Beck slid into the booth across from me, back to the wall, eyes sweeping the room.
A small TV mounted behind the counter murmured softly.“…health officials continue to reassure the public there is no cause for alarm…”
The waitress looked exhausted. Pale. Dark circles under her eyes.
“Coffee?” she croaked out.
“Yes,” Beck stared at her intently. “And whatever’s fast.”
“Cheeseburger,” I added. “Fries if it’s quick.”
“That sounds good. I’ll have the same," Beck said, continuing his surveillance.
She nodded and moved to place our order, none of the usual small talk that accompanied dining in a small town.
The bell over the door jingled.
The man who walked in was familiar in the way small towns recognize their own—wide shoulders, boots, and a sheriff’s department jacket hanging open over a sweat-darkened shirt.
“Afternoon,” he said.
His voice sounded wrong.
Too thick, as if his tongue didn’t quite know where to go.
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of sweat behind. His eyes flicked around the room, unfocused but sharp at the same time.
“Usual,” he told the waitress.
She hesitated. “You okay, Earl?”
Earl didn’t answer right away. He swallowed hard, jaw working.
“Just tired,” he sighed. “Flu, I think.”
He slid into a stool at the counter.
The TV droned on.
“…isolated incidents…authorities investigating…”
Beck’s foot nudged mine under the table.
“You good?” he murmured.
“Yeah,” I leaned closer to him. “I have a bad feeling.”
At that moment, the waitress brought Earl his coffee.
He stared at it as if he didn’t recognize what it was. Then he laid his head on his arm.
The waitress watched him with concern, then reached down to touch his arm. “Earl, do I need to call an ambulance?” She shook him gently. “Earl?”
Suddenly, he raised his head and lunged at her.
The sound was wrong—wet, sharp, and vicious. Earl’s teeth sank into the waitress’s forearm, and she screamed so loudly it felt like it split the room in half.
For a second, no one moved.
