The Store

by Bentley Little

  His initial reaction was to say no. He knew she'd been a little bored the past year, a little restless, and with the boys gone she didn't have as much to do, but he knew she'd get used to it. This was a transitional period, he told her. It would probably take a while to adjust.

  She didn't want to adjust, she told him. She wanted to get a job.

  He was against the idea, but he hadn't actually come out and forbidden her to work. Ten years ago, he would have. But women these days didn't act the way they used to. Times had changed. All he had to do was look at what had happened to his friend Ken. Ken's situation was almost identical to his own. A year or so ago, after his daughter had gone off to college, Ken's wife, suffering from the empty-nest syndrome, had wanted to get a job. He had forbidden her to do so, and there'd been nothing but headaches and heartaches for him after that. Finally, she'd threatened to leave him, and Ken had given in and let her go to work.

  Aaron didn't want the same thing to happen with Virginia.

  So he pretty much had to let her work.

  And he still wasn't sure how he felt about that.

  He finished his fritter, wiped his fingers on the napkin in his lap, and started up the cruiser.

  Time for the tour.

  When he'd first been assigned the graveyard shift, he'd hated it. On a purely physical level, his body had had a tough time coping with the change in sleep patterns, and he'd lain awake all day in his bed, while he was supposed to be sleeping, and dozed half the night in his patrol car, while he was supposed to be on duty. Not that it made much of a difference if he slept. Juniper rolled up its carpets at six and was for all intents and purposes dead to the world after dark. Len's Donuts was open all night, but he was usually the only customer, and it was a rare shift indeed when he saw even one other vehicle on the streets once the theater emptied at ten.

  He supposed that was why he'd grown to like graveyard. He got paid more than he would if he worked day shift or swing, and there was a hell of a lot less to do. The way it worked out, he was able to spend more time with his family than he ever had before, and if that meant that he sometimes caught a few Z's during the early morning downtime, well, it didn't harm anyone.

  Aaron took a slow, leisurely drive up and down the streets of Juniper. As usual, he saw no people, no cars, no movement. Everyone was asleep, snug in their beds, and he smiled to himself as he drove past his own house and thought of Virginia sacked out, snoring lightly in that cute little way she had. His eyes swept the street before him. Here and there, porch lights had been left on to ward off prowlers. Through an occasional curtain he could see the flickering blue light of a television that had not been turned off.

  He felt protective of the town as he cruised its streets, as though he was a proud papa and all of the people were his children. It was a strangely comforting feeling, and at times like this he was glad he'd gone against his parents' wishes and become a police officer.

  He drove down the dirt back roads at the east end of the town limits, then cut north through Creekside Acres in order to get to the highway. Turning left on the highway, he saw, through the driver's window of the cruiser, the square black bulk of The Store.

  It was a shame, he thought, that they'd had to build The Store here. It seemed to him that it would've made more sense to build on that vacant lot next to the Tire Barn, maybe buy out and tear down some of those eyesore trailers set up there. But instead they'd built it in the meadow where he used to take his dates, back before he'd met Virginia. Even the hillside where he used to spread his picnic blanket had been blasted and flattened.

  The next generation wouldn't know that the meadow had ever existed.

  It was a damn shame.

  And now Virginia wanted to work here.

  He pulled into the Store parking lot, intending to take a quick spin around before continuing back toward Main.

  Instantly, he slowed the car. The lights in the parking lot were off, but the moon was full and he could see small unmoving lumps on the asphalt: the forms of dead animals. He rode the brake as the cruiser slowly crept forward.

  He'd heard about this before, but he hadn't really believed it. Forest Everson had told him that there'd been a lot of croaked critters found on the property when The Store was being built -- and Forest was the one who'd handled that dead transient case -- but Aaron still hadn't put much stock in those tales. He figured it was like those full-moon stories, that crap about more crimes occurring when the moon was full. He knew that wasn't true.

  But there was a full moon tonight.

  And there were dead animals in the parking lot.

  He drove the cruiser slowly through the lot, glancing through the window at the bodies. There was a possum, a dog, what looked like a baby javelina, two crows, a bobcat. It was an amazingly diverse group of animals, and they all appeared unharmed and untouched. It was like they'd simply crawled onto the parking lot to die.

  Forest had told him that as well, and he'd dismissed it at the time, but he felt an unfamiliar tingle in the hairs at the nape of his neck as he stared at the dead animals.

  Fear.

  It was fear. Not the full-blown emotion generated by a life-threatening situation, more the mild sense of unease experienced by children when they heard strange noises in the dark, but it was fear nevertheless, and Aaron was both surprised at himself and ashamed.

  He continued forward, toward the enormous black mass of the Store building, looking out the window at the individual animals. Another dog. A squirrel. A tabby cat.

  A tabby cat.

  He stopped the car.

  Annabelle?

  He opened the door of the vehicle and stepped out to examine the animal.

  It was Annabelle, all right. But how in the world had she gotten here? Their house was at least three miles away. Had she walked that far, or had somebody catnapped her and killed her and dumped her body? Neither explanation made sense, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he bent down and touched the cat's body.

  Cold.

  Virginia would be devastated. Hell, so would the boys. Annabelle had been a part of their family for the past seven years. She was almost like a little sister to them.

  He didn't feel that hot himself, and there was a lump in his throat as he looked into the cat's face. She appeared calm, peaceful, eyes and mouth shut.

  His fingers closed around her cold front paw.

  And the lights in The Store flipped on.

  Aaron jumped, nearly fell over backwards. He quickly scrambled to his feet, drawing his revolver. There were no windows in The Store, only sliding glass doors at the entrance, but in the gloom of night, the light was piercing.

  It shone through the building's entrance and into the parking lot like a white searchlight, illuminating a swath of asphalt all the way out to the highway, causing long shadows to spring up from the bodies of the dead animals, the previously bright moonlight fading into insignificance before its fluorescent power. Aaron bolstered his weapon, already embarrassed by his panicked first reaction, and hurried back to the cruiser, hopping in and slamming shut the door. He put the vehicle into gear and drove through the lot toward the entrance of the building. His heart was pounding, his nerves alive with an adrenaline rush. There was probably nothing out of the ordinary here. A nighttime cleaning crew or some other workers were no doubt performing the legitimate duties for which they'd been hired. But at this hour, in the middle of the night, after the animals -- _Annabelle_ -- the sudden appearance of the lights was surprising.

  No, not surprising.

  Eerie.

  Yes. As embarrassing as it was to admit, he was a little spooked by the lights, even here in his patrol car, with his two-way radio and his shotgun and his revolver. Not for any rational reason. Not even for any irrational reason he could point to or pin down. It was simply an instinctual reaction, one over which he had absolutely no control.

  He forced himself to push that reaction aside, however, as he pulled the cruiser in front of the
store entrance, slamming the transmission into Park. He took the oversize flashlight from underneath the dashboard and, leaving the engine running, stepped out of the vehicle. There was no need for the flashlight, really. Every inch of The Store appeared to be clearly illuminated.

  But the parking lot was still dark, and after midnight there was no such thing as too much light. Besides, the flashlight doubled as a club, and he was more than prepared to use it in that capacity if necessary.

  He stepped up to the glass doors, looked inside. He saw nothing at first, only aisle after aisle of products and a bank of unmanned cash registers. Then he caught the blur of movement out of the corner of his eye, and he focused his attention on the right rear corner of The Store.

  And saw figures.

  Black-clad figures.

  Aaron's grip on the flashlight tightened. They were fanning outward from the corner, walking up aisles, moving around racks. They couldn't be employees, he thought. There was no way these strangely garbed individuals were here to perform any sort of legitimate work. They wore hoods and hats and looked like a variation on the cinematic conception of a cat burglar. Which meant they were probably here to rob or vandalize the place, to commit some sort of crime. Which meant that he was going to have to confront them and prevent the crime from being committed.

  There were a lot of them, though, and he would be perfectly justified in calling for backup. The problem was that, aside from himself, only Dirkson was on duty tonight, and it would take at least ten or fifteen minutes for him to rouse the other officers and dispatch them to The Store.

  Ten or fifteen minutes was a long time.

  In the night.

  In the dark.

  It was then that he saw the words THE STORE stenciled on the back of a shiny black -- jacket? shirt? -- it was hard to tell what it was, but one of the figures had turned around, and the words -- black on black -- were visible in the fluorescent light.

  They _were_ employees.

  Aaron breathed gratefully, unaware until now that he'd been holding his breath. He watched through the closed doors as the figures separated, heading over to the various Store departments.

  Figures.

  Why did he keep thinking of them as "figures" instead of "people"?

  Because they didn't look human.

  It was true. There was something about the figures, their build, their appearance, their movements, that struck him as odd, that looked, to his eye, unnatural.

  He stepped back, away from the entrance, trying to blend into the darkness, not wanting any of the figures to see him. From this vantage point, he watched them as they moved through the store. Beneath the black hoods and hats, their faces were white, skin the color of alabaster and possessed of an abnormal quality, an unidentifiable property that ordinary skin -- _human skin_ -- did not have.

  That wasn't possible, though. He was just being crazy. The animals had thrown him for a loop, and he'd been spooked ever since. There was nothing unusual here, nothing out of the ordinary. These were just people, people working the graveyard shift like himself, people who were trying to do their job. Graveyard shift.

  He was being stupid again.

  But was he? What work were these figures performing? They were wandering through the store, but they didn't seem to be doing anything. They certainly weren't cleaning the floors or replacing lightbulbs. They weren't even taking inventory. They were just . . . walking through the building. That wasn't work. A figure stepped in front of the door.

  Aaron jumped, instantly retreating further back into the darkness of the night. The figure stood inside The Store, behind the glass, facing out. Its head moved from left to right, as if scanning the parking lot. Seen this closely, from this angle, its movements seemed even stranger even more unusual and unnatural, and the skin of its face seemed whiter than any skin could be.

  Aaron's heart was thumping wildly in his chest, and his mouth was completely dry.

  The figure's head suddenly snapped to the left. Its eyes locked onto his.

  The surrounding night suddenly seemed much blacker.

  The figure stared at him.

  Grinned.

  Beckoned.

  Aaron ran around the patrol car to the driver's side and its welcome open door. He slammed the door shut, put the vehicle into gear, and took off. There was no crime being committed here, no reason for him to hang around.

  Technically, he was trespassing. He had no cause, no suspicions, nothing that would stand up in court if he attempted to explain why he was lurking outside The Store in the middle of the night.

  He glanced in his rearview mirror at the black shape of the building as he swerved onto the highway. He could see a small square of light where the entrance was.

  And a small black shape in the middle of the square.

  That settled it. Fights or no fights, problems or no problems, Virginia was not going to work. Not at The Store. He'd get divorced before he let her apply for a job at that place.

  He accelerated quickly, speeding down the highway toward Main, refusing to look in his mirror again until trees had blocked the view of The Store behind him. He did not rest easy until the cruiser was once again parked in front of Len's, and the well-lighted donut shop and its jovial proprietor were all he could see through his windshield.

  2

  The polarities had reversed.

  Bill had been unsure at first whether the change in their winning streaks meant that the outcome of the chess games would return to a normal randomness or whether it meant that the win-loss pattern would simply be transferred between him and Street.

  Obviously the latter.

  He'd grown to hate the game, but, as before, he felt compelled to play, driven to follow this through to the end.

  Yesterday, they'd played computer chess. Street had won.

  He was winning today's board game.

  No, he had won today's board game. "Check," he said, moving his bishop into place. "Mate."

  Street examined the position of the pieces on the board, then with one sweep of his hand knocked them to the floor. "Shit."

  "Two to two," Ben announced.

  Street stood. "I need a beer. Anyone else want one?"

  Both Bill's and Ben's hands went up.

  "Buds all around." Street retreated to the kitchen, emerging a moment later with three cans. He tossed one to each of them, then popped open his own, taking a long draught. He sat back down, began picking up the chess pieces off the floor.

  Bill stooped to help him.

  "I can do it," Street said.

  "I don't mind."

  "If you really want to help . . ." Street's voice trailed off. He straightened, threw the pieces into the box, downed a long swig of beer. "Ah, fuck."

  Bill frowned. "What is it?"

  Street sighed. "You know I don't like to trade on friendship," he said.

  "I've never tried to make either of you feel obligated to buy equipment from me, I've never tried to force you or con you. But I'm asking you now: do you think you could use some electronic equipment?"

  Ben's voice was quiet. "You're really hurting, huh?"

  Street nodded. "The Store's killing me." He looked from Ben to Bill. "I'm not asking for charity, but check around your homes or your offices, see if there're any electronic items you legitimately need. I'd appreciate the business."

  "Are . . ." Bill cleared his throat. "Do you think you can survive?"

  Street shrugged, finished off the beer. "I hope so, but who knows? At least I don't have alimony payments anymore. And at least the house is paid off.

  I suppose, if worse comes to worst, I can always file for bankruptcy." He chuckled. "Then, after my electricity's shut off and I can't afford to buy food, I can catch squirrels and cook them in the fireplace."

  Bill didn't laugh. "It's not that bad, is it?"

  "Not yet."

  They were silent after that. Street walked back into the kitchen, got himself another can of Budweiser. "So, gents," he said
finally, "any plans for this evening?"

  Ben looked at his watch. "Planning Commission. Actually, the meeting starts in fifteen minutes." He downed the rest of his beer. "I'd better start heading over there."

  Street turned toward Bill. "What about you?"

  "Same thing."

  "What is this crap? I know why Ben goes to these things. It's his job. He has to. But you?"

  "I like to know what's going on in my town."

  Street snorted. "Since when?"

  "Since I found out what an unreliable rag our friend here puts out."

  "Hey!" Ben said. "I resent that!"

  Street laughed. Too loudly.

  "Why don't you come with us?"

  "Pass." Street picked up his remote, turned on the TV. "I'm sure it'll be fascinating, but there's a one-star women's prison movie on cable. T and A wins out over civic responsibility every time."

  "They'll be discussing The Store," Ben said.

  "Yeah. That's just what I want to spend my night hearing about."

  "I heard they'll be asking for rezoning and building approval. They want to sell groceries."

  "They'll get their approval," Street said simply. "Fucking Planning Commission's in their fucking pocket, just like the council."

  "Maybe you should speak out against it," Bill suggested. "It might help."

  Street waved him away. "I'm no public speaker. Besides, just in case you haven't noticed, I'm feeling a little too happy right now. The last thing the local merchants need is a half-crocked electronics salesman talking for them."

  He pressed the volume button on his remote. "I'm going to watch my cable while I can still afford it."

  Ben stood, patted him on the back. "Take it easy, then. I'll let you know what transpires. And I'll drop by the store tomorrow. The paper needs some surge protectors. Ours are getting old."

  Bill stood as well, leaving his half-finished can on the table. "I still need to get that old turntable fixed. I'll bring it by and we can go over it."

  Street nodded gratefully. "Thanks, guys."

  "Hey," Ben said, "we're friends."

  Bill grinned. "Half my beer's left, too. It's all yours if you don't mind the drool. I backwash."

  "No problemo." Street reached across the table, grabbed the can, swallowed its contents in one gulp.