HELP! WANTED: Tales of On-the-Job Terror

by Edited by Peter Giglio

  Something nudged him from the rear. Baxter spun around, his shoulder slamming against the opposite steel shelf, which had been a comfortable distance away when he entered the aisle. With a grinding, growling sound the tall, heavy shelf edged closer to him. A horrifying vision swam into his head of his body caught there, crushed until his bloody entrails spilled over the books.

  He squeezed out from between the shelves, barely escaping before they clanked together. The bright and airy library had darkened as shadows crept in from all sides. The pastel walls now looked like gray stone; the ceiling was lost in murky darkness. The people at the tables and in the cubicles were hunched over their books; silent and unmoving as stone images. Baxter stumbled toward the front desk.

  The graying head of Claire the librarian brought him a flood of relief for the sheer familiarity. Something was definitely wrong here, but Claire was an anchor to reality. He coughed, trying to clear his throat.

  Claire looked up. It was her face, but it was not the face she wore minutes ago. Something in the eyes was wrong. Very wrong. The heavy brows slanted down in a deep V. Her mouth stretched in a smile. And stretched. And stretched. Until the terrible orifice spread literally ear to ear. Brown and broken teeth protruded from suppurating gums. Baxter staggered back, his own mouth hanging open.

  A rasping croak rattled from the ghastly mouth of the librarian. Nothing resembling words came out, though there was a rising inflection suggesting that this hag was asking a question. She extended a clawlike hand toward his face.

  Abandoning all attempts at composure, Baxter leaped back and bolted for the door. Through the glass he could see the outside world where the sun shone on soft green grass, cars rolled past on the street, ordinary-looking people strolled on the sidewalks, pigeons pecked at the remains of a popcorn bag. A boy ran happily by playing with a black and white dog. Baxter fought for composure. Once he was back out there in the familiar world of reality everything would be all right.

  He hit the bar with both bands to open the door, and bounced back. The bar was fixed in place; the door did not budge. He tried again with the same result. Whimpering, he pounded on the heavy glass with his fists until the pain shot up his arms. He kicked at the door with all his strength. His trendy jogging shoes made no impact.

  Crying openly now, Baxter threw himself against the glass. He rebounded, blood dripping from his nose. As he gathered himself for another lunge a heavy blue-clad arm barred his way. The arm was attached to the powerful shoulder and uniformed chest of a security guard. The man was well over six feet tall with a broad, clean face. Baxter had never seen him here before, but on this nightmarish day he seized on the man as a savior.

  As panic seized his throat, Baxter tried wildly to pantomime his distress and the need to get outside the heavy glass doors and away from the nightmare world his library had become.

  For a moment he thought he had at last found an ally. The guard looked down at him with an almost sympathetic expression. Then the smile began. As with Claire the librarian, the terrible grin stretched and spread across his cheeks, up and back, until the corners of his mouth met his ears. The revealed teeth were long and sharp, not human at all. The ghastly maw gaped wide and a series of short growling sounds spilled out.

  Baxter jerked his arm away from the guard and ran back past Claire, still wearing the hideous grin, past the silent lumpish patrons, past the tall murderous shelves filled with gibberish, to the tiny cubicle where he had left his briefcase and the four dreadful books that had kicked off this terror. He fumbled through the briefcase, found his cell phone, popped it open, and thumbed the button to activate it. The familiar tinkly tone came through, but Baxter scarcely noticed. He was staring at the logo on the tiny screen. It read:

  womzilj

  That was certainly not the name of the company that manufactured his phone. Nor was it any word in any language Baxter knew. He was not even surprised when the short list of names for his frequently called numbers made no sense. It fit with the bizarre world of non-words he had somehow fallen into. Gripping the little phone with one hand he stabbed at the numbered keys with his split forefinger. After a couple of fumbled tries he hit 911. An almost comforting electronic buzzing ring sound came through immediately. A clock sounded as a female voice answered on the other end and said…

  What the hell did she say? There were only crackling, meaningless syllables in his ear. Baxter flung the instrument away from him and turned to the dark interior of the library. There the lumpish people at last began to move. As in slow motion they rose from their seats and turned toward him. He opened his mouth to scream at them, get their attention and plead for help if there was a sympathetic soul among them. Then as they came at him he saw their faces. Oh my God, their faces!

  The sounds he made were the burbling prattle of an idiot child. Try as he might, Hamilton Baxter, who liked to say, “Words are my business,” could not form a single intelligible utterance. He fell back in the plastic chair and let his head bump forward on the surface of the desk. He heard the shuffling sounds of the others advancing on him. He cried like a baby as his world exploded.

  ***

  The two men in white uniforms eased the gurney with its motionless burden down the steps of the library. The shorter of the men, who steadied the front end, said to his partner, “Did the doc say what killed him?”

  “Who knows. Sometimes they just go, poof, like that.”

  “They say he was some kind of writer. Sitting there surrounded by books. I guess he died happy.”

  Gary Brandner, born in the Midwest and much-traveled during his formative years, has thirty-odd published novels, more than 100 short stories, and a handful of screenplays on his resume. After surviving the University of Washington, he followed such diverse career paths as amateur boxer, bartender, surveyor, loan company investigator, advertising copywriter, and technical writer before turning to fiction. Since his breakthrough novel The Howling, he has settled into a relatively respectable life with wife and cats in California’s San Fernando Valley. He is currently involved in a movie project as writer/co-producer.

  Team Player

  Patrick Flanagan

  Don’t fuck this up. Firm handshake. Mark grabbed the man’s hand and shook it. Firm enough, but not too firm. Don’t overdo it. “Mark Mellon,” he said in his store-voice, “Grocery and Pet Care.” The VDPO favored him with a tight semi-smile and a nod, and moved on to Carla (DVD and Music). Hugh (General Store Manager), an old hand at Home Office visits, shadowed the dignitary at a respectful distance of three steps back, one step to the right, and remained equidistant as the two of them glided past the assembled department heads. Mark willed himself not to sweat or tremble. He didn’t want to attract attention or arouse suspicion.

  The new VDPO had introduced himself as Fred Paull and confided in them that—if they hadn’t already known—he was Really One of Them! He’d started out doing exactly what they did, sometime back in the early Neolithic, stocking shelves and riding registers Just Like Them. Of course, the prices may have been just a little cheaper back then. (Ha ha, hee hee, smile and nod.) But now that he was VDPO he wanted the boys on the front line (and gals, too!) to know that They Had a Friend in the Home Office.

  Mark dutifully gave an exaggerated sigh of relief and stood “at ease” along with his coworkers. Permission to relax! (Sort of!) They, in turn, moved about slightly and relaxed their posture—their body language dropping Gs that were replaced with irreverent apostrophes—but otherwise remained in place, as if to tell His Eminence, We feel free to go elsewhere in this store, but we choose to remain here, listening to you. You’ve won our respect. And they waited patiently as the visiting suzerain rifled through his mental Rolodex of anecdotes, corny jokes, and small talk, looking for just the right comment to really put a button on this introduction.

  It was unbearably mild in the store today. Mark noticed a fluorescent tube high overhead. Goddamnit. If he’d told those nimrods once, he’d told them a hundred
times—Cool White, Cool, not Warm. Warm White emitted a vaguely malevolent glow. Sure, it was twenty feet up. Sure, most of the cart-crawlers were too busy keeping track of their grubby brood or surreptitiously staring-without-staring at the tits or the ass of a sixteen-year-old store associate while pretending to browse. But he noticed. It stood out like a trapdoor or a hidden compartment in some Saturday morning cartoon, painted a brighter color so that the animators wouldn’t lose track of it. Mr. Paull was saying something about the local sports team and comparing their relatively good current record to the relatively poor current record of his own local sports team (ha ha, hee hee, smile and nod), and Mark willed the VDPO not to look up, not to notice, not to see the incongruity flickering over his head.

  Mr. Paull favored him with another sidewise glance again. Lock onto his nervous system! !!!D*O*N’*T//L*O*O*K//U*P!!! Mark felt his brain matter throb and ooze blood from between its folds as he tried to force the man not to look up.

  Cool White. Not Warm White.

  Please.

  Don’t.

  Look.

  Up.

  “Don’t you agree, Mark?” Mr. Paull asked, about whatever it was.

  “Yes, of course,” Mark said, looking up at the ceiling.

  Fuuuuuuck.

  Mr. Paull took a step closer. His eyes peered right through him with a penetrating squint. Did you think I didn’t notice the Warm White bulb, Mr. Mellon? they said.

  I saw it the moment I crossed over the threshold.

  And the asymmetrical pyramid of Sprite 24-packs in front of Aisles 7 and 8.

  And the incorrect pricing on the sale items in Aisle 22. Pet Food—your bailiwick, Mr. Mellon. He was saying something out loud and his expression looked pleasant and bland enough, but Mark was listening to the man’s eyes. Iams dry dog food. Purina ONE cat food. Purina Puppy Chow. ALL. Wrong.

  Did you think I wouldn’t notice?

  Did? You?

  Mark’s face turned to wax and began to drip off of his skull in thick, milky rivulets. Every snide remark he made to his friends about how much he hated this job. Every bashful smile he gave when people told him he was wasting his time in a dead-end career. Every day that was so mind-numbingly, soul-wrenchingly abysmal that he punched his fist against the employee break room wall, choked back tears, went for hours without speaking a single word to his employees. It was all bullshit. All of it. $29,800. Twenty-nine thousand. And eight hundred. Dollars. He needed that. He was just barely keeping his head above water, it was a struggle month to month, week to week, day to day, but he needed this job. His stomach churned, his hairline receded, his teeth ground together at night over the fear, the constant anxiety, never too far from his conscious mind, that one day he’d get that call over the PA. That buzzing, crackly command to report to the GSM’s office. Not “when you get a minute.” Now. He’d walk in and they’d be waiting—Hugh behind his desk, probably Nancy as well. They’d have Something They Wanted to Talk to Him About. They’d hand him the clipboard with the pink forms. The pink forms you signed, agreeing to your own execution, agreeing with their unspoken accusations that you were a fuck-up, a slacker, a saboteur, and a no-good piece of shit stealing oxygen from the lungs of REAL Team Players. Press hard for the carbon copy beneath please. Goldenrod. The goldenrod was the copy of your own death warrant, which they handed to you in exchange for your namebadge, your store keys, and your dignity.

  Don’t stare back. Don’t whimper. Don’t make him remember you.

  “Yes!” he said, just a little too loudly. And then he nodded spastically, like a drooling idiot, at whatever it was the VDPO was saying. It didn’t matter what, it was clearly right.

  Mr. Paull pulled Hugh aside for a whispered conference as the inspection broke up. No obvious victims so far, although Paull might want to let people marinate for a while as he turned up the temperature of the crock-pot. Gene (Auto Maintenance) was the first to test the waters, slowly ambling back to his corner of the store, looking back every few steps to see if he was being watched. He disappeared around the corner and then the rest of them began to drift off as well.

  “Mark,” Hugh said. He waved him over.

  “Yes, Hugh?” Mark said eagerly. But not too eagerly. But not with insufficient eagerness. But not—

  “Fred here,” and all three of them instantly knew that first-name usage had been a mistake and did their best to ignore the awkwardness, “Mr. Paull would like to follow someone around a bit, get a feel for How We Do Things Here.” And for God’s sake, keep him isolated to one section until I can come up with something in the office to bombard him with. “Just go over your daily routine, maybe generate some Smile-Power.” A weak grin as he thumped the button pinned to Mark’s purple store vest: SMILE-POWER!!!

  Mark felt a rattlesnake slither over his intestines. “Sure, Hugh,” he said. “Happy to help. Did you want a tour of the store, Mr. Paull, or—” But the VDPO was already off and running, and Mark had to take long strides to keep up.

  ***

  “A bit” turned into “all day.” Hugh and the others had splashed pig’s blood on him and thrown him to the wolves. Mr. Paull wasn’t just an Interrogator, or a Watcher, or a Critic. He was all three combined. Move these bookracks a few inches back. We need to reposition the cereal shelf—you’ve got all the brightly-colored boxes on one end and all the earth-tone boxes on the other, there’s an imbalance. Same goes for the milk; get all the 2%s together, then all the 1%s, and so on. Move these bookracks up a few inches, they’re too far back now. You’ve got the wrong plasma-screens on display, you need the even-numbered ones playing, not the odd-numbered ones. Now, this bug-zapper here—it’s not going to sell many still in the box, is it. Try to get some flies to feed to it, so people know how it operates. Talk to Custodial about that. We’re going to need to talk about waxing these floors; all this constant shoving the bookracks back and forth is leaving scuff marks. Why can’t we try and minimize that?

  And on. And on. And on. “Yes, sir.” “You’re right, sir.” “I agree, sir.” The rent. The cable bill. The car insurance. “That’s a good idea, sir, we should’ve been doing that all along.”

  After four hours Mark’s desperation had begun to taper off. Only ten minutes left until his shift ended. He did his best to dawdle and coast to the finish line, but Paull showed no sign whatsoever of losing interest.

  “What next?” Mr. Paull said after their hour-long inspection for broken cookies was done.

  “Well,” Mark said, trying not to smile, “it’s about four o’clock, so my shift’s done. It’s been good getting your advice and feedback on How We Do Things Here. I can take you back to Hugh’s office now. Have a safe flight back!”

  Or, that was what he intended to say, anyway.

  What he got out was, “Well, it’s about four o’clock, so my shift’s done. It’s—”

  “So we’re heading home,” Mr. Paull said. “Where are we parked?”

  Mark blinked.

  Goldenrod.

  He knew he should just put his foot down. His time was His Time.

  Maybe he just wants to walk me out.

  Mark wanted to smack his forehead. Of course that was it. Duh.

  “I’m out in front here, near the first tree,” Mark said.

  “Sounds good,” Mr. Paull said. “You need anything from the locker room?”

  “Uh,” Mark said. “Uh, n-no, no, not really, no. Did you…you know, want to see Hugh…?”

  “Nope,” Mr. Paull said. “After you, then.”

  “Okay?” Mark said.

  ***

  “No,” Mr. Paull said. He turned the radio dial away from 97.9 (classic rock) and eventually settled on—ugh—92.1 (Christian contemporary). He also took the liberty of killing the A/C, even though it was about ninety-two degrees out. “Pass this guy,” he said, nodding at the Celica in front of them.

  Mark passed him.

  “Going kind of slow, aren’t you?” Mr. Paull said. “And that rattling. Explain that.
”

  “Just started the other day,” Mark said, pressing down a little more on the accelerator. “Haven’t had time to—”

  “Make the time,” Mr. Paull said. “Pass this car, here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s waiting for us at home?”

  “I, well, I…just, just, j-just…”

  “Something wrong?” Mr. Paull said. It sounded like a question, but it was more of an accusation: Why is something wrong?

  “Just, just dinner with my girlfriend,” Mark finished. “I think, um, I think tonight’s lasagna...”

  “Not too soft,” Mr. Paull said. “The pasta has to be firm. That’s key. Go easy on the ricotta, and don’t be stingy on the meat.”

  What? You’re not invited, and this is really

  (Goldenrod.)

  …

  “Well she’s probably already making it,” Mark said, “and maybe you’d rather eat out, like, maybe your hotel, or—”

  “We’ll just have to make do,” the VDPO said.

  Abby is gonna be pissed, Mark thought, desperately hoping for a flat tire or a burst radiator. The car defied his will, however, and held together during the drive home, and Mark soon found himself standing in his kitchen with his girlfriend and his boss’s boss’s boss, racking his brains for an explanation to throw at Abby before she pounced.

  To his relief, she forgave him with a look, even as she graciously endured Mr. Paull’s cornball jokes and set a place for him at the table. When Paull excused himself to wash up she gave him a half-hearted chuckle.

  “…just got in the car with me,” Mark mumbled. Abby shushed him.

  “Whaddaya gonna do?” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “He’s a VIP, right?”

  “Yeah,” Mark said. “Hugh was pretty anxious about the visit. Oh, shit, I guess I should call him.”