Attack of the Food Zombies

Chapter 1

Jenna Louise Bushnell grunted as she hauled her 254-pound body up from the chair at  Bob’s Belly-Buster Buffet (which Vegas Reviews had dubbed ”The most repugnant food-like sludge imaginable.”). She had already made two trips to the steam table, and was ready for her third. She had the trip thoroughly planned out, since she well knew the buffet layout from her many previous trips.

She yanked at the back of her elastic-banded pants to make sure the fabric had not lodged itself in her butt crack. That was embarrassing when it happened. She picked up a plate and started down the buffet behind a rail-thin, whiskered man in a stained cowboy hat and worn jeans. She took generous helpings of the unnaturally yellow, gelatinous mac & cheese; and the congealed, brown beef-like stew. She decided to save for the next trip the pale, rubbery hot dogs, and the slimy, beige shrimp. This trip would involve the first of several desserts. She chose a rectangle of dried cake with a slather of gummy frosting.

She was about to return to her table when the counterman brought out a fresh tray of potato salad. She liked potato salad. She had some room on her plate, so she doubled back, reached out a pudgy, pasty hand and used the large spoon to plop some onto the plate. The whiskered cowboy did the same.

 Settling in at her table, she took a bite of the mac & cheese, then the stew. Then she tried the potato salad. A look of absolute bliss rose on her fleshy face. Her beady eyes widened. Nirvana! The potato salad was wondrously delicious! Its taste suffused her very soul with its luscious, delectable savoriness. She stuffed gob after gob into her mouth, each one bringing a transporting gustatory bliss even greater than the last.  She would remember this moment for the rest of her life!

She had to have more! She leaped from her chair as quickly as her poundage would allow. She fast-waddled to the steam table, grabbing a plate and moving to the potato salad. She shoved aside a portly, balding man in a jogging suit and grabbed the ladle, plunging it into the yellow-beige mass to haul out a large mound of the enticing—nay addictive—food.

She felt herself grabbed from behind and heaved out of the way, as the whiskered man in the stained cowboy hat and worn jeans took her place, snatching up the spoon. A low furious growl rose in her throat, and she plunged forward, grabbing him by his belt and flinging him backward, sending him flying over a table, knocking over a pudgy, elderly lady wearing a jet-black wig, which flew from her head.

Two other Bob’s Belly-Buster Buffet diners had also surged forward, their eyes glazed, intent on the potato salad. But Jenna Louise Bushnell was optimally positioned, and she ducked under the plastic spit shield and plunged her face deep into the potato salad.

The nearest counterman stood transfixed, as she gobbled her way into its depths with a loud snuffling. She grabbed the metal tray for leverage, lifting it off the table. He bolted for the kitchen, hauling out the skinny manager, whose name was not Bob, but who considered himself a Bob-like authority figure. The Bob-like manager wore a skinny tie and a short-sleeved white shirt with black pants, which he thought gave him that authority. He had been hiding in his office, deeply anxious over his foolish effort to bring record crowds to the Belly-Buster. But now, that crowd had gotten out of control, and it was his fault. And it was his dreaded job to re-establish order. But in his first attempt, he was less than articulate.

“You! What do you… hey… quit that!” He exclaimed in a quavering, high voice.

He rounded the counter to timorously approach Jenna.
She ignored his approach, continuing her determined feed, her flabby jowls quivering with each bite. The Bob-like manager whipped out his phone and summoned security at Bob’s Big Casino (Which Gamblers Monthly dubbed ”A rather seedy backwater joint in the low-rent environs of Vegas.”).

The manager considered whether to stop the feeding woman, but before he could, another diner, a big-bellied man in a Hawaiian shirt, tore the tray from her sausage-like fingers.

But instead of setting it back on the buffet, the big-bellied man plunged his hand in, drawing out a fistful of beige, lumpy potato salad and cramming it into his mouth, uttering a loud, satisfied grunt.

Other assorted denizens of the buffet began shoving forward, shouting variously “Give it!” “I want that!” “Hey… you fat bastard!” and other exclamations indicating that they wanted in on the largess.

The shoving then grew to a total, out-of-control melee, with wrestling, punching, grabbing, and even kicking—all with the objective of getting at the potato salad.

The cowboy being the most spry, leaped onto the buffet and clambered over the other side, headed for the kitchen. Several of the other diners realized his strategy of going to the source and followed him, slamming the Bob-like manager back against the wall, and overpowering the counterman, who cowered beside a rack of day-old bread.

The breaching of the first counter triggered the breaching of all, as the mob stormed the buffet tables. Quickly discovering that the cold salads were the maddeningly delectable foods, they stuffed globs into their mouths with abandon, finding almost every fistful addictively delicious, and only whetting their appetites for more.

A phalanx of beefy security guards burst into the dining room, issuing deep, authoritative commands, which rose above the clamor of shouting patrons who had not reached the food, and the gluttonous grunting of those who had.

Four guards shoved their way through the crowd, attempting to determine its epicenter, finally arriving at the feeding Hawaiian-shirted man. Deciding to start with him, the senior guard wrenched the tray from his hands, leaving him with only a glassy-eyed stare. He recovered himself enough to grunt “Gimme it back! Gimme!”

“What the hell?” exclaimed the guard. “What the hell are you doing?”

“’S amazin’!” exclaimed the Hawaiian-shirted man. “You won’t believe! Try a little. Then gimme it back. Gimme!”

The guard started to put down the tray, then reconsidered. He’d tried the buffet in the past and could not fathom any of its offerings being remotely edible. He scooped a fingerful of potato salad and poked it into his mouth. A look of pure bliss rose on his face. Pausing to plot his next move, he wrapped his arms around the tray, and like a football running back penetrating a defense line, burst through the crowd and ran for the exit.

The Bob-like manager decided more drastic measures were required. He took out his phone, and amid the tumult, dialed 911.