Page 3 of Monster Diner

“No need. It’s the least I could do for him…”

There was more. She should probe deeper, but she was so tired.

“Thank you for handling everything, but I should be there,” she said.

“If you’re able to come, there are things to discuss about his will.”

“I can drive out straight away, actually.”

“Oh, that’s great! Then, I’ll see you soon?”

“Yup! See you soon,” she chirped as she ended the call.

She leaned back. Unfortunately she had nothing but time and desperately needed to get away. In a twisted sort of way, this was exactly what she needed right now.

2

VICTOR

Victor ran a mile every day, meal-prepped on Sundays, and was a business owner and an active member of the Pumpkin Festival planning committee. He’d run the diner’s food cart at the festival for the past ten years, and whenever someone called out at the diner, he was the first person to volunteer to cover their shift. When he adopted his freshly turned zombie son, he’d been lavished with praise by his elders. Who better to usher in the next generation of undead youth than him, a reanimated corpse and man designed to be perfect? Even Frank had given him a rare nod of approval. Praise from his usually stoic business partner had been the cherry on the sundae.

Life was perfect. Until Frank died.

Frank had been acting strangely that day. Messing up orders when usually he’d have the bacon on the flat top before it was rung in. That same day, Victor had caught him napping in the stockroom. Victor asked him to take the day off, but Frank refused and Victor had brushed it off, assuming Frank was tired, and clocked out for the day. They used to say, the only person who worked harder than Victor was Frank.

Then the call had come from the hospital, and Victor felt like someone had upended his entire life. In the past week, he’d hardly slept. Frank did so much around the diner that Victor hadn’t realized he was literally propping the entire place up. Between putting out literal and metaphorical fires, Victor had temporarily moved him and Brayden into Frank’s place. It was behind the diner, which meant he could be on call for the diner twenty-four-seven without worrying about Brayden.

Victor stared down at the egg burning in the pan.

“Fuck,” he swore.

“Language,” Brayden said as he shuffled into the kitchen with Igor, Frank’s pet raven, perched on his slumped shoulder. The bird was nipping at Brayden’s tussled hair, as if to tell him to brush it.

“I’m allowed to swear. It’s an occupational hazard,” Victor informed him.

“So you’re allowed but not me?” Brayden arched a single brow. “Talk about double standards, bruh.” He shook his head, and his messy blond hair flopped against his gray forehead.

“Sit down, I’m making you eggs,” Victor said, ignoring his sarcastic remarks.

“Looks like charcoal.” Brayden peered at the pan of burned chorizo that Victor had attempted to make before getting distracted by a delivery from the local bakery.

The food was edible, but Victor couldn’t settle for less than perfection. Not when he could hardly get Brayden to eat as it was. Being resurrected changed your taste buds. Victor, for example, had to eat everything spicy. Otherwise, food tasted like ash. In zombie support groups online—the closest approximation to what he was—Victor had found people talking about dousing everything in vinegar, in addition to hot sauce like he did.

Neither option seemed to work for Brayden, though Victor kept trying. Victor turned down the heat in his pan and cracked his third egg. He’d worked in kitchens for two decades. At the very least, he should be able to cook a fried egg. He’d keep making eggs until he got it right, or he’d think about it all day, and he had enough on his plate as it was.

“I’m remaking it before I head in,” Victor said.

“Pass.” Brayden shrugged and shuffled over to the fridge and pulled out a meal replacement shake with a bony hand.

Victor resisted the urge to argue as Brayden’s therapist’s voice echoed in his ears: He’s adjusting, give him time. Victor’s perfectionist nature made him want to be the perfect dad and perfect chef. Having a kid who refused his cooking was killing him.

“I’ve got homework to finish before school,” Brayden said waving over his shoulder on his way to the guest room.

Igor flew off his shoulder and swooped onto the counter next to Victor, tilting his head as he supervised Victor’s cooking.

Victor nudged the partially burned chorizo and fried egg towards Igor, who tore at it with gusto, flinging bits of egg yolk and crumbs of chorizo onto the counter.

“At least you appreciate my cooking.” Victor sighed.