Donut Zombies

They’re at the bakery doors.

6:00 a.m. sharp.

Fingerprints smear freshly polished glass—pawing, needy . . . ravenous.

* * *

People say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again while expecting different results, so why, when the door strains on its bolts (after a second vigorous shove) do they keep trying?

Does this scenario feel more befitting of a perplexing video game puzzle—something to be solved by numerous strikes of a meaty fist? Or perhaps, we, the lowly staff, have only locked it for fun / social enrichment / to enjoy a modicum of joyous voyeurism in our otherwise bland and meaningless lives.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s locked because we’re closed.

Hard concept to get the head around, I know.

What concerns me most is imagining the way these beings might approach an occupied bathroom stall.

Engaged, huh? *rolls up sleeves* Challenge accepted!

* * *

Clo-sed.

* * *

My manager and I share a glance beneath the wan glow of a FlyBGone2000.

She tosses me the metal tongs like a shotgun.

I load them with a double click. This is the bit in the movie where the director orders a lens flare. Twing.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

We were born ready.

* * *

My boss, Sass, is a pro.

She’s twenty years my senior, and I look up to her like the mother / sister I never had. She once chased a man down the street for making a comment I didn’t understand; she set fire to a Rotary Club Santa for playing the same five carols on repeat back in ’22.

Legend.

* * *

Sass bites her bottom lip, apron not yet soiled by the day’s work, just a light dusting of flour on her shoulder, on her cheek.

In her mind, she’s doing the morning checks: sausage rolls / steak bakes in, cakes / tray-bakes out.

In my mind, the patisserie section has become a temptation wall full of weapons, mimicking a John Wick film. I have bread rolls in each pocket, and if I must make the final sacrifice, I’ll bite the top off an éclair and throw it into the melee.

Save yourrrseeeelves.

* * *

Eager patrons rattle our cage again, even though Sass is striding toward them.

She holds up the keys as proof of intent, but also tauntingly, as if, to her, they’re nothing more than dogs salivating over a bone.

We’re not supposed to open until half past six, but she’s tired of witnessing constipated mouth shapes through the glass: WHYY AREN’T YOOOO *aggressive finger pointing* OOOOHHH PEN WHEN THE CAAAY KES ARE OOOOOUTTTT?

Because we don’t magic them into place.

We have to make them.

With our hands.

We are artists. Artists of batter and dough. That means all products are fresh, in batches, and if we opened when we only had one tray out, just imagine the chaos that would cause.

We open when we open . . . or half an hour before—just because it’s easier.

Anything to make life easier.

* * *

I knuckle at red-rimmed eyes with the back of a hand. We’ve been up all night waiting for this.

We knew they’d come.

They always do.

* * *

6:01 a.m.

* * *

Sass backs away as the door is pushed savagely open.

A rough line forms at the counter.

I have bags ready. All sizes. Pre-formed cream boxes. Napkins. Spare tongs. Red-and-white striped plastic bags—blue for the ones who say they’re pink.

Sass watches the horde, one eye on the bread, one on the shambling mass of feet—Crocs™ in sports mode. We know they look slow, but any slight noise will spook them. Snatch-and-grabs are all too common. It looks like a docile one’s just browsing, then BAM, hand snickers out, snatches its prey, makes a run for it.

It’s amazing what some people will stuff down their trousers.

I almost feel sorry for them.

Most just want a donut.

* * *

They point rather than using words. It’s too early for conversation.

I get handed a fifty to break. The petty cash will be decimated in approximately five minutes. When the banks open, I’ll have to do a run. Literally. I hate leaving Sass on her own, but I’m faster. I can make it.

At first, the bank staff were irritated by our constant pleas for small change, but they can’t refuse cold, hard cash, just like we can’t. These days, we have a begrudging mutual respect, formed of sweat, desperation, and duty.

When you find an ally in this world, you have to keep them on-side. I’ll take some of last night’s brownies with me later: a peace offering.

* * *

Oh, great. Someone’s groaning.

Their paper bag’s lost all structural integrity after being aggressively clenched under an arm while fumbling with a crusty wallet.

Jam’s seeping out, dripping to the floor.

I grimace, push some paper towels toward Sass, but she shakes her head and mouths, “We’re gonna need a bigger mop.”

By this time, a small brain-like protrusion is inching out of a strawberry gummed hole.

I offer to double-bag the carcass, just like I’d done to that pigeon that had somehow found its way in over the weekend and died near the pickled eggs. We buried it in the window box, but a fox dug it back out. We were left an old sock in exchange. I was horrified. Sass just laughed, said it was simply Nature doing economics.

Double bag it is.

* * *

Despite our jammy captive now being safely contained, the customer’s demanding a refund.

I want a refund from life, but I’m not allowed to say that.

There’s nothing wrong with the ground-zero donut; it’s simply oozed a bit. We fill them to capacity, so leakage happens. There’s still plenty left. Honestly. And besides, in every life some jam must spill.

I’m not quite sure how this is suddenly my fault. Exhibit D had passed into their possession before they wrecked it. The transaction was complete.

What if it leaks again?

I suggest eating it now.

They tell me not to get smart.

Funny, I thought that was how advice worked.

They get loud, turn to the uneasy masses, call us charlatans. (To be fair, I was rather fond of Plastic Machinery.)

The queue is growing.

There’s discontent brewing. I can feel it in my bones. My hand hovers over a breadcake.

* * *

Captain Sass steps in, explains she’s the manager and how she’s very sorry for any inconvenience.

“Get ’em a fresh one,” she says.

She nods to the green tray on the side and gives me “the look.”

I apologize humbly: It’s my age. What does a girl know about customer service? I bag up the offering with a nice little flourish—triple spin, bunny-ear corners, usually reserved for only my favorite clients.

The customer immediately unwraps my good work and peers in, as if in those three seconds something of a substandard nature has miraculously manifested in its place.

I hope that in a strange, alternate reality, a snake’s got really into alchemy and makes a poor life choice.

* * *

“I guess this is acceptable,” they sneer, then leave with a glare and a muttered comment about kids these days.

* * *

Sass sniggers while she mops the floor, allowing me to dispatch the last of the horde.

Only one says thanks.

* * *

It’s important to note here that we always set aside a variety of treats for our special patrons—aka accidental offerings made to the Floor God.

Ol’ Jeb Wilson usually buys all our leftover / soiled items at the end of the day. Not only does he want his pigs to have the very best, but he pays by weight, so sometimes it’s better not to sell bread to people at all.

Sad really.

* * *

Our customer obnoxiously leans against the sandwich board, taking a purposefully decadent bite from the free donut they thought they’d scored.

They make eye contact, lick their lips, smirk. Jam oozes down the side of their mouth. A speck drops onto their shirt—a lasting memento.

My eyes flick left.

I always feel guilty at this point, relive brushing off the breadcrumbs, the pastry husks, the dust balls, and a small, gummy feather.

I thought it’d get easier, but it doesn’t.

I long for the day I’m like Sass.

“C’mon, what’s the worst that could happen?” she smirks ruefully. “Not like it’s gonna kill ’em, is it?”