Mary didn't mind vampires stopping in for a cup of coffee around sunset or the suspiciously hairy-looking set that would stagger in the night after the full moon and take a couple of tables in the front. As long as everybody behaved and everyone paid, she didn't think their lifestyles were her problem. She never felt it was her place to judge others for their humanity or utter lack thereof. She didn't mind the walking dead. They had the money for good tips. It was the shambling, moaning kind that got to her. She loved her hometown and didn't want to move away, but she already ran her diner under fairly adverse conditions. She wondered if the zombies and revenants wouldn't finally kill her, or her overextended patience.
When the decaying shell of the abandoned factory on the hill had begun to glow green, she told the teenage busboy to leave early. When the smell of rotting flesh drifted down from the rise, she told Ivan that he could head out. He stayed, but he put his knives where he could reach them in a hurry. She called the night manager, a single mother of two, and gave her the night off. Mary called the waitress and short order cook who worked the graveyard shift and told them she was having one of those nights. No one was required to show up. Anyone who did would get time and a half.
She told Ivan to look around for oil, grease, cleaning solvents, anything that would blow up or burn. Ivan nodded his assent. The mouth on his broad face seemed like a vestigial organ. He isn't the kind of guy, Mary often thought, that you'd expect to hear much from. Ivan resembled a boulder, heavy, solid, and low to the ground. If she hadn't known him all her life, Mary would have though he was a big stone that one day got the urge to walk into a restaurant ask for a job. He barricaded the front window with tables. Mary tied up her long, brown waves of hair. The last of the staff arrived. She turned the sign to “closed” and locked the door. They came.
She told Ivan to look around for oil, grease, cleaning solvents, anything that would blow up or burn. Ivan nodded his asent. The mouth on his broad face seemed like a vestigial organ. He isn't the kind of guy, Mary often thought, that you'd expect to hear much from. Ivan resembled a boulder, heavy, solid, and low to the ground. If she hadn't known him all her life, Mary would have though he was a big stone that one day got the urge to walk into a restaurant ask for a job. He barricaded the front window with tables. Mary tied up her long, brown waves of hair. The last of the staff arived. She turned the sign to “closed” and locked the door. They came.