Doug Hill slid the plain cheese pizza off of the peel and watched it begin to cook in front of the leaping flames. The cheese writhed and the crust began to brown. Today the fire was fierce, cooking pizzas almost as fast as he made them. His shift was almost over and he waited patiently for Rebecca to pull into the long, dusty driveway. Mondays were always slow. He was perfectly capable of running the place by his lonesome during the evening.
His nostrils flared as the scent of his pepperoni pizza wormed its way into his nasal cavern. It was dinner for the family. He pushed the box away from himself, trying not to let hunger get the best of him. It could wait.
The logs in the brick oven were burning very quickly. Doug hadn’t paid much attention to them when he tossed them in—a strange, purple-tinted mushroom with a bulbous top was shrinking in the pizza flames, its pores releasing sticky, orange syrup. Only as he watched the cheese pizza cook did he notice the odd fungus. It withered and hissed; its flesh shriveling and the syrup splashing out of exploding pockets of air.
He slid the peel in and pulled the pizza away from the fire, rotating it, using only the tips of his fingers. The pizza slipped off the peel as he lightly thrust it forward.
When it was done he sliced it with precision and called the balding man, who’d ordered it, to the window. Doug watched as the man sat down at one of the tables on the patio and began to shovel some of the pizza into his mouth. He waited to gauge the man’s reaction.
The man took a few bites, chewed the pizza, and swallowed it in large gulps. Doug watched the lump in his throat move up and down. Must like it well enough, he thought.
Then the man let loose a thick, murky cough and grabbed his throat. He swallowed hard and his eyes opened all the way and expanded into golf balls, his teeth pitching themselves from his face, his convulsing flesh stripping itself from his muscle, then the layers of muscle inching away from his bones, like a red coat being peeled off a skeleton of a man.
The man tried to cry out but his throat was a growing void, blood flowing down his chest in red streams. His bones swayed and quivered like they were alive and furious. His anatomy was falling off in great, slimy hunks. It was a wonder he was still standing. The man reached out to Doug with a trembling hand and fell to the concrete, where his body formed a pink, waxy pool.
“Holy shit,” Doug whispered to himself. He’d never seen anything like this. He was disgusted; terrified. He was also fascinated. He stepped outside and started for the driveway— the only place his cell-phone could get reception.
He stepped carefully around the remnants of the melted man. The pool was gleaming; Doug peered at it and caught his own reflection. He felt a wave of dizziness hit him and realized he had to look away, and fast, or he’d throw up.
His hands quaked as he pulled out his cell-phone. Then he remembered the pepperoni pizza he’d made for his family. It would also be tainted.
Hate to waste a whole pizza, he thought, a smile on his face. That isn’t funny, is it? He contemplated, licking his raw lips. An image of his wife came into his mind, her mouth like a cannon, shooting commands at him. She’d always been that way. Always.
He remembered that his son would be eating at the neighbors’ today.
“Fuck it,” he said. So he went back inside, picked up the pizza-box, and took it to his van and set it down on the passenger seat. He smiled and then dialed 911.
No sense in wasting a perfectly good pizza.
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©2011 Zach Owen
Zach Owen attends Edinboro University of PA, where he is a currently a writing major. He thinks opossums are neat and enjoys wearing socks. He has previously been published in Blood Blade and Thruster, Broken Teeth of the Counterculture, and Eclectic Flash.
