A Quest For Zach ft. Bad Sandwiches

Zach is a Growing Boy

Zach was eleven years old and a growing, hungry boy. He was determined. He pushed his way through the entrance to the sandwich shop, his father Eugene's credit card in his hand. Above his head, the door chimes prettily tinkled. The man behind the counter looked up from tapping on his cell phone. According to his name tag, he was called Ned. He had green eyes and looked like one of those nice, bland men who smiled at children a lot. And lured the good-looking, plump, stupid ones into his home. To eat them, after he drained their blood. You never knew what a blood-draining, child-eater looked like these days.

Zach was a good-looking kid. But he was skinny. And most importantly: smart. So he was safe from blood drainage.

"Hello," said Zach. "How are you, sir?" A year ago Keith, his mother, had been kidnapped by the henchmen of a certain villain named Becky. But before they had been precipitously separated, Keith had taught his son pretty darn good manners.

"'Sup?" said Ned. "What can I get for you today?"

It was a very nice shop. There were several pre-made sandwiches wrapped and ready to sell in the display, and there was a big salad bar nearby.

"I would like the Spicy Stomach Dissolver, the Heart Attack No.3, and the Probably Mostly Meat Club. Please."

"Sure," said Ned. "That will be $16.79. Would you like to try a sample of our new Tummyache Tuna Melt?"

"Thanks." Zach took a piece. The sourdough bread was toasted lightly, the way his mother used to do for him. Zach handed over the credit card.

"Sorry, kid, but new store policy. We have to check ID with credit cards. Your mom with you?"

Zach shook his head.

"Your dad?"

Zach pulled out his cell phone and called Eugene. The ringing went on and on. Finally, a croaky voice answered.

"Zullo?" Eugene said. "Zahh?"

Zach looked out the store's glass doors, where he could see the parking lot. His dad was in his car, slumped over the wheel. Not drunk—he wouldn't get drunk now. Not after Zach tossed all his bottles. But his dad was probably dead tired, after a long day of Missing Keith, Crying into Pillows, and Plotting Revenge.

"Dad," Zach said. "You have to come inside to show your ID."

"Ok," Eugene said. "But I don't have any shoes on."

"No shoes, no shirt, no service," said Ned, who was looking down at his phone again. It looked like he was playing a game, but he must have very sharp hearing. Maybe he was a werewolf. In all the books Zach read, werewolves had excellent ears.

"Why don't you have shoes on, Dad?"

"Plotting Revenge, day after day really takes a toll on your feet, boy. Shoes make ′em hurt even more."

"Ok," said Zach. "I have ten dollars with me. Do you have seven dollars?"

Eugene dropped the phone and Zach heard the sounds of cursing and fumbling.

"Ah-hah!" said Eugene. "I have a hundred dollar bill!"

"Sorry," said Ned, looking up from his game briefly. "We ain't taking any bills over twenty."

Ned was, Zach decided, an asshole. His wife had probably fled from him and now here he was, a bitter man with a shriveled heart, trying to drain some children of blood and stopping some others from eating unhealthy sandwiches.