She ran her forearm over her eyes but couldn’t wipe away the blurriness. A pile of bodies lay in front of the kitchen doors, speckled with bullet holes.

The kitchen doors swung closed, rocking and slapping against the bodies. However many were left, they were in the kitchen now. Probably eating every piece of Paradise Buffet they could grab with their chubby fingers.

Lola checked her gun. Magazine empty. One left in the chamber.

She had a good idea what she’d do with that.

Daddy’s waiting for you, honey.

CORNERED

Juan inched along the wall and got back to the cooler. He peeked through the crack and watched as Manuel continued to gorge himself. Manuel’s stomach looked on the verge of tearing, bulging out from under his shirt.

“Manuel. Open the door.”

“I can’t…they can’t have it. You can’t have it.” He shook his head as he spoke and bits of chewed food fell out in clumps. It was as if he’d run out of room. But that didn’t stop him from trying. He bit into a beef shoulder, snorted as he tried to swallow it.

Juan’s mustache twitched and he slammed his fist into the door, then cried out at the stabbing pain in his chest.

Someone was in the dining area with a gun, and Juan didn’t want to wait around to find out who it was. This was it. Manuel was on his own.

Juan gave the door one more tug, but it held fast. “I’m sorry, cousin.”

A pair of hands grabbed hold of Juan’s shoulders, and without hesitation, he spun and swung the knife.

A woman, her face caked with makeup, took the impact to the side of the face. The blade sunk into her flabby cheek and scraped against bone. Juan pulled the knife back out with a slurp, then lodged it under her chin. It pushed through the layers of chins and stabbed into the roof of her mouth. The blade propped her mouth open and blood poured out as she tried to move her jaw.

Juan let go of the knife and juked around her, trying to get to the back door. The bodies of the Mexican workers lay there, along with Mr. Chan…or what was left of them. The eaters still worked at them, tugging on entrails and flaying muscle and tendon away from bone.

Juan looked toward the double doors. The path looked clear, but he didn’t know what lay beyond them. Just as he started toward them, a woman burst through the doors…the cop. The pretty police officer from before. She looked pale as she staggered into the kitchen, stepping over a hill of bloated corpses.

She had one hand on her neck, blood seeping from between her fingers. Another ragged wound had opened her chest and the exposed muscle glistened. The other hand held the gun which hung at her side, her arm shaking so hard that the gun knocked against her knee.

A mouthful of blood burst from her lips as she coughed, almost toppled over. Juan ran toward her but slid to a stop when the gun rose from her side and stared at his chest.