Not Your Typical Nightmare

He still couldn't shake the previous night's dream. Having served two tours of duty in Iraq, Tory Blake was no stranger to horrifying nightmares. He occasionally awoke in the middle of the night, shaking, drenched in a cold sweat, as he relived the carnage he had witnessed. Those dreams vanished once he shook his head clear, but this one didn't. As he stood in front of the mirror this morning shaving, the vivid unsettling dream of the night before once again unfolded before his eyes.

After his discharge from the military, Tory had taken a day job as a waiter in order to make a few bucks while attending college at night. This morning he was assigned to the Colby Room, named so in honor of the restaurant's founder , Colby Nash. The room resembled a great dining hall of a medieval castle-both dark and foreboding. Three small and ineffective chandeliers hung swaying from the ceiling and an undersized steel emergency exit door with a 4"x4" glass pane provided the only illumination. Patrons were herded into the room through a tiny tunnel leading from the foyer. An eight foot tall stuffed grizzly bear stood in the corner and the walls were adorned with the heads of deer, moose, elks and antelopes all having trophy sized antlers. Their demon eyes followed every movement in the room, as if they were carefully scrutinizing a menu deciding on an entrée.

Twenty-six tables and booths of various size and shape filled the room. A cozy booth for two behind a curtain in a corner alcove offered seclusion for a romantic interlude or lustful affair. An enormous oak table could easily accommodate a boisterous party of twenty. The remaining tables and booths were covered with a dull nondescript black and white checkered table cloth, which hung precariously close to the floor, and a smudged sometimes cracked glass top.

Melanie Kryler, a pert young girl well known for her texting ability, more so than her serving skills, was assigned to the adjacent smaller dining room. She talked a mile a minute and her fingers raced at the same speed as she deftly tapped, tapped, tapped lengthy messages on the keypad of her sophisticated cell phone, oblivious to her surroundings, leaving Tory the onerous task of stocking the restaurant with necessary condiments.

He had walked the short distance to the storage area in the rear of the restaurant, retrieved a few items and walked back toward his room noticing that Melanie's room was empty. But in those brief two minutes it took to complete the task, six tables had been seated in his room.

Tory shrugged and mumbled an expletive under his breath. He had no idea which table had been sat first and approached the closest to take a drink order. The couple requested hot tea and cappuccino which meant he would have to trek to the espresso brewing station at the far end of the restaurant. He then approached a family of four inquiring as to their choice of drinks. The menu dropped from the mother's hands and she sat there lifeless; motionless. Tory then realized that the family of four was a family of four mannequins.

It was futile to ask Melanie for help. Her fingers were busy sending messages and she most likely had entered into a pact with the hostess not to seat her while she was engaged with personal social business.
Likewise, the Manager on Duty felt it beneath his dignity to lift a finger to help. The Manager brusquely strutted through the room, shirtless, sporting an enormous belt and magnificent large gold buckle emblazoned with the title "MANAGER".

One group picked up their knives and forks and began banging them on the table clamoring, "Water." "Water." "Waiter, Water." Emotional contagion formed and soon the dining room reverberated with the chant. The animals on the wall let loose with a hearty laugh and the empty chairs formed a conga line weaving its way through the room.

He tried to reach another table, but his shoes were encased in concrete and the floor had turned to mud. Now, a table of eight and twelve had entered the room. A hopeless situation.

Tory observed the hostess standing at the mouth of the tunnel. She wore a long flowing crimson robe and a crown of bejeweled silver serpents sat on her head. As she scribbled on the floor chart, a sardonic smile crossed her face revealing gigantic fangs dripping with blood from her last victim.

Tory once again awoke from the dream. He placed the razor back on the shelf and in a daze he walked to the phone. He called work and told them he would be sick today. Maybe forever.