Fourth Meal
The bell tolls for your soul.
This story was originally published in Flash Phantoms November, 2025.
Dave was already tired before he pulled into the glowing lane. Tired in his bones, tired in his ears. Work had been a blur of calls and slammed doors and one endless request after another. All he wanted was something greasy, something easy. Just food in his stomach and a couch to collapse on.
Instead, he had Alex and Marie in the backseat.
They’d started fighting the second he said the word “dinner.” Not about whether they wanted it (God forbid it be that simple), but about what.
“I want a quesadilla.”
“No, nachos.”
“Dad, tell him no, I had nachos last time...”
Dave gripped the wheel. The purple-lit sign loomed ahead, buzzing faintly like a bug zapper. A giant bell glowed at the top, its light too sharp, too hungry. The kids didn’t notice. They never noticed.
The car rolled to a stop by the menu board. The speaker crackled, and a voice poured out smooth and sticky, each word dragging behind the next.
“Welcome. Can I take your order?”
Marie leaned forward, hair spilling over the seat. “I want a quesadilla with no onions. And those cinnamon twist things.”
Alex groaned. “No, Dad. Two burritos, and fries if they have them. And a freeze. The blue kind.”
The voice waited. Patient. Silent.
Dave’s temple throbbed. “Decide. Right now.”
They didn’t. They argued louder, their voices overlapping, piling requests until Dave’s skin prickled.
His grip tightened on the gearshift.
“Forget it,” he muttered, jamming the car into drive. The Honda lurched forward, tires squealing as he shot out of line. The speaker popped with static, then hissed into his skull:
“…you didn’t order…”
“Goddamn right I didn’t,” Dave said, but his voice shook.
The lane funneled him back onto the street. He gripped the wheel hard enough to hurt. In the rearview, the restaurant’s windows glowed a feverish purple. Then the doors opened.
They poured out.
At first, they looked like teenagers in aprons and visors, stumbling from their shift. But then they moved faster. Too fast. Their limbs jerked like broken puppets, eyes gleaming wet under the streetlamps. And they were smiling. All of them, identical grins full of teeth.
Marie whimpered. “Dad…they’re running.”
“I see them.”
One vaulted the hedge, landing on all fours before loping upright, apron snapping. Another dragged the headset cord behind him like an umbilical. His lips didn’t move, but the voice filled Dave’s ears again:
“…no one leaves without ordering…”
Dave floored it. The engine screamed. But so did the employees—a high, shrill chorus of hunger.
Something slammed onto the trunk, denting metal. Another clawed across the roof, palms smearing grease on the windshield. Through the glass, a face grinned at him upside down, teeth yellow and long as drinking straws.
“Dad!” Alex shouted.
“I said hold on!”
He swerved, nearly clipping a delivery truck, cutting hard across lanes. Ordinary streets blurred past: gas stations, strip malls, a laundromat still buzzing with fluorescent light. And still they came.
In the mirror, the purple-glow crew kept pace. Their sneakers slapped in perfect rhythm, visors rattling, aprons dark with something wetter than grease.
Dave’s chest heaved. He was losing them. No, he was losing himself. His hands shook. His breath rasped.
And then he saw it.
The arches.
They rose at the end of the block, golden and towering, burning against the night like a church window lit from within. The glow was different. Not harsh, not hungry. Warm. Forgiving.
Dave sobbed. He swerved hard into the lane. The undead stopped short at the edge of the lot, hissing, their grins faltering under the golden light. One writhed, visor melting to his scalp. None crossed the line.
The speaker box gave a low, resonant hum, and then the reply came. Not a single voice, but layered, as if a whole choir spoke through the static, each word carried on a hymn:
“Welcome, may I take your order?”
Dave rolled the window down, shaking. “Yes! Twenty nuggets. Barbecue sauce. Please!”
A pause. Then: “As you wish.”
The bag came through the window moments later.
Dave clutched it like a relic.
The golden glow spilled across the lot, pushing the pursuers back into shadow. Their teeth still gleamed, but their hunger faltered. They retreated, step by step, swallowed by the purple glow down the street.
Dave slumped forward, forehead on the wheel. Safe. For now.
In the backseat, Marie wrinkled her nose. “I wanted fries.”
Alex scowled. “These are cold.”
“I didn’t even want nuggets,” Marie added.
Their voices rose, petty and sharp, echoing in the cabin.
Dave closed his eyes. Outside, the arches blazed like stained glass, humming with consecrated fire. Sanctuary.
But he knew the truth. Sooner or later, the kids would beg him back to the purple glow. And next time, he might not make it out.
THE END
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Another excellent story miles. This was really good.
You let the tension build in a way that feels familiar first, which makes the shift hit harder. The arguing, the noise, the waiting voice… all of it just keeps stacking.
The voice at the speaker was especially unsettling. Calm, patient, like it already knows how this ends.
And the contrast between the two places worked really well. It gives the whole thing shape without spelling it out.
This story is freaking brilliant, sir. I feel like you touched the jugular vein of America here. We should collaborate on some flash fiction about that - it's a subject close to my heart! 😉 Seriously though, this story is AMAZING. It needs way more attention.