Visage | ONC 2023

ONE:

There was something about the look in their eyes.

Crazed.

Hungry.

The whites were lined with red. Paired with exhaustion, their mouths always opened, teeth exposed to the air. The scent was undeniable. Rancid, oil came off their clothes.

I watched them as they pressed themselves against the front window. Their nails clawed the glass. They crushed each other, yanking at the door. But I locked it.

We closed ten minutes ago.

And coffee isn't that important.

"Axel, hey!"

Still cleaning the tables, front row seat to the wild construction workers clambering at Bundo's Coffee doors for an emergency cup of Joe, I glanced behind me. My boss, Gerry, stood at the register with cash in his hands. He blindly counted the bills because his eyes were on me, then the windows, then me again.

"Did something change with our online listing? This is the fourth night in a row these guys are slamming on the door."

"The internet isn't the same anymore, Ger." I moved to the next table. Someone else came to the window. A woman. Her wide eyes peered at me, almost pleading. Where did she come from?

"Shit, don't make no sense." Sighing, Gerry shut the register and locked it. "It's been a year; you think we'd be normal again. The virus is gone. We're safe. I'd like to use the Google without issues."

Man, 'the' Google.

"The virus isn't gone." I pushed away from my cleaning responsibilities and walked over to the counter. The day's cupcakes still sat there, neatly decorating their platters. Grabbing one, I bit into it and sighed. "If it were gone, we wouldn't be in quarantine zones."

"We're only in q-zones because they-" He pointed at the front door, but I knew he wasn't talking about the crowd of caffeine-craving workers. He meant the world beyond them; the cities labeled dangerous and off limits. "-are still there stealing, destroying, and eating us alive!"

I bit the insides of my cheeks. This was almost every night with Gerry. The frustrations and horrors of our reality.

A year ago, the virus hit. All of us caught it, some worse than others. I'd heard I had a mild case, but I couldn't remember it. All I knew, after six months of lying in a hospital bed, I woke up to a world divided into quarantines built to keep them out.

The infected who never recovered. The 'criminals' who snuck into our borders, stole our food, and burned our cities. If close enough, their virus mutated at the sight of us; their minds sparked red, berserk, without the ability to see reason. They attacked, killed, and ate our remains.

"If only we had q-zones to keep us from that!" Now, Gerry gestured at the crowd. There were more of them, pounding at the doors. Ridiculous shit. I understood they worked all day; they had to be exhausted. But to terrorize a small coffee shop? Nightly?

"I got it, Gerry." I finished the cupcake, tossing my rag on one of the tables. I tugged my apron off with one hand. Twirling my head around my shoulders, I rolled my arms, cracked my knuckles, and walked to the door. My tattooed reflection looked back at me.

I couldn't remember most of the past year, but I knew that guy. Me. Axel Montes, the man you didn't fuck with.

"All right." I wrapped my hand around the door handle, turned the lock, and pulled. "It ain't that serious!"

The man in front of the group pushed forward. His caution vest picked up the shop's light and glowed. He tried to make his way inside, but I put my hand against his chest. I moved him back as politely, and sternly as I couldn't without violence. "I need you and your worker friends to move back."