The Last Quiznos on Earth
by Eric Vega
August 24th, 12 A.Q.
Shandon banged his head against an open drawer as he woke with a start. Bright light filled his vision and, for a second, he thought he was dead. The light subsided though, followed by a slow grumble of thunder. It was morning, but the sunlight was choked by the raging storm outside. Shandon rubbed his palm on the tender knot already forming atop his head.
“Ow,” he said dryly, even though the pain had mostly passed. He fumbled overhead and blindly closed the drawer, then pressed his palms to the sticky, red and green linoleum flooring. He rose, scanning the fast-casual restaurant he called his home. It was a Quiznos – the last Quiznos on Earth, by his reckoning. There was work to do.
He fumbled in the dark for his apron, and found it hanging from the handle of the toaster oven. “Mmmm… Toasty,” he thought joylessly. He sighed, slipped on the apron, and tied a messy knot behind his back. He fished a matchbook and a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the apron pocket. Shandon had found them in the glovebox of a burned out Cybertruck, amazed that they had not been consumed by the battery fire. He struck a match, snapping it in half. The red phosphorus tip fell to the ground, sputtering sparks briefly before fading.
He tried again, this time successfully lighting his second to last cigarette. He breathed in deep, choking on the harsh smoke. He theorized that the battery fire had somehow infected his scavenged smokes, but he didn’t care. It made him feel something, and that was worth a lungful of vaporized battery acid.
Shandon made his way through the dining area, lighting the refurbished candelabras on the peeling, plastic tables with the tip of his cigarette. The building had a generator, but it had run out of gas about six months ago. Shandon had been siphoning gas from abandoned cars when he could, but there were so few left. Most vehicles he came across were EVs, and fat lot of good those did him. He didn’t like leaving the Quiznos much anyway, as there was always a chance of bumping into trouble.
The propane tanks were still half-full though, and that’s all he needed to keep the restaurant running. Most of the equipment in the kitchen ran on gas, including the toaster. As long as he could toast, the Quiznos would stay open.
Selling toasted subs in the apocalypse was risky, but that risk came with reward. Shandon was always surprised by what people were willing to part with for a fresh, toasted sub. A wastelander once traded him a fully loaded shotgun for a Prime Rib & Peppercorn™, and a desperate mother even offered him her infant daughter for a Classic Italian™. He declined the offer, instead trading for a spare baby bottle. Good bottles were surprisingly hard to come by, and he needed something that could squeeze out mayo with precision accuracy.
He twisted the knob on the toaster oven all the way to right, listening to the click of the pilot light until the he heard a rush of flame. He approached the front door and flipped the “closed” sign to “open”.
Shandon had to make some modifications to the building in order to keep it safe from looters and marauders. The building was mostly brick and mortar, sturdy enough to keep most wastelanders out. However, plate glass windows made up the facade, and they were an obvious weakness. Shandon had sandbagged the windows (although technically they were bags of white flour), just like his mother had taught him to do in preparation for hurricanes. He had busted out one window and modified it into a secure takeout window. Heavy iron bars guarded a bulletproof glass window pane, dotted with indents from those who had tested its fortitude. A small, sliding panel was the only point of entry, used exclusively to accept payment and pass sandwiches to hungry and honest travelers.
He didn’t expect much in the way of business on a day like this, but there was always the chance that a patron would come stumbling out of the deluge. He set to prepping the ingredients for the day, which ate up most of his morning. He had dug a cold cellar beneath the walk-in freezer, which had long risen to room temperature. He opened the metal hatch and descended the loose, wooden staircase.
It was tight, but deep enough for Shandon to stand up in. The dirty, subterranean room wasn’t exactly up to code, but it kept his ingredients cool enough to beat back the rot. Besides, people’s stomachs had hardened over the years.
He tried to keep the menu as similar to the Before as he could, but of course there were comprises. If you ordered a Baja Chicken™, you knew you weren’t getting actual chicken. If you were lucky, it would be week-old smoked pigeon. If you were unlucky, it was scavenged crow. “Crow’d kill,” he had heard one patron call it. He smiled at the memory.
However, Shandon was able to grow a steady supply of fresh produce. He was proud of the rooftop garden he had developed from nothing more than dirt, plywood, and rotted veggie scraps. He had covered the garden with chickenwire to keep out the birds, and encircled the rooftop with barbed wire to keep out the rest.
The veggies were nice, but they weren’t the reason he was still in business. The crown jewel of his operation was, and always would be, the sauces. The day the world died, his store had just received a fresh shipment of Quiznos signature sauces. Honey mustard, creamy ranch dressing, peppercorn, enough to fill an olympic swimming pool. His customers craved those tangy, savory, preservative-filled sauces more than anything else on his menu. He’d seen men kill for them, die for them, live for them.
Shandon was running a Pigeon Carbonara™ through the toaster for himself when he heard a knock at the takeout window. He grabbed a hand-drawn menu and his shotgun and approached the window. At first, he thought he might have imagined the sound. He could see no one at the window, and began to suspect some kind of ambush.
“Excuse me,” said a nervous voice, and Shandon looked down. It was a boy, no older than 10. The top of his head was barely visible over the counter, and Shandon had to stand on his tip toes and lean over to get a good look.
“Can I help you?” asked Shandon.
“Could I please have a Southwest Chicken™ sandwich?”
“What do you have to trade?”
The boy fished around in his soaking wet overalls until he produced a sopping pack of cigarettes. He placed them on the counter.
“Is that enough?” the boy asked sheepishly.
Shandon slid open the glass panel and quickly snatched the cigarettes. He looked inside and was disappointed to find two limp cigarettes marinated in rain water. He looked at the kid, well below 100 pounds and shivering to the bone. A ring of blue wrapped around his lips, and a tidal wave of pity crashed against Shandon’s heart.
“Where are your parents?”
“They’re gone.”
Shandon knew better than to push the matter. If he’s telling the truth, he doesn’t need to relive the gritty details. If not, Shandon didn’t want to hear the lie.
“One Southwest Chicken™, coming up.”
April 12rd, 0 A.Q.
Shandon was briefly surprised to find himself alone in bed. His head still hurt from the night before, and the memories suddenly came flooding back. He had been an hour late to his own anniversary dinner, and spent the majority of the meal sitting in quiet shame. Bellamie loved him, he knew that, but she was tired. Shandon had been unemployed for 8 months, and Bellamie was working overtime at the Quiznos every night to pick up the slack. The way things were going, this one night off could mean the difference between waking up in a bed or waking up in their car, and he had blown it.
He wasn’t surprised that she had snuck quietly out of bed to go to work. It was obvious she was still upset with him. Not angry – it was rare for Bellamie to be angry over anything. She was kind to a fault, which made disappointing her that much more painful. She could be like a hurt parent in that way, one that could break you not through scolding, but through quiet chagrin.
He checked his phone to see if she’d left him a message, swiping through half a dozen news notifications in the process. He found nothing. Downtrodden, he clawed his way out of bed and immediately plopped onto their living room sofa.
Shandon had become deeply invested in Gorilla Girls during his unemployment, a reality TV series about women who made a lifestyle out of owning endangered mountain gorillas. It made him feel better about himself knowing that, at the very least, he wasn’t actively torturing endangered animals.
He pulled up the latest episode on his Smart TV, and was mildly irritated to see an error message pop up. “Billing error” was all he really took in before he whipped out his phone to check his bank statements.
“Huh,” was his first thought, one that he would remember for the rest of his life. His bank account read “$0.00” and, while he was definitely broke, he knew he wasn’t that broke. He opened his Visa app and was equally surprised at what he found – or to be more precise, what he didn’t find. His entire account had seemingly been deleted, as if he had just closed it himself one day.
He was too ashamed to text Bellamie and ask for her credit card number, so he threw on one of the free TV news channels instead. Maybe a car chase would be on, or at least something to fill the hole left by Gorilla Girls. Sadly there was no car chase, just a boring anchor reading the news. Shandon was able to glaze over when he read the ticker: Markets Panic as Hackers Wipe Banking Records.
Shandon turned up the volume as images of looting and civil unrest accompanied the anchor’s dire report. Soon, the President was on the screen advising all citizens to shelter at home and secure any cash in their possession. Shandon’s mind turned to Bellamie. As a Quiznos manager, she was often the only person working at any given time. She had a key to the safe, possibly her most valuable possession at this very moment. He grabbed his keys and rushed out the door.
Shandon quickly realized that this may have been a poor choice. Guess that whole “shelter in place” thing wasn’t bullshit, he thought. He passed his local Starbucks and saw a man in a black medical mask gripping a frightened barista by the lapel. He pulled her over the counter, then grabbed the register. He fled the store, but was instantly tackled by two teenagers in skin-tight tracksuits.
Everywhere he looked, Shandon saw portraits of anarchy unfolding around him. A stocky woman in her 60s took a circular saw to a parking meter. Soon, a shower of quarters spilled from the device. The sound of clattering change attracted a mob of desperate capitalists, all scratching and scrounging for their cut. The woman tried to fend them off, embedding her saw into a young nurse’s arm. However, the older woman was overpowered by a tall man in a pressed suit. He turned the saw back on the woman. Viscera sprayed the crowd like a sprinkler.
Shandon was mugged twice on his way to the Quiznos. The first mugger was disappointed at the lack of cash in Shandon’s wallet. The second mugger didn’t check, he just punched Shandon in the face and ran off with the entire wallet.
By the time he arrived at the Quiznos, it was too late. The front door had been ripped off its hinges. Bloody footprints streaked the linoleum. Half eaten sandwiches littered the floors. There was no sign of Bellamie.
Shandon rushed passed the gutted cash registers towards the back of the house. The rioters had apparently ignored the back room, still immaculate from Bellamie’s last deep clean. The only sign of something amiss was the snail trail of blood leading to the walk-in freezer.
Shandon steadied himself, ready for the worst. He pushed against the freezer door, and it slowly creaked open with a metallic scrape. Bellamie was on the ground, propped up against a cardboard box labeled “Pepper Jack”.
“Shandon…” she moaned weakly. A crimson stain spread like wet spiderwebs from her gut. Shandon dropped to her side, looking over her again and again in some desperate attempt to find a solution.
“I’m so sorry,” Shandon choked through streaming tears. Bellamie smiled. She took his hand, slick with warm blood that steamed in the freezer.
“At least you weren’t too late this time.”
A pained smile stretched across her blueing face. Shandon laughed involuntarily, surprising himself through his grief.
“I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Bellamie’s smile faded, along with the light in her eyes. Shandon held her tight, weeping through the night.
August 31st, 12 A.Q.
Shandon placed a Pigeon Carbonara™ at the base of Bellamie’s makeshift gravestone. He always made her favorite sandwich for her birthday. He knew the crows would get to it, but he didn’t care. He liked to imagine the scent of hearty marinara permeating the grave, warming the tip of her button nose for just a moment. A twitch of recognition, of joy, before returning to her rest.
“You know the crows are going to eat that, right?” said Jimothy with an unfiltered tone of judgment in his voice. He was wearing a dirty smock and leaning on a battered broom.
“Everyone has to eat.”
It had been a week since Jimothy first knocked at the takeout window, but Shandon was already attached to the boy. He’d proven himself a hard worker and semi-decent conversationalist.
Jimothy seemed satisfied with Shandon’s response. He took his broomstick back inside and pretended to tidy the dining area.
Shandon turned toward the Quiznos. The original sign still hung above the facade, though the sun had bleached the colors of the years. He had considered jerry-rigging the lights to run on gas, but he figured he was just as likely to burn the whole place down as he was to get that sign glowing again. The “Q” hung at an awkward angle. He would fix that someday.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and at first Shandon paid it no mind. It didn’t fade, however, and Shandon realized it wasn’t a thunderclap that filled the air. The image of a rainstorm melted away, replaced by the unholy belching of motorcycle engines. Shandon ran inside.
“Close the shutters!” Shandon barked at Jimothy. The boy immediately sensed the urgency in his voice and did as he was commanded. Shandon dead-bolted the door and slotted an iron bar across the frame. He’d dealt with marauders before, demanding free lunches at the threat of death – or worse. He was prepared this time. This store was his world, and he would fight for it to the end.
A regiment of bikers surrounded the building, mufflers roaring and belching black smoke into the air. The men were clothed in patchworks of human leather, some with recognizable facial features protruding from the garments.
One biker pulled up inches from the takeout window. His head was bald and scarred, a glassy eye glinting in the afternoon sun. He wore a necklace of human teeth and bleached ears. Bits of barbed wire and rusty nails framed his ride, a rusted, black beast of a Harley. He wrapped a knuckle against the impermeable glass.
“Anyone home?” he sneered. His flock followed up with a rev of their engines.
In the freezer, Shandon hid the boy behind a fortress of cardboard boxes. It wouldn’t help much in the case the marauders made their way inside, but it was a psychological comfort to both Jimothy and Shandon.
“You’re coming back, right?”
“I am.”
“You won’t let them take me?”
“I won’t.”
Shandon rubbed a thumb tenderly against Jimothy’s cheek. He smiled as he projected Bellamie’s eyes onto the boy’s. He stood, and moved to close the freezer door.
“Wait-“, cried Jimothy.
Shandon stood still, looking at the frail child he barely knew.
“What does he know?”
Shandon cocked his head to the side, like a dog trying to understand a new command.
“What does who know?”
“Quiz, what does he know?”
Shandon cracked a wide smile.
“M-m-m-m… Toasty,” he said with a wink.
With that, he slid the heavy metal door shut.
Shandon approached the takeout window, now splattered with a noxious concoction of human fluids. The Leader leaned against the counter, grinning an ape-like grin at Shandon.
“Welcome to Quiznos, how can I help you?”
“Has a small boy come through here recently? About-”
He lowered his palm to his belly button.
“Sorry, haven’t seen anyone matching that description,” Shandon lied.
“That’s funny, because my scout said he saw someone matching that exact description sweeping around this place just yesterday.”
“I work alone.”
“Funny, I thought a man as successful as you would Quiz-know better than to lie to me.”
The Leader produced a sawn-off shotgun from inside his human-leather jacket. He pressed the barrel against the glass.
“Don’t make me ask again.”
Shandon stared blankly at the man.
“Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”
The Leader gestured to his goons, who broke rank and began prodding the building for weaknesses.
“How about a Black Angus Steakhouse, toasted.”
Shandon watched the bikers from the corner of his eyes. He was confident that the building was secure, but there was always the chance that they could find some overlooked detail to exploit. He needed them gone, quickly.
“Will that be all?”
The man nodded silently. Shandon approached the kitchen.
“Hey,” the Leader interrupted. “Don’t try anything cute.”
Shandon stepped behind the counter. He grabbed a twelve-inch rosemary parmesan loaf and sliced it horizontally, then stacked piles of smoked venison inside. He had tracked the deer not two-day earlier, as fresh as you’ll find in these parts. He added a layer of sautéed mushrooms and onions, then slices of provolone and cheddar – alternating in color like a delicious checkerboard. Finally, he grabbed a bottle of Quiznos signature Zesty Grill Sauce™ and doused the sandwich in a thick layer of flavor.
The Leader salivated as he watched Shandon work. He placed the sandwich on a metal tray, then slid it onto the toaster oven’s conveyor belt. It crawled into the oven, gentle flames licking the cheese.
“We got something!” shouted one of the bikers. Another rushed to the side of the building wielding a pickaxe. Shandon heard the sound of bricking chipping away, a violent excavation.
“Looks like we’ll be dining,” the man laughed insanely.
“Do you know what makes Quiznos subs the greatest on Earth?” Shandon asked?
The man’s brows furrowed in annoyed confusion.
“What?”
“They’re toasted.”
Shandon flipped a hidden switch beneath the counter. Somewhere, a pilot light sparked, and a whoosh of flame roared to life.
Instantly, a ring of fire surrounded the Quiznos. The bikers were immediately engulfed in frame, screaming as their flesh melted and fused with their human-leather clothing. Small explosions pierced the chaos as motorcycle tanks ignited and burst from the pressure. Shrapnel bounced off the brick facade of the building, embedding themselves in the limbs and torsos and skulls of the marauders.
The toaster oven dinged, and a freshly toasted sub steamed on the metal tray. Shandon picked it up and took a bite as he watched the melting leader screech like a dying ape. He sprinted unevenly toward his bike and managed to peel out of the circular inferno, a line of flame trailing in his wake. The Leader only made it a few feet before his gas taken ignited, sending bits of twisted metal and gore screaming through the sky.
The scent of burning flesh attracted scavengers instantly. Crows and vultures circled overhead, looking down at the carnage below. They watched the flames from above. Though they did not recognize it, the burning circle and the flaming trail of the Leader’s failed escape formed a perfect “Q”.
Long after the fires had burned out, Shandon and Jimothy descended on the burned out bikes like vultures on a burned out biker. They siphoned gasoline, enough to fill the generator.
“Can I do it?” asked Jimothy.
“Of course,” smiled Shandon.
Jimothy flipped a switch by the front door, then eagerly scurried outside. He looked up at the glowing sign, its red, green, and white lights dazzling in the night sky. “Wow,” he whispered to himself.
Shandon wrapped his arm around the boy and held him tightly to his side. “Wow,” he replied.
The Eric Vega 