Fully Loaded by Blake Crouch, J. A. Konrath

the waitress gone, they have the restaurant all to themselves.
    “Looks good,” Ron says, pointing his fork at Jessica’s dish.
    The chicken pot pie barely fits on the plate, the crust perfectly gilded, steam rising through tiny holes in the center.
    “I’m so hungry,” Jessica says, piercing the crust with her fork, scooping out a bite.   “My God, worth every cent.   How’s yours?”
    Ron swallows a bite of his penne pasta with scallops and clam sauce.
    “Unreal.   You know, if we had to go through all this shit today just to have this meal, it might actually have been worth it.”
    He lifts his glass, and as he tilts it up, wine running down his throat, eyes shut with pleasure, trying to think of a toast to make, Jessica gasps.
    Ron looks across the table, sees blood pouring down his wife’s chin, two fishhooks dangling from her bottom lip.   She spits something onto the table—a half-inch black oval that he mistakes for a rock or a seedpod until it scampers away.
    Other roaches crawl out of the pot pie, and Ron instinctively stands and steps back, noticing now that more than fishhooks and roaches fill the pie.   Mixed in with the carrots and potatoes and chicken, shards of glass glint in the candlelight.
    Jessica vomits on the floor, and Ron feels the urge as well, his mouth watering heavily.
    He helps his wife to stand and they back away from the table, Ron wondering what might be lurking in the pearl-colored clam sauce of the dish he already took two bites from, decides not to even contemplate it.
    Jessica trembles, tears streaming down her face.
    “Calm down, baby.   Let me look.”   In the lowlight, he sees that one of the hooks has barely lodged.   “I can get this one out right now.”  
    Delicately, with surgeon’s hands, he works the hook out of the corner of her lip.
    “This other one’s really embedded.   I think the barb’s under the skin.”
    “My tongue,” she cries.
    “Let me see.”
    She sticks it out, and even in the poor light, Ron can see the deep slice halfway up the right side of her tongue.
    “Jesus, it’s bad.   Do you think you swallowed any glass?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “All right, stay here.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “To hurt somebody.”
    “No, wait.”   Her mouth has already begun to swell, blunting the sharpness of her consonants.
    “Why?”
    “Let’s just go find the sheriff.”
    “No, fuck that.”
    Ron rushes toward the back of the restaurant, his fists already clenched as he kicks open the metal doors.
    The kitchen stands dark.
    He says, “Anybody in here?”
     
    -12-
    They arrive at the front desk of the Lone Cone Inn, find the same stodgy clerk who they spoke with earlier in the day leaning back in a swivel chair, engrossed in a paperback romance.
    “Excuse me?” Ron says, the clerk startling.
    “Yes?”
    “Where’s the hospital?”   He gestures to Jessica, holding a burgundy cloth napkin over her mouth.   “My wife needs medical attention.”
    “I’m sorry, we only have a clinic, and it’s closed.”
    “No hospital?”
    “Nearest one’s thirty miles away, and as you know, the passes are closed tonight.”
    “Okay, how about a sheriff?”
    “Yes, but I’m sure his office is closed as well.   It’s almost nine.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Carol.”
    “Tell me, Carol, what do the residents of this town do when they need an officer of the fucking peace?”
    “Did something happen?”
    “Yeah, something happened.”
    “I guess I could try Sheriff Hanson at his home.”
    “Really?   I mean, I don’t want to put you out or anything just ‘cause someone put glass and hooks and roaches in my wife’s fucking dinner and almost cut her tongue in—”
    “It’s not her fault, Ron.”
    Carol lifts the phone, dials a number, after a moment, says, “Arthur?   Hey it’s Carol.   I’ve got the couple from out-of-town standing here at my desk, and I think they need your help…I don’t know…yeah, I think