“Manuel sick. What you do to him?” Juan’s eyes ping-ponged from the gun to Mr. Chan’s face. He thought about going for it, but not yet.

“I did it. It my fault. They…they everywhere.” The gun stayed trained on Manuel, but Mr. Chan looked at Juan. “Outside. They want in.”

“¿Quien?”

“My grandfather’s recipe...he tell me not to use too much. I no listen. I want successful business. I want...I want my wife back.”

Juan cocked his head and listened, could hear them in the distance. The shouts and moans. The pounding of flesh against glass. He knew what was out there: the customers of the restaurant, the eaters. All just like Manuel. All hungry. All trying to get inside.

The back door.

He’d left it open, hoping to get out fast. Juan turned toward it, made a dash for it, but it swung in just as he reached for it and the edge caught him in the forehead. He slammed backward into the counter, then fell to the floor. Blood trickled down his face and blinded him, giving everything a red hue.

The staff. They shoved each other to get inside, all of them bleeding from bite wounds decorating their bodies like polka dots, soaking through their clothing. The dishwasher entered first, snarling and clutching at his stomach.

Mr. Chan fired.

Juan flinched from the sound, scooted backward across the floor, and tried to hide himself behind a trashcan. He wiped at the blood on his face, winced as his head throbbed. His ears rang from the blast that lingered and bounced off the metal countertops.

The back of the dishwasher’s head had a ragged hole the size of a baseball. He fell to his knees, then forward onto his face. The blood spread with quickness.

The others didn’t even notice. They trampled the body and pushed toward the cooler. They didn’t even care that Mr. Chan had his gun ready, pointing the smoking barrel right at them.

He fired again. And again. He unloaded the pistol until it clicked empty.

Two more bodies fell, their eyes open and sightless. One of them, that Juan recognized as Consuelo, jerked and spasmed on the floor. His lower jaw moved up and down as if chewing on an invisible cut of meat.

“Stay back,” Mr. Chan said. He kept pulling the trigger, hoping for magic bullets. Then he finally threw the gun and looked toward Juan. “Help me.”

Juan said nothing. The remaining three Mexicans stepped over their fallen comrades and went straight for the cooler. They could care less about Mr. Chan when what they craved so violently was only a few steps away.

But Manuel saw them coming. And he was in no mood to share.

Juan tried to grab the cooler door as it slammed shut. He knew if they couldn’t get inside, that him and Mr. Chan would start to look a lot like dinner.

His fingers almost caught it, but they slipped off and the door slammed shut. He heard a commotion coming from inside and imagined Manuel using something to barricade the door.