Scones

Author's note: This is one part of the Melted collection. These stories can be read individually or in any order.

Hours before the birds began their song, a baker whistled to himself as he unlocked the front door of his shop. The air was crisp and cool, but only because it was so early. These days, one could reasonably expect the temperatures to soar to the upper 70s in January. It was weird, the baker admitted, but he was never a fan of shovelling snow anyway.

Today, he shovelled flour into massive mixing bowls. First, he would start the bread, then he would mix up some scones. They were his specialty and he offered a broad assortment of flavors for clamoring customers. Blueberry, lemon poppyseed, pumpkin, chocolate chip, and morning glory. Thyme with goat cheese, sundried tomato, and bacon cheddar chive for the savory crowd.

He reserved one batch for his breakfast. Cranberry orange zest with a sweet glaze today. These scones would have an extra scoop of cranberries and a few whimsical sprinkles on top just for pizazz. The baker's mouth watered in anticipation. He swished some black coffee through his teeth while he waited for the oven. It filled the bakery with the intoxicating aroma of yeasty bread. Even after all these years, the baker was not immune to the lure of fresh bread. His waistline was proof. 

Leaning against the counter, the baker paused his work to munch his breakfast and scroll through his phone. An alarmist aunt posted an offensive political meme. His ex-wife posted some inspirational drivel punctuated with #blessed. His brother-in-law shared an adorable video of his twin daughters playing in the sprinkler. The baker checked the date stamp and saw that the video was taken just two days ago. If it was hot enough for swimsuits in January, he worried what summer would have in store. Better buy a stronger air conditioner.

The baker flipped to a news website and took a large bite of the crumbly cranberry scone. He brushed bits off his belly as he clicked a particularly sensationalist headline:

Argentinian Zombies Kill Millions

"Zombies", as it turned out, was a bit of an overstatement and although the "zombies" were Argentinian citizens, the disease didn't even originate in Argentina. They were just victims. Leave it to the media to mislead the public, thought the baker. Some scientists in Antarctica discovered a new species of extremophilic algae that wreaked havoc on human brains. According to the article, those exposed to the algae experienced extremely high blood pressure, fevers, confusion, rage, and if left unchecked, they committed acts of violence. The article continued: a plane with a sample of the Antarctican algae landed in Argentina in mid-January and, the baker assumed, got loose somehow. He didn't worry. Argentina was very far away and he doubted the accuracy of the news report anyway. The baker finished the scone in one bite.

When the starry black sky gave way to the fuzzy indigo of pre-dawn, the baker set to work filling the display cases. Baguettes, croissants, danishes, and pastries were arranged to entice. The baskets of scones overflowed. 

A tapping at the glass. The baker looked up to see an elderly gentleman rapping on the glass door with an umbrella. The baker recognized the man as a regular customer who frequently shared amusing stories from his world travels. He always carried the umbrella, rain or shine. It had become something of a trademark and the man often punctuated especially titillating tales with a jab of the umbrella handle. He had become one of his favorite customers, and the baker knew this man was hoping for the freshest morning glory scone.

The baker pointed to the CLOSED sign hanging on the door and shrugged apologetically. He was a punctual man and would unlock the doors at exactly 6:00.

The early bird narrowed his eyes. His cheeks reddened. He banged the umbrella against the glass with more force.

The baker shook his head emphatically and mouthed the word "closed." He indicated an imaginary wristwatch and held up six fingers. The message was clear.

The elderly man roared in frustration and smashed his fists against the glass. "Scones!" he screamed, spraying spittle on the door. He threw himself against the door and slapped his palms against the brick wall. “Scones!” He pounded until his hands came back looking like raw steaks.

Underneath his terror, the baker felt a little tickle of pride that his goods could inspire such passion. He fumbled with his cell phone until he was able to control his hands and dial for emergency services.

“Hey, friend,” said a youthful voice. The baker couldn’t see who was coming down the street, but he saw an assortment of dogs straining at their leashes and barking ferociously. 

“Do you need a doctor, friend?” A moment later, the dogwalker appeared as she approached the man. She was athletic, but small of stature, and wore a purple NYU hoodie. Her face was calm and kind, but she shortened the dogs’ leashes.

The elderly man turned his dilated eyes towards the student. He bared his teeth. Raised blood vessels were visible on his vermillion face even from the back of the bakery. He spat at her and brandished the umbrella. The dogwalker’s face hardened. She reached into her back pocket.

The baker could see a spiky-haired paperboy riding his bicycle down the hilly street. He wore the same wild-eyed red-faced expression of the man who wanted scones. When the youth spotted the squabble on the street, he picked up speed and steered his bicycle straight for them, screeching at the top of his lungs. The baker stood frozen behind the display case. His cell phone fell from his hand as a tinny voice said “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

The bicycle crashed into the net of dog leashes and tangled there. The growling dogs yelped in surprise and their master dropped the leads. They tore off down the street in terror, still tethered together. The kid fell off his bicycle and the newspapers went flying. He leapt to his feet with amazing speed and produced a switchblade. He screamed again as he swiped at the man and the student in equal measure. The man stabbed at the paperboy with his umbrella and the student sprayed a can of mace.

The skirmish moved down the street and away from the bakery, but the baker could hear it through the glass. Screaming, scuffling, shrieking, slashing, squelching. Silence.

The baker stood motionless and lightheaded. Suddenly remembering his task, he picked up his cell phone from the floor and spoke to the patient emergency operator. Before he could finish describing the scene, the sound of smashing glass dropped him to the floor. 

Dozens of people, all fire and fury, hurled rocks through the plate glass window. The crowd screeched and attacked each other with as much enthusiasm as they directed at the baker barely hidden within. Some of the people carried weapons and others used found objects. One smashed another’s head through the bakery display case. Bread and pastries spilled out onto the slippery red floor. Dawning sunlight streamed through the jagged hole where the window used to be. It seemed Argentina wasn’t quite so far away after all.

The baker crawled on hands and knees to the closet that kept cleaning supplies. He kicked the door shut behind him, leaving him in utter darkness. He shoved brooms and mops out of the way. The clawing horde in the front of his store was getting closer. The baker could hear them spitting and shouting, smashing and slashing.

He ran his hands along the floorboards, up the walls, behind the paneling. Was it still there after all these years? The baker only stashed it there to keep it away from his ex-wife, then he forgot about it. The baker's flour-covered hands bumped against steel. He ran his hands along the object, testing it, remembering it, coming to terms with it. It couldn’t be true, could it? Wasn’t this whole mess just a big scare tactic made up by the media? A hoax? 

The hoax slammed against the door of the supply closet. Fingernails scratched and boots kicked. Exhaling a long breath, the baker stood up in the dark, cracked open the door, and leveled the shotgun.