The Store

by Bentley Little

  Following Mr. Lamb's directions, they filed naked into the small, dark stockroom. They'd lined up alphabetically, and boxed uniforms with name tags attached were piled in the same order, illuminated by a single recessed bulb in the ceiling. Shannon kept her attention focused on load's head in front of her, not wanting to see his exposed back or legs or hairy buttocks, not wanting to see any part of any of her coworkers' bodies.

  She hoped Francine was doing the same behind her.

  Picking up the box with her name tag attached, Shannon carried it out to the assembly corridor.

  No one was yet putting on the new uniforms. They all stood, holding their boxes, at attention. Somehow, in the few brief moments it had taken her to walk into the stockroom and out again, all of their discarded clothes had been piled in the center of the corridor.

  "It is time," Mr. Lamb said, when the last employee emerged from the stockroom.

  They burned their old uniforms -- and their underwear and their shoes and socks -- in a ceremonial fire. Mr. Lamb made them walk around the flames, holding hands, singing The Store's irritating commercial jingle.

  Or, as Mr. Lamb referred to it, "The Store's Official Anthem."

  Still naked, they were herded into the chapel, where one by one they were each required to kneel down before the massive painting of Newman King.

  Shannon's body was covered with goose bumps, the chilled flesh of fear, not cold, and she watched the employees before her kneel down on the red carpet, bow their heads and give thanks to Newman King for allowing them to graduate to this new level. There was no way any of them could not know that this was wrong, crazy -- _evil_ -- yet none of the other employees seemed fazed. They were quiet, a little more subdued than usual, perhaps, but there was no opposition to what they were doing, no recognition that this was something an employer should not be able to demand, or even request, from an employee.

  Shannon knew it was wrong, but she walked forward just like the others, knelt, gave thanks, afraid to voice her disapproval, not brave enough to refuse to participate.

  She stood, walked out of the chapel. All of the shifts would go through this, she realized. All of The Store's workers.

  Sam would go through this -- if she hadn't already.

  "Okay!" Mr. Lamb said, clapping his hands, when the last employee had given thanks. "To the lockers! Put on your uniforms and be on the floor in five!" He glanced over at Shannon, smiled, and a hot flush of shame passed through her as she saw where his eyes were looking. "The Store opens in ten minutes! Be there or be square!"

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  1

  He had stopped jogging entirely.

  The streets were getting too scary.

  It was not something Bill had ever expected to happen in Juniper. A year ago -- six months ago, even -- such an idea would have been unthinkable. But things were different now. The Store had recruited its own security force to augment the police department, and though ostensibly the reason was to combat the increased crime in town, the truth was that The Store merely wanted to increase its hold, to flaunt its power, to make sure that everyone knew that it was now in charge of Juniper.

  Besides, although he could not prove anything, most of the crime, in Bill's mind, seemed to be committed by this new security force.

  And the victims always seemed to be people who were opposed to The Store.

  Which was why he no longer jogged.

  He had not yet received a new assignment, his days were still free, and he now spent most of them hanging around Street's place. Ben hung there, too, and it had the feeling of one of those cinematic barbershops where a group of crotchety old man sat around, day after day, critiquing the world that passed by the windows.

  Only there was no world passing by the windows.

  There were only occasional cars driving past on their way to The Store.

  Bill pulled up in front of the electronics shop and hopped out of his Jeep. There was something different about the street today, and it took him a moment to figure out what it was.

  Multicolored flyers had been posted on the trees, telephone poles, and abandoned storefronts downtown.

  He walked up to the closest telephone pole. No, not flyers. Announcements:

  BY THE ORDER OF THE STORE, NO CITIZEN MAY BE OUTSIDE HIS OR HER HOME AFTER 10 P.M. UNLESS ENGAGED IN STORE BUSINESS. THIS CURFEW WILL BE STRICTLY ENFORCED.

  "Do you believe this shit?" Street walked outside onto the sidewalk, Ben following. "A fucking discount store making laws and setting policy, telling me when I can and can't walk around my own town? How the fuck did this happen?"

  "How did we let it happen?" Ben said quietly.

  "Good point," Street said. He walked up to the wooden pole, pulled off the pink sign, crumpled it up, grimacing disgustedly.

  "When did these go up?" Bill asked.

  "Last night, this morning. They had kids from church running around putting up this crap."

  "Church?" Bill said.

  "Oh, yes." Ben nodded. "Most of our local clergy are big Store supporters."

  "How is that possible?"

  "Donations to their coffers, perhaps?"

  Street laughed harshly. "I guess if The Store's on God's side, then God's on The Store's side. Kind of a you-scratch-my-back-I'll-scratch-yours deal."

  They walked into the shop. "That's what I've always hated about the religion/politics connection," Ben said. "These clergymen tell their followers who to vote for, what legislation to support, because this is what God wants them to do." He shook his head. "The hubris, man. Don't any of them pick up on that? They think they know the mind of God? Them claiming to know how God would vote is like an amoeba claiming to know what car I'm going to buy."

  "So much for 'rendering to Caesar,' huh?"

  Street tossed the crumpled announcement in a waste-paper basket and walked into the back room, returning a moment later with three beers. He tossed one can to Bill, one to Ben, popping open the tab on his own.

  "During business hours?" Bill said.

  Street shrugged. "What business?"

  Ben was on a roll. "What really ticks me off about these religious assholes is that they always claim they're for less government, and they are when it comes to economics. But they're all for letting government regulate our social lives, our bedroom behavior, what movies we can see, what pictures we can look at, what books we can read."

  Street took a long swig. "They want to tell me where I can and can't put my dick."

  "Because they can't even use theirs," Ben said. "Those cows they're married to won't let 'em."

  Bill burst out laughing. A second later, Ben and Street started laughing as well.

  None of them went to church on a regular basis. Street used to go every Sunday, when he was married, but he hadn't gone since. Ben considered himself an agnostic and hadn't attended since Catholic school. In the fuzzy, evasive neuterspeak of today, he himself had what was called "a personal relationship with God." Which meant that his religious beliefs were privately held and were not sanctioned or reinforced by any church or organized religion. He'd always considered suspect the faith of people who had to go to church every Sunday. As an old college friend of his had said, once you got the Word, you got it. There was no reason to reinforce it every seven days unless you were so damn stupid that after a week you forgot everything you'd learned and needed to be reminded again of the basic tenets of your faith.

  Street shook his head. "It's wrong using kids, though. If churches are going to get involved, let the adults do it. Keep the kids out of it."

  "Amen," Ben said.

  "So what are we going to do about this?" Bill walked over to the door, pointed through the glass at the multicolored announcements dotting the downtown. "You know damn well that people in Juniper, _most_ people, aren't in favor of a curfew. Adults don't want to be treated like children. And what about the bar? The video store? Circle K? There are a whole bunch of businesses that depend on people being out at night."

  "Pe
tition," Street said. "We start one to rescind this ordinance."

  "Not a bad idea," Ben admitted. "People'd be in favor of this idea. It might give us an opening, a little chink in the armor we could exploit. I think we'd get quite a few signatures."

  "If people weren't afraid to sign."

  "If people weren't afraid to sign," Ben agreed.

  Street finished off his beer, grinned. He moved around the back of the register counter. "Start thinking, boys. I'll get some paper and pens."

  An hour later, Bill was at the park, pen, clipboard, and petition in hand.

  They'd hashed it out quickly, he and Ben, then he'd rushed home, typed it on his PC, and printed it out, making multiple copies. Ginny had been in her garden, killing tomato worms, and he'd shown her the petition and left her a few copies.

  "Just in case any of your friends come by," he said.

  He dropped more off at the electronics shop, Street promising to hit up anyone he saw on Main, Ben vowing to take it to the source and camp out in The Store's parking lot "until they kick me out."

  Bill brought his petitions to the park.

  There were quite a few people here. Little League kids practicing, mostly.

  Some old men. Mothers and small children. A couple playing tennis.

  He approached the tennis couple first, explaining what the petition said and what they were trying to do, and the man seemed close to signing at one point. But he was wary of being the first signee, and his wife pulled him quickly away, frightened, nearly panicked. "It's a trap!" she said. "Don't do it. They're trying to trap you."

  The couple hurried off, and he walked around the tennis court to the row of benches where several of the old men were sitting.

  None of them would even hear him out.

  The only signature he received was from a middle-aged woman watching her young daughter play on the swing set. She was nodding even before he'd finished explaining what the petition was meant to do.

  "One of those announcements was nailed to our front door," she said. She seemed nervous, kept glancing at her daughter on the swing as if to make sure that the little girl was still there.

  "We need to put a stop to this," he told her. "And we need your help."

  "They're enforcing the curfew already."

  "I didn't know that," he said, surprised. "In fact, I only learned about the ordinance this morning."

  She glanced suspiciously around. "They're out after dark," she whispered.

  "I saw them."

  "Who?"

  "The men in black. The Night Managers."

  _The men in black_.

  He thought of Encantada. Of Jed McGill.

  Once again, the woman quickly looked around. Before he could say anything else, she grabbed the pen from his hand, scrawled a quick, indecipherable signature, and hurried away, grabbing her daughter.

  "Thanks!" he called after her.

  She did not acknowledge him, and he watched as she and her daughter practically ran to their car.

  Jed McGill. He wondered sometimes if he'd really seen what he thought he'd seen. He'd been in such a hurry to get away, so desperate not to know, that even in his own mind there was no clear confirmation of the figure's identity. Even now, he still wasn't sure whether he wanted to know. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever, was so bizarre as to be incomprehensible, and the questions that it raised terrified him.

  _The men in black_.

  _The Night Managers_.

  He tried to concentrate on the task before him, to think only about getting signatures for his petition.

  On the street, in back of the woman's departing vehicle, a police car pulled up, cruised to a stop, and Forest Everson got out. Even before the policeman began walking across the grass toward him, Bill knew why he was here.

  He stood his ground.

  Forest looked embarrassed as he walked up to where Bill was standing. "I'm sorry, Mr. Davis, but you're going to have to stop with that petition."

  Bill faced him. "Why?"

  "It's against the law."

  "It's against the law to get people to sign a petition? Since when?"

  "Since last night. The town council convened in a special meeting, and they passed a new ordinance making it illegal to circulate a petition of any sort within a five-mile radius of The Store. I guess they consider it a restriction of commerce because they feel it impinges on The Store's ability to do business."

  "Jesus."

  "It's not my decision," Forest said. "I don't make the laws. I don't even agree with all of them. But I'm paid to enforce them, and that's what I do."

  Bill was still trying to sort out the order of events. The council created the ordinance last night? He and his friends had only thought of the petition this morning. The council knew what they were going to do before _they_ did?

  "This can't be constitutional," he said. "This is America, damn it. We still have freedom of speech here."

  The policeman smiled wryly. "Not in Juniper."

  "So I can't do this anywhere in town? I can't even have people sign petitions on my own property?"

  Forest shook his head. "Not within a five-mile radius of The Store."

  "The damn town's only two and a half miles long. That means there can't be any petitions anywhere in Juniper."

  The policeman nodded.

  "I'm not giving you my petition."

  "I'm not asking you for it. Although the new chiefd have my ass if he knew that. He'd want the name and address of everyone on there. And he'd want you in jail." Forest sighed. "Go home. Take your petition with you. Lay low."

  "Ben's at The Store, trying to get signatures."

  "I'll try to head him'trff before anyone else does."

  "This is wrong," Bill said.

  "I know." Forest nodded. "But for now it's the law, and until things change, it's my job to enforce it." He started back across the grass toward his car.

  "Thanks," Bill said. "You're a good man."

  "And these are bad times. Go home. Stay out of trouble. Stay away from The Store."

  He and Ginny were waiting for Shannon when she came home from work.

  They let her go to the bathroom, get something to drink, eat a snack, then called her over to the living room.

  She knew something was up, and she sat down across from them, sighing.

  "What is it now?"

  "The Night Managers," Bill said.

  She paled. "Where did you hear about them?"

  "I have my sources." He smiled, tried to keep his tone light, but was aware that he failed miserably. He gave it up, addressed her seriously. "Who are they?"

  "More like _what_ are they," she said quietly.

  His mouth suddenly felt dry. "All right, then. _What_ are they?"

  "I . . . I don't really know," Shannon admitted. "I don't think anyone does. But. . . they're not good." She took a deep breath. "No one talks about them. Everyone's afraid to."

  "But there are rumors."

  She nodded. "There are rumors."

  "Like what?"

  She licked her lips. "That they kill people."

  "Do you believe it?" Ginny asked.

  She nodded.

  Bill looked at her. "Someone said that they're the ones enforcing the curfew. She said she saw them."

  "I don't think so," Shannon said.

  "Why not?"

  "Because no one's ever seen them. And I don't think anyone outside The Store has even heard of them. I think . . . I don't think they ever leave The Store."

  "They never leave The Store?" Ginny said.

  "I don't think so."

  Bill nodded thoughtfully. "They never leave The Store. Maybe we can use that."

  "How?" Ginny asked.

  "I don't know," he said. "Not yet. But every little bit helps. Knowledge is power, and we have our own little spy within the organization."

  "Me?" Shannon said.

  "You."

  "What . . . what am I supposed to do?"

  "Just keep you
r eyes and ears open," he said. "And look for weaknesses."

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  1

  They were on to him.

  Ben didn't know how they'd found out, but The Store's officials knew that he was working on an expose.

  And they were after him.

  He'd called earlier to get a standard party-line quote from The Store's manager, and had talked instead to Lamb. He'd explained to the personnel manager that he was a freelance journalist, working on a feature article for a national magazine, but the man had cut him off. "_Feature_ article, Mr. Anderson?" The personnel manager's voice was snide. "You're writing a muckraking piece, a sensationalistic piece of shit, you cocksucking son of a bitch."

  Ben had been shocked into silence.

  "We know who our friends are. And we know our enemies."

  There'd been a click after that, the hum of a dial tone, and though Ben had been a reporter for the past twenty-five years, had dealt with confrontation many times over, his hands were shaking, his heart pounding.

  Something about those Store people spooked him.

  But he'd been given a break. Someone within The Store's organization had reached out to him, provided him with a tip, given him a lead. And it had been confirmed by Bill and Shannon.

  There were people within the organization who were unhappy and dissatisfied.

  That was a good sign.

  That was a very good sign.

  _The Night Managers_.

  He didn't know who they were, but it sounded promising. The concept itself was pretty damn creepy, but it also seemed unethical, immoral, illegal. And in a spectacular, media-friendly way. This was what editors liked to buy and readers liked to read. This was what brought down giants. This was the stuff of journalistic wet dreams.

  Even without the Night Managers, it was going to be one hell of an article. He'd talked to Jack Pyle, an old buddy of his in Denver, who'd promised to send him a ton of info. Jack had been working on a similar story, inspired by his son's recent involvement with The Store, but he'd chickened out at the end, afraid that The Store would retaliate against his boy if the piece got published.

  "It's a cult," he said. "And if one of their own breaks ranks, breaks that wall of silence . . . God help them."

  "You have documentation?" Ben had asked.