Zero

For the small town of Lakewood, it began at Ed's Diner. A few customers were there, eating and talking. Ed was behind the counter, wiping at a stain that had been there longer than the waitresses. In roughly ten minutes, Ed would die screaming.

Ed idly wondered  where Old Timmins, his fishing buddy, had gotten off to. Probably on one of his week-long drunks, Ed figured. Those were common enough.

The door slammed open.

Jimmy Dotson, a teenage punk Ed had little use for, stumbled in. A big rip ran through his shirt and blood coated his arm. He looked around the diner, confused and afraid.

Trouble. Ed thought about the rifle stashed under the counter, rarely used but loaded just the same.

“Shit,” said Jimmy, looking at Ed. “You gotta lock the door.”

“Something wrong, Jimmy?” said Ed, trying to get a read on the situation. “You hurt?”

Jimmy kept looking out the large window, between the big painted letters that said Ed's in reverse. “You gotta lock the doors. Where are the keys?”

Shit, thought Ed. He's on something again. Hopefully he hasn't hurt anybody. And won't hurt anybody here.

Ed cleared his throat. “Jimmy, don't you think you should have someone look at your arm?”

Jimmy let out a pained whine and pulled a pistol from his back pocket. He pointed it at Ed.

The diner fell quiet. A waitress behind Ed gasped and dropped a dish.

Jimmy shook as he spoke. “Please. Lock the fucking door right fucking now or I will shoot you and get the fucking keys my fucking self.”

Ed stared at Jimmy. At the gun. His hand inched toward the rifle.

The gun rattled in Jimmy's shaking hand. “Please,” he said, almost whispering.

At the edge of his vision, Ed saw movement outside. A bent form was shuffling toward the diner. Ed recognized the dirty jacket and battered cap. Old Timmins, no doubt coming for some post-drunk coffee. Timmins was a drunk, but he was a good man all around. And the customers were all good people too. And this drugged-up little shit was going to burst in and start waving a gun? Anger grew in Ed.

Jimmy looked over at the figure outside. He cried out. Ed seized the chance and snatched up the gun. He brought it out over the counter and fired.

The shot hit Jimmy in the shoulder. Blood spattered backward and Jimmy fell over. Ed's ears rang and the diner was silent.

Ed breathed out, his heart pounding. “Call an ambulance,” he said to the waitress behind him.

The door jangled as Old Timmins pushed his way in.

“Picked a hell of a time to come up for air,” said Ed, replacing the rifle under the counter. He reached for a clean coffee cup.

Timmins shuffled toward the counter. His head was down and he said nothing.

Ed placed the mug down as Timmins grew near. He reached for the coffee pot. Then it struck him as odd that Timmins hadn't reacted to the gunshot or the wounded punk on the floor.

Then Ed was screaming as Old Timmins sank half-rotten teeth into his arm.