"Firstly," he said, "there will be new textbooks. As we all know, our current books are embarrassingly out of date and woefully inadequate. The Store will be providing us with new texts that we will be required to use." He held up a hand, anticipating objections. "I know that teachers are usually involved in the selection process for classroom materials, but your union leadership agreed to this arrangement because of the last-minute nature of the talks. As I said, the final agreement has only just been worked out, so I assume you will all be voting on it later. Let me just assure you that The Store has started similar programs in other towns in Texas and Arkansas and New Mexico and Oklahoma, and that a panel of nationally recognized educators was chosen to evaluate and select texts for each grade level. Teachers at the other districts all seem to be very satisfied with the provided materials.
"The Store will also be giving us free computers," he continued. "With appropriate educational software and access to FOLS, the Freelink Online Learning Service."
The principal cleared his throat. "The other big change involves class schedules. There will be no adjustments to the number of hours that you will work each day, but we will be adopting the same format as the junior high and high school. Which is to say that students will no longer remain in one class all day long but will have seven periods throughout the day."
"What?" Meg said angrily.
He ignored her. "The periods will not be divided by subject, as is traditionally the case with the upper grades, so teaching specifics will have to be worked out between you in regard to the individual children."
Meg stood, refusing to be ignored. "What is the point of this?"
"The students need flexible hours."
"Why?"
"To accommodate their work schedules."
Work schedules? Ginny glanced around the assembly room. A few of the teachers were talking among themselves, a few looked unhappy, but the majority of them sat unmoving in their seats, listening to the principal.
"The Store is donating money and materials to help educate these children.
The least the students can do is donate an hour or so of their time each day to help The Store."
Now Ginny stood. "What does that mean?"
"It means, Mrs. Davis, that they will be sweeping, picking up trash, doing the type of work that I used to do as a child. It will foster responsibility and make them feel as if they are part of the community. They'll be contributing to their town and learning about the importance of the work ethic at the same time."
_Sweeping?_
"It's called child labor," Ginny said. "There are laws against it."
"It's called volunteerism and the school supports the concept fully."
"Elementary school children do not learn as well with their day broken into separate periods with separate teachers," Meg said. "It's been proven. They need the stability of a single class with a single teacher and a set group of classmates."
"That is the way we _used_ to do it," the principal said, giving her a withering glance. "This is the way we will be doing it now."
Ginny and Meg continued to argue with the principal for the next half hour or so, but none of the other teachers joined them, and eventually their objections were cut off and they were told to sit down.
"Why don't you retire?" Lorraine said to Meg as they all walked out the door after the meeting. She held up her voodoo doll and stuck a pin in its face.
Ginny grabbed the doll and threw it on the ground. "Bitch."
"I can get one for you, too," Lorraine said.
"Go ahead."
"Maybe I will retire," Meg said as they walked out to the parking lot. "I don't exactly see myself fitting in with the new order."
"You can't retire," Ginny told her. "The school needs you."
The older teacher smiled. "Who'd've thought that you would be asking me not to retire and saying that the school needs me?"
"Politics make strange bedfellows," Ginny said.
"I guess it does. I guess it does."
"Besides, I found out that you were right."
"About what?"
"Those Douglas kids are all troublemakers."
Meg looked puzzled for a moment, then she started to laugh.
They were both laughing as they walked out to their cars.
2
Shannon sat alone in the break room, eating a rubbery pastry she'd bought from one of the vending machines. School was starting next week and her hours would be cut, so to make up for it The Store had scheduled her to work every day this week, from opening until closing, thirteen hours a day.
She shifted uncomfortably on the hard seat, her inner thighs chapped from the tight pants and rough leather underwear.
Sam was supposed to meet her here for break, but her sister had canceled out on her the past three times they'd arranged to get together, and her absence wasn't a big surprise. Shannon glanced up at the wall. Ten more minutes to go.
Sam wasn't going to make it.
She missed her sister. They'd never been particularly close, weren't best friends or anything, but obviously they'd been closer than she'd thought, because she longed to talk with Sam the way they used to, longed to have one of their stupid arguments over a meaningless matter. They still talked, she and Sam, but there was distance between them now, a barrier, and it wasn't quite the same. Her sister had never even invited her to the house The Store had given her, and while Shannon told herself she didn't care, it didn't matter, she did care and it did matter.
With five minutes left to go on her break, Sam finally showed up. Smiling, she walked quickly over to where Shannon was sitting. She even looked good in the ridiculous Store uniform, and Shannon couldn't help wondering how many of her fellow employees had come on to her.
_The bloody panties_.
Shannon felt guilty for even briefly entertaining jealous thoughts about her sister, and she smiled and nodded as Sam sat down. "Hey," she said.
"Sorry I'm late, but there was trouble in your old department. Kirk was letting himself be berated by a disgruntled customer, and I had to go over there and set things straight."
"What if you couldn't set it straight?" Shannon asked. "Would the manager have to take care of it?"
"I suppose so," Sam said.
"Have you ever seen the manager?"
Sam shook her head, and for a brief fraction of a second, she looked troubled, "No," she said. "I never have."
"Has Mr. Lamb?"
"Oh, I'm sure he has."
"So Mr. Lamb's above you?"
"No one's above me except the manager. I'm second in command. I'm assistant manager." Sam laughed. "Why the third degree?"
Shannon shook her head. "Nothing," she said. "No reason."
"So how're Mom and Dad?"
Shannon shrugged. "The same, I guess."
"Dad still on the warpath?"
"Always."
Sam laughed. She was about to say something else when three chimes sounded over The Store's PA system. "Three rings," she said. "That means all nonessential personnel." She looked over at Shannon. "Is someone covering for you right now?"
"Mike."
"Come on, then. Let's go."
Shannon followed her sister out of the break room and down a short hallway to stairs that led to the basements.
Mr. Lamb was waiting for them at the bottom of the steps. "You're just in time."
"What is it?" Sam asked.
"We caught Jake Lindley stealing. From The Store. Apparently, he was on his break, and he decided to pilfer a Snickers bar from the check stand display next to Francine Dormand, with whom he was having a oneway conversation." Mr. Lamb smiled dryly. "Francine turned him in."
The personnel manager's attention shifted to Shannon. He eyed her intently. "You used to date him did you not?"
She felt nervous, frightened, but Sam stood up for her. "Yes, she did. And Jake broke it off, although I fail to see what bearing that has on this case, Mr. Lamb."
"Quite right," he said,
bowing obsequiously. "Quite right."
"So what is the penalty?" Sam asked.
"As per the rules spelled out in _The Employee's Bible_, he shall be taken to the Hall of Punishment and the appropriate disciplinary action will be there decided."
Sam paled. "The Hall of Punishment?"
Mr. Lamb smiled. "The Hall of Punishment." He motioned toward an open door halfway down the corridor. "Come. The others are waiting."
Sam shook her head. "I can't oversee something like that."
Mr. Lamb's smile never faltered. "I'm afraid you have no choice, Ms. Davis. It is the manager's day off, and you are in charge during his absence."
"Then we should call him --"
"To again reference _The Employee's Bible_, the manager is not to make any decisions or oversee any disciplinary actions on his day off. Those responsibilities automatically and irrevocably devolve to the assistant manager." He took her hand, led her toward the door. "Come."
Ignored by the personnel manager, forgotten about by her sister, Shannon nevertheless followed them down the corridor and through the door, down a short flight of steps and into another basement.
She had never been here before, and she stopped, looking around, feeling frightened. The walls were black. As was the ceiling. As was the floor. Wrought iron Gothic chandeliers with red flame-shaped bulbs offered what little illumination there was.
Ten or twelve employees were lined up in the usual double row in the center of the high-ceilinged room. In this light, she thought, in this place, with their stylized leather uniforms, they looked like medieval torturers.
Members of the Inquisition.
Sam and Mr. Lamb walked between the two rows to the head of the room.
_The Hall of Punishment._
A rack of gleaming metal instruments, tools she did not recognize and had never seen before, was wheeled out by two tall exceptionally pale men wearing shiny black coats. They immediately retreated back through the side door from which they'd entered, and Mr. Lamb lovingly touched what looked like some sort of knife.
They were going to hurt Jake, she realized.
_Kill him?_
No. Even The Store wouldn't go that far. It couldn't. Such a thing was illegal. They might beat him, yes. Humiliate him. Punish him. But they wouldn't _kill_ him.
Would they?
She stood just inside the doorway, watching the scene unfold, feeling not only nervous and anxious and terrified but . . . something else. Something more personal. This was Jake they were talking about. Her Jake. He was a jerk and an asshole, and she had no doubt that he had ripped off a candy bar while he was trying to pick up on a big-titted babe, but that didn't mean that he deserved to die. Stupidity was not a capital offense.
And The Store had no right to act as judge, jury, and executioner.
_Die? Capital Offense? Executioner?_
She realized that those words came naturally to her, that they did not seem at all far-fetched or out of place in this hellish black room.
But this was still America. Laws still applied. To The Store as well as to individuals. The Store might be able to fire Jake, might be able to press charges and go after him in court if he'd done something illegal, but they could not physically harm him.
She stared at the twin rows of leather-clad employees, at her sister and Mr. Lamb standing beneath the flickering glow of the red-lighted chandelier.
No, that was not true.
They _could_ harm him.
And they would.
And no one could stop them.
She felt sick. Even after everything, even after what had happened at the sweep, maybe, somewhere deep down, she did still love him.
Sam looked over, meeting her eyes. "Maybe you'd better go back to work," she said. Her voice, authoritative and powerful, carried clearly across the Hall. Shannon shook her head, her mouth dry, unable to speak.
"It's not a suggestion," her sister said. "It's an order." There was hardness in her voice, a tone of command, but there was also concern, a caring intent hidden from all but herself that told her she had better leave. Next to Sam, Mr. Lamb stood grinning.
Shannon looked away.
"Leave," Sam said. "Or I will have someone escort you back to your post."
She wanted to stay, wanted to fight, wanted to protest whatever they were going to do and protect Jake from The Store's punishment, but she nodded, acquiesced, and turned to walk out.
From somewhere far away, in another room, another basement, she heard Jake. He was screaming. She recognized his voice, and her heart sank within her, but she did not stop, did not turn around. Instead, she increased her pace, trying to get away from the horrible sound. She actually felt relieved when she was once again among customers and merchandise on the floor.
Sam came over to her register an hour later. Shannon was helping a customer, and she wanted that customer to remain forever; she did not want to be alone with her sister, did not want to know what had happened, but the customer paid for his purchase, thanked her, and left.
Shannon pretended to fiddle with some receipts and void forms, then finally gathered her courage and looked up. "What happened?" she asked. "To Jake?"
"He's been . . . reassigned."
Shannon felt cold. "What does that mean?"
Sam met her gaze, and the expression on her face was one of muted horror and stunned disbelief. "He's a Night Manager," she said softly.
3
The alarm woke her up at five, as it always did, and Samantha rolled out of bed. She missed living at home. It had been exciting at first to have her own place, and The Store had given her a decorating allowance, letting her choose items from the Furniture department to furnish the house. But even though this cottage was all hers, it wasn't home. Home was where Shannon and her parents lived. And she missed it.
She missed a lot of things. And there were times that she wished The Store had never come to Juniper. She'd be starting school right now if she hadn't gone to work for The Store, beginning her first semester in college, surrounded by guys and girls her age, meeting interesting people, learning new things.
Instead, she'd met - Mr. Lamb.
She shuddered, pushed the thought out of her mind.
There were a few negatives, but overall she liked The Store. She had an aptitude for the retail business, and she'd risen quickly through the ranks. The Store had been good to her. The Store recognized and made use of her abilities.
The Store rewarded her hard work.
Still, sometimes, when she was alone, she wished that things had turned out differently. The scariest thing was how easily she'd adjusted to Store life, how comfortable the fit felt. Intellectually, she knew she should be shocked and horrified by some of the things that went on. She should be outraged and refuse to participate. But the truth was that she really had no emotional response to most of what happened. She understood the necessity of it all, and none of it provoked any feelings within her.
Almost none of it.
_Mr. Lamb_.
She would not think of him.
She took a quick shower, masturbated with the shower massage, ate a piece of toast, drank a glass of orange juice, and drove in her new Miata to The Store.
Mr. Lamb was waiting for her in her office, sitting in her chair, his feet up on her desk. "The manager wants to see you," he said.
Her heart skipped a beat. "Me?"
He nodded. "You."
There was a hard knot of fear in the pit of her stomach. She had never seen the manager, and she never wanted to. She'd heard stories about him ever since he'd come to Juniper, rumors, horrible rumors, and if even a fraction of what she'd heard was true, she knew that meeting him was the last thing she wanted to do.
Nevertheless, he was her boss, the person to whom she was theoretically supposed to report, and she tried to put on a brave face, tried to pretend she wasn't frightened. "When?" she asked.
"Now." Mr. Lamb swung his feet off the desk, stood. "Come on. I'll go with you."
He walked around her, and she followed him out the door, down the hall, and onto the floor. The lights in The Store were all on, but the Muzak was turned off, none of the rest of the staff had yet arrived, and the place seemed eerily silent and empty.
"Do you know why he wants to see me?" she asked.
"Yes." Mr. Lamb continued walking, not elaborating, and she knew enough not to press further. The knot in her stomach tightened.
They walked up the main cross aisle, away from the espresso bar, to the manager's door on the far opposite wall. Mr. Lamb rapped loudly three times, the door swung open, and the two of them stepped inside. There was a stairway leading up, and with a flourish, the personnel manager indicated that she was to proceed first.
He just wants to look at my ass, she thought. But she walked ahead, up the stairs, concentrating on the black door at the top of the steps.
The door opened when she stepped onto the landing.
And she beheld the manager.
He was nothing like she'd expected, neither an intimidating thug nor a hideous monster. He was a cowed and frightened old man, hiding behind a too large desk and watching her with scared eyes.
"No!" he said.
"Yes," Mr. Lamb responded from behind her. The door slammed shut loudly, and the personnel manager moved around her, into the center of the room. He turned around, and in his open hands lay a dagger. He held it out, offering it to her.
"What's this?" she asked. "What's going on here?"
"Kill him," Mr. Lamb said.
"No!" the manager cried.
"Kill him and The Store is yours."
Samantha shook her head, backing away. "No. I can't."
"Mr. King wants you to."
That threw her. She shook her head, as if to clear her thoughts. "Newman King?"
Mr. Lamb smiled, nodded. "He's been watching the tapes. He's very impressed with you."
The man behind the desk tried to sound strong, failed. "I'm still the manager here!"
"No, you're not!" Mr. Lamb snapped at him. "You're out!" He held forth the dagger, smiled at Samantha. "Take it."
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