the Mexican's head like a bat at a pinata and felt the satisfying smack of contact. The Mexican dropped, banged his head on the edge of the fryer, and crumpled on top of Chip.
There was a moment of stillness as Andy stood there, the shotgun in one hand, his hard-on in the other, listening to the sound of the sizzling grill, the fry alarm, the splurt of the milk-shake machine, and the whimpering of the dozen customers who were hiding under their tables.
It was such a beautiful noise.
Andy smiled to himself, gave his hard-on a friendly tug, then reached under the counter for the box of shells and strolled out the door, singing the Happy Burger song.
"Don't be sad, don't be blue, Happy Burger has treats for you!"
Rachel and Matt were driving home as this was going on. She was still worried about Matt. She wanted to take him to the hospital but he adamantly refused to go.
"It's just food poisoning," he said. “Or stomach flu."
"You were dead last week," she said. “Don't you think it would be a good idea to see a doctor just in case it's something else?"
"Like a side effect of death?"
"Maybe. I don't know."
"I vomited. That's all. People puke all the time without dying first."
"You were also acting very strange at Happy Burger."
"What do you mean?" he asked, knowing exactly what she meant. He hadn't been able to get Andy's decomposing face out of his mind since they'd left.
"You looked terrified," she said.
"I was thinking about the cholesterol," he said. “And the calories."
Rachel gave him a look. “I love you. Don't blow me off like that."
She turned the car onto Main Street just as two cop cars roared past them in the opposite direction, sirens wailing. Matt watched them go in his side-view mirror.
A moment later, a Sheriff's Department helicopter roared overhead, heading in the same direction as the cop cars.
Towards Seattle.
Or the Canadian border.
Or Happy Burger.
They could be going anywhere, but somehow, someway, Matt knew with absolute certainty that they weren't.
They were going to Happy Burger.
Where his oldest friend was decomposing with a smile.
"Turn around," Matt said.
"Why?"
"It's Andy," Matt said. “He needs my help."
"When are you going to accept the fact that he's an asshole? You can't save him from being fired from Happy Burger any more than you could save his job at the mill."
"You didn't see his face," Matt said. “He's dying inside."
"God didn't put you back on this earth to be Andy's guardian," she said, bringing the car to a stop at an intersection and looking at him. “He brought you back for me."
Matt met her gaze. “Please. If you really love me, you will take me back there." She glared at him. “Fuck you."
And with that, she made a U-turn and sped back to Happy Burger.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Two police officers standing in the street stopped traffic a block away from Happy Burger and directed drivers to turn around. But even from that distance, Matt saw enough to know that something very bad had happened.
A chopper circled over Happy Burger and bathed the scores of police cars, paramedic units, and ambulances out front in its harsh spotlight. Officers were spread out on foot, moving cautiously up and down the street, their guns out, searching for someone.
Matt knew in his gut who it was.
As Rachel started to turn the car around, Matt told her to slow down and lowered his window to talk to the officer, a potbellied man in his fifties.
"I have a friend working at Happy Burger," Matt said. “Can you tell me what happened?"
"There was a shooting," the officer said. “The assailant is at large."
"Was anyone hurt?"
"I really can't say any more than that. This block is restricted," the officer said.
"You'll have to move on."
They drove back to Rachel's house in silence. She parked the car in the driveway and turned to Matt.
"You think it was Andy, don't you?"
"I know it was," he said. “I saw his face."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Never mind." He held his hand out to her. “I need your car keys. I have to find him."
"Leave it to the police. Please."
"They'll kill him."
"Maybe he needs killing," Rachel said.
But she gave him the keys.
He walked her to the door, gave her a kiss, and then went around to the backyard to pick up his grandfather's ax.
Matt drove back to the cabin, but Andy wasn't there.
Matt drove back to the shotgun shack where he grew up and looked under the porch. But Andy wasn't there.
And then he remembered something that Rachel had said to him.
When are you going to accept the fact that he's an asshole? You can't save him from being fired from Happy Burger any more than you could save his job at the mill.
He knew where to find Andy.
Matt drove to the sawmill, and even from a distance, he could see Andy's truck in the yard.
There was an armed security guard that patrolled B. Barer and Sons after hours. He was lying dead at the front gate, stomach blown open, intestines in his hands. His gun was gone, as were all the bullets that once lined his belt.
Matt steered the car around the guard's body and parked beside Andy's truck. The lights were on in one of the mills, and he could hear the unmistakable buzz of the circular saw running inside.
Matt knew the police were looking for Andy, too. They had a helicopter and knew what his truck looked like.
They'd be here soon. He didn't have much time.
He picked up the ax from the passenger seat, got out of the car, and walked into the mill.
It was dark and filled with tall stacks of logs and pallets of freshly cut lumber waiting to be shipped.
He breathed deep, taking in the sweet scent of freshly cut wood. But it was tinged with the aroma of death, like there was an animal rotting away in a dark corner of the mill.
But he knew it wasn't an animal.
And he knew it wasn't dead.
It was Andy.
"Andy?" he called out. “I'm alone. I'm here to help."
"Gee, Matt, that's awfully nice of you," Andy's voice echoed through the mill. “I'd really appreciate a hand right now."
Matt emerged from between the stacks of logs and found himself at the end of a conveyor line leading to the circular saw, the oldest of the Frick rigs at the mill. At the far end, he saw Andy at the controls, pulling the levers that steered the logs into the whirring blade and controlled the cut.
Andy's eyes were the only recognizable part of his face that remained. The rest was exposed skull with scattered bits of dried blood and putrid flesh sticking to the bone.
The skin of his neck had rotted away, leaving only the stringy remains of the ligaments and muscles that had once supported his head, which now hung heavily from the end of his spinal column.
All he needed was a pair of sunglasses and he could be a skeletal David Caruso.
Wearing the Happy Burger cap.
As horrifying as it was, the edge had been dulled. Matt was getting used to the gruesome sight.
What he didn't know was why he was seeing it.
And smelling it.
There was a log heading for the blade, and Roger Silbert, the former Zippy Cola executive who'd fired Matt and Andy, was tied to the middle of it like the heroine in a silent movie serial, his mouth gagged.