Heads 4 Sale

Fast food for the end times

Mar 05, 2025

In a post-apocalyptic world where the undead crave human brains, a cynical “chef” trains the new employee to serve up a horrifying menu.

This story is intended for a mature audience. It contains graphic content. Reader discretion is advised.

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A decaying hand slammed against the sign riveted to the food truck. Slowly, gravity dragged it back down, but it left behind a trail of foul-smelling slime.

"Order up!" Desmond yelled over his shoulder to the new hire.

The newbie, a teen with bone white skin, stared back at him with wide eyes.

Des wasn't sure if that was his normal skin tone or if he was afraid. A dark stain formed on the front of the boy's camo pants. Piss puddled on the floor. Guess it was fear.

"Come on now, you gotta learn," Des said, trying a comforting tone, that felt awkward in his mouth like he was speaking with somebody else’s tongue.

The boy inched closer to the window they served through, taking baby steps that made Des roll his eyes.

"Don't be afraid. Why do you think we welded this rebar here? They can't get in. Just remember not to get too close. Now, check what they ordered."

The boy (Des didn't remember his name; he'd bother remembering it if the boy showed up for work tomorrow—most of them didn't) took his place at the window, standing on wobbling knees. He ignored the sign but stared transfixed by the horror in front of them.

The undead horde spread out before them—hundreds, thousands, or more. They were like the stars, too many to count. The smell of their rot filled the air and their lungs. A reek that had claws that clamped onto the tongue and refused to let go.

The boy said something, but Des couldn't hear it.

"Speak up! You gotta yell to be heard over the buzzing." Des pointed to the dark cloud of flies that swarmed over the walking dead.

"Grande!"

Des nodded, "Good. Now, get the payment."

"I—I don't think it has money. It's not wearing any clothes."

Des rolled his eyes and turned to the dead man. At least he assumed it used to be a man. Any markers of sex had long since rotted away.

"Hey," he said, pounding against the rebar to catch the thing's attention. "Pay up."

It growled at him.

"Fuck. Even in the apocalypse, we still got Karens with attitude." Des shook his head. "Grr to you too. You want food? Pay up."

"They understand words?" the boy asked in a high-pitched squeak.

Des understood why. The schools taught them that the undead were just mindless monsters. He supposed it was to make it easier on their conscience if they had to kill them. Not that a kid like this would normally be faced with such a thing since he'd usually spend his life behind the safety of the city's walls.

"They understand capitalism. That shit's engrained in American DNA."

"What's America?"

"It's what this place used to be called before—wait—why am I explaining this shit to you? You should have paid attention in school. Now, get the payment."

The zombie reached into the cavity that used to be its stomach. Its bony digits dug through rotted intestines that swam with maggots until it found what it was looking for. It pulled out two pill bottles coated in slime and shoved them through the slot they had to receive payment.

"Get it," Des ordered when the boy showed reluctance to touch them.

Holding his breath, the boy grabbed them, tossed them in the sink, and began spraying them down. All while gagging.

Maybe he would work out. Most of them quit by now.

Des picked up the bottles and read the labels.

"This is that good shit. Antibiotics." Des chuckled to himself. He could live like a king for a month from these two bottles alone. He slapped a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Get the man what he paid for."

Des pointed to the three freezer chests bolted down in the back of the truck labeled Tall, Grande, Venti.

"Chest in the middle," he said.

The boy heaved the middle freezer door open. His scream pierced Des's ears. Worse, it was attracting horde attention they didn't need. Too many of these things clamoring over them and they'd be rocked, totaled, and eaten.

"Shut up!" Des slapped his meaty palm over the boy's mouth. "What is wrong with you?"

The boy pointed down at the chest. It was filled with human heads. Specifically, the heads of teenagers. Dead hollow eyes stared up at them asking them why their young lives had to be cut so short.

Fuck you, that's why. Des replied with a hateful squint of his own eyes.

"What is this?"

"Grandes. That's teens. Troublemakers, the city wanted gone. I obliged." He pointed to the freezer to the right. "Venti, adults. More brains. Requires more payment."

The boy pointed at the third chest. "And this. The talls?"

Des paused. Even his stone-cold heart cracked a little at that one. "You don't wanna know. Now, get a head."

He was sure the boy would run now. Sure that he'd try to report him to the authorities. Sure that he'd then be quietly disappeared and then be another head in a freezer. But the boy surprised him. He reached in and pulled out the head of a Latino boy with a peach fuzz mustache.

"Juan. I knew him." He looked to Des. "He was always an asshole to me."

Des smiled. "Let me show you how to serve him."

Using a hand saw, Des cut into the skull. There was little gore since it had been dead so long, and compared to the horde outside, it was practically perfume. Once the groove was large enough, a cat's paw pry bar finished the job. The "lid" popped off with a snap that set both their jaws on edge. He handed the head to the boy who fed it back through the slot the medicine came through.

"And that's the job."

The boy smiled back. Maybe—just maybe—this one would stay on. Des was getting tired of twelve-hour shifts every day.

Outside a hand slapped the sign. The boy turned to the window, peeked at the gore on the sign, and said:

"Order up. Venti."

Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear what scared you most or your favorite line—drop a comment or even just an emoji 👻

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