Café
Bueno
By
Kevin M. Folliard
Wind rattled
desert brush. Electricity flickered in the folds of charcoal clouds. Thunder
grumbled.
Manuel
whistled. “It’s going to be a bad one, Rosa.”
A
tumbleweed wandered the road past Café Bueno. Rosa peered over the patio. In
the distance, a hunched shape lumbered.
The
figure—a man—stumbled between gray-green sage and spiked agave. His dark coat
whipped in the wind. One hand held a faded baseball cap low over his forehead to
shield his eyes from blowing sand. The other hand remained buried up the coat
sleeve, gripping the fabric. Dust stained his jeans. A roadside cactus snagged
his tattered coat. He lurched into the street and tripped on the untied laces
of worn hiking boots, all the while firmly gripping the bill of his cap.
Rosa
tensed. The man crossed the road at uneven angles, groping past the gas pumps,
toward the door. She turned to get Manuel’s attention, but within seconds, the
door chimed. Wind tugged Rosa’s apron. “Hello.” She turned and smiled. “Welcome
to Café Bueno.”
The
man faced the floor. His stubbled jaw shook. Fingers fidgeted in his bunched-up
sleeve. “May I have something to eat.” His voice came out, abrasive as
sandpaper.
“Si,
señor.” Rosa retrieved a
menu from the hostess stand. “Please, sit anywhere you like.”
The
man’s head remained low, eyes obscured. Faded letters on the hat read Happy Pueblo Church. “May I sit outside?”
Rosa
gestured toward shivering sage and rolling gray clouds. “It’s going to rain.”
“Please,”
the man’s voice grated. “I would feel more comfortable in open air.”
“Well.”
Rosa glanced back at Manuel, his arms crossed in disapproval by the flattop
grill. “If you wish, I suppose, but if it starts to storm, please come back
in.” She held the menu to the man’s free hand. When he accepted it, Rosa saw bloody,
chapped knuckles.
“Thank
you.” The man crept back to the door. He gave a long sigh, that sounded almost
like a hiss, and then pushed his way outside.
The
door chimed. Wind yowled, snagged the door wide, and slammed it back in place.
“Rosa,”
Manuel whispered. “I’ll send him away.”
At
first, relief washed over her. But then she saw the man, slowly, shakily settle
into one of the patio chairs. “He’s done nothing wrong,” she said. “He looks
like he’s in pain.”
“Good
customers don’t wander in from the desert. He’s a vagrant, an addict, or both.”
“He
sounded lucid,” Rosa whispered. “But something is wrong.”
Manuel
shook his head. “It’s up to you.”
The
stranger ran a trembling finger down the menu. The windowpane quaked in the
wind.
“We’ll
serve him.”
Rosa
exited to the patio. A chill breeze rustled her hair and flapped her apron. The
man rubbed his temple. Inside the coat sleeve, his left hand tightened.
“Señor?” Rosa asked. “Are you all right?”
The
man waited a long time. Thunder cracked.
“Please
don’t call anyone,” came his stony voice. “I only want to eat something.”
Inside,
Manuel stood on the customer side of the counter, steps from the door.
“I
have money.” The man’s fingers fumbled deep inside his coat.
Rosa’s
stomach sank with dread, but the man only produced a small burlap wallet. He fumbled
one-handed to unzip the pouch. His anxious breaths vibrated as sore-speckled fingers
struggled to produce crumpled bills. For a moment, she saw the whites of his
eyes flash under the shadow of the cap.
“Please,
I’m sorry. I believe you can pay,” Rosa said. “I only wanted to make sure everything
was all right.”
The
man stuffed the money back into the wallet. Blisters on his knuckles broke as
he pulled his cap back down. “I’m having trouble reading the menu. May I have a
hamburger?”
“Of
course.”
“Rare.”
Raindrops
dotted Rosa’s arm. “Anything else? Water?”
“No.
Gracias.”
Rosa
hurried back inside. She whispered his order to Manuel and told him of the
sores on the man’s hand.
“I’m
calling the police,” Manuel said.
“No,”
Rosa pleaded. “He was polite. He has money. I don’t think he’ll stay long. And
he only wants to sit outside.”
Grease
sputtered on Manuel’s grill. Rain thrummed the window. The man’s shoulders
heaved with every breath. Rosa noticed tears in the coat, up and down his back.
Forked lightning lit the desert sky. Thunder boomed like war drums.
Rosa
brought the man his flame-kissed burger. Within moments, rainwater was running
pink on the plate. “You’re sure you want to eat out here?” she asked. “Your
food is getting soggy.” Rain splattered the concrete and matted Rosa’s hair.
The
man slowly turned. The whites of his eyes were all that showed, his pupils had
faded to nothing. His skin had become coarse and shadow black. “It hardly
matters.” An unnatural buzz crept into the man’s voice.
Rosa
gasped. Her hand trembled as she set the plate on the patio table. The man’s
left hand squirmed and tore at the inside of his sleeve. The bun soaked water
like a sponge. The man’s free hand twitched on the tabletop.
“Zzeñorita,” his voice
vibrated. “I must apologizZze . . .” The man heaved with a deep, controlled
breath. His voice steadied: “I have money, but I am not sure I have enough to
tip you. You can have all that’s in this wallet.”
“That’s
fine,” Rosa said. “Señor, you are very ill.”
“PleazZze,”
he buzzed. “Call no one. What I have is not contagious. But it izZz incurable.”
Tears
stung Rosa’s eyes. She reached to the man.
He
winced away, lowered his head further. “I only wished to enjoy the pleasure of
a meal while I wazZz still able.” He glared at the sopping wet plate. “You have
been kind to me.”
“Please.
If you would help me understand . . .”
“I
no longer have time. No longer have . . .” At last, the man looked up. Shiny
black globes of eyes had swollen onto his face. “Human appetitezZzes.”
Rosa
screamed.
The
man’s lower jaw split into hooked prongs. He erupted with a sound like the
sputtering wing of an injured beetle.
Rosa
raced inside. The door chimed behind her. A brilliant flash illuminated the
café. Manuel steadied her. “Are you all right?”
She
shouted and pointed.
“What
did he . . .” Manuel trailed off.
Rosa
turned to find the man curled over the table. His hardened face scarfed at wet,
red meat. His mouth stretched sideways. Pincers unfurled from his cheeks. His
left hand tore free of the coat sleeve, revealing two moon-shaped claws and a
narrow wrist lined with bristly hairs like a fly.
Through
strobes of lightning, they watched as enormous, jointed limbs sprouted from his
back, peeling away webs of dried skin, knocking over patio chairs.
The
creature’s disfigured hands clutched his head. Amid rumbling thunder, he unleashed
a high chittering squeal. He knocked the table onto its side. One powerful leg
thumped the plate glass window and left a crack, jagged as a lightning bolt.
Rosa
gripped Manuel’s arm. She crossed herself.
And
prayed for the creature to leave.
And
as the rain hammered in torrential sheets, the thing that had been the man
crawled across the road, scuttling into the desert on six sharp, scurrying limbs.
Wind carried shreds of coat away like black confetti. His exposed back had
become a black dome that glistened in electric flashes.
Within
a minute, the creature disappeared somewhere near the horizon.
The
storm settled to a light drizzle. Wind shifted to a soft dying howl.
Manuel
and Rosa cautiously emerged. The man had left his burlap wallet behind. Inside
was $13.10. And a New Mexico state ID with the photo and the name scratched
away.
-The End-
AUTHOR BIO: Kevin M. Folliard is a Chicagoland writer whose fiction has been collected by The Horror Tree, Flame Tree Publishing, Hinnom Magazine, Thrilling Words, and more. His recent publications include "Halfway to Forgotten," featured on The No Sleep Podcast, and the Short Sharp Shocks! Halloween tale, “Candy Corn”. Kevin currently resides in La Grange, IL, where he enjoys his day job as an academic writing advisor and active membership in the La Grange and Brookfield Writers Groups. When not writing or working, he's usually reading Stephen King, playing Super Mario Maker, or traveling the U.S.A.
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