It was another few hours before Michael's stomach began to remind him that this situation wasn't the end of the world. He had to eat, but the kitchen was a black, horrid smelling mess. For a few minutes he was terrified of his mother coming back and finding it like this, and when he finally remembered she wasn't coming back, he felt even worse. He couldn't remain in the kitchen like this, not even to use the microwave on his favorite thing in the whole world: canned ravioli in meat sauce. Still, the thought of ravioli made his stomach threaten to mutiny.
At first, he was scared even to set foot out of his own door, not knowing if Mr. L had sentries set up to catch stragglers who were just walking around. After a few backyards and careful looks, he determined that the coast was clear. He went back and got his bike. Once he decided that nobody was going to be around town, he had pretty free reign over the streets. He would have anyway, since dawn was on the approach, but he didn't see a soul. Even the restaurants wouldn't have anybody in them. He hopped on his bike and rode slowly through back streets until he came to the local McDonald's. Even at this hour, whatever hour that was, it was still shining in all its fluorescent glory. He checked for any roving bands of neighborhood zombies and darted inside.
It was the inside of McDonald's that did it. It didn't matter if it was dark or not, people should have been inside, cooking up something unhealthy to serve to whoever was there. Once his father was home for several weeks, and he made it a point to take Michael out fishing. Well, aside from breaking his dad's favorite fly rod and getting a stern talking to, the only thing they did that was interesting at all was go to 'the Mac' as his dad called it, at five in the morning. They were just getting going, but still. At five and change in the morning, somebody else had already set up, had ordered, eaten, and now was on at least his second coffee. That was nothing compared to the bustle of employees, already abusing the frozen stuff they called food.
An empty, derelict Mac was the spookiest thing he had ever seen in his life. It was worse than those apocalypse movies where the whole world's been destroyed. You know, at least, that everything's broken down or blown up, or both. This place was fully intact, all lit up, and just as lonely as his house.
Michael scuttled around through the place like a crab, sideways, and always checking over his shoulder. He didn't want to just go behind the counter. It wasn't right. You couldn't just...
...wait a second. He could just. This wasn't just any normal situation. This was life or death. If he absolutely had to make his own Big Mac and fry up his own Mcpotato wedges, well then that's what he would darned well do. And he could leave some money on the counter.
He inched his way into alien territory behind the counter. This place was filled with stuff, rather than the simple tables-and-chairs setup of the dining area. Every little space had some kind of compartment for a million different sizes of bags, straws, a box of ketchup packets and little individual thingies of salt or pepper. Here there were those ordering computers, food slider things, packs of happy meal boxes (not put together yet, still lying flat and stacked up neatly). There were things he had no words for too, like boxes with hoses coming out, racks of chemicals, and sets of drawers full of burger making materials.
“Hold it together Michael,” he murmured to himself. “It's just the Mac. No reason to get scared of lettuce and special sauce.”
And most importantly, he was surrounded by stainless steel boxes. These had to be all the freezers. He opened one, and saw the Mcpotato wedges in brown paper bags. See, nothing to it. He went to the large walk-in one and jerked open the shining metal handle.
And fell back, screaming.
A figure rushed at him, half-frozen, also screaming and flashing a knife. Michael scrambled away on his butt, then turned and sprinted out. He didn't look back, but jumped out of the place, hopped on his bike and raced away.
When he was half a block gone, he turned and gave the place another look. A minute later, a pack of shuffling townsfolk walked into the Mac. Soon enough, Michael's attacker was being hauled out the front doors, kicking and screaming. He kept saying 'no, no!' over and over again. One of the people was clutching her bloodied arm. The group stopped, and the woman started to walk toward the town hospital. Or possibly toward the DMV, or a little strip mall. But most likely the hospital.
Both of these things should have been important. Michael knew that. Still, he was too hungry to stop and try to figure out what was worth knowing there, or how it mattered. First, home, then food, then figure out next steps.
There was a corner store, where he attacked the food before he had a chance to check the back rooms. He had a bag of chips and half a loaf of bread in his stomach before he realized he was dunking it in hummus. Yuck.
It was still hours before dawn on a cold winter night, Michael hadn’t actually slept for about twenty-four hours, and he was terrified to be seen in the streets. He finally made it home though the backyards of people who’d been stolen out of their homes and collapsed on his bed. He was asleep before he closed his eyes.