The Store

by Bentley Little

  He stared out the window and found himself thinking of that old Randy Newman song, "It's Money That Matters." It _was_ money that mattered, wasn't it?

  He shook his head. Times had changed. Twenty years ago -- a decade ago, even a rich man spending millions of dollars to get himself elected to public office would have been looked upon with suspicion and distrust. But in 1992, the town had voted overwhelmingly for Ross Perot, either buying completely into his "common man" persona and believing that the billionaire was more like them than were either of his two opponents, or else respecting and admiring his enormous wealth.

  Doane suspected the latter.

  The priorities of this fucking country were screwed up.

  Hell, after the council meeting the other night, an angry old woman had accosted him in the parking lot of town hall and called him an obstructionist.

  "It's people like you," she spat, "who are trying to stop progress and ruin this town!"

  By progress, he assumed she meant the extinction of his business and the demolition of downtown Juniper.

  Because that's what was going to happen.

  He moved away from the window, went back behind the counter, and spent the next hour looking at a music catalog, reading through a list of upcoming CDs that he wouldn't be able to order, before going into the back room and heating up a Cup O' Noodles for his dinner.

  The hours stated on the sign in his window were 10:00 to 10:00, but it was obvious to Doane by eight-thirty that he might as well close up shop. No one had stopped in during the previous ten hours, and it was pretty damn unlikely that they were going to do so now. Especially with the street as dark as it was.

  He glanced out the window. All of the other shops were closed, and his was the only light visible on Main. The town never had gotten around to installing streetlights, and while that hadn't made much difference in the past, particularly when Buy-and-Save had been open, it now made Main look like a ghost town. Sighing, Doane locked and double-locked the back door, put the register money in the safe, and switched off all lights except the small security bulb directly over the counter. He exited the store through the front, locking the door behind him.

  And turned to see a line of tall men standing between him and his car.

  His heart lurched in his chest, and there was a sudden feeling of cold dread in the pit of his stomach. He'd been jumped once by a gang in Chicago, saved only by the stiletto in his pocket and the provident arrival of two patrol cars, and the trapped feeling of fear he'd experienced when that gang surrounded him returned in a rush. The figures in the narrow parking lot before him weren't exactly threatening, weren't moving or making any overt noises or gestures, but there was something intimidating in their uniform stance, something aggressive about the way they were blocking access to his car.

  He tried to ignore them but couldn't, thought of walking around them to reach his vehicle but didn't want to show his fear. They were wearing what looked like black raincoats -- long jackets made of shiny jet material that was deeper than the night, darker than the shadows, but somehow reflective of both.

  He didn't know why they were wearing raincoats -- it wasn't raining, wasn't even overcast, and their choice of garb seemed not only odd but menacing.

  He took a step toward his car.

  The figures took a step toward him.

  "Hey," he said. "What do you think you're doing?"

  There was no response.

  No word, no grunt, no chuckle.

  Only silence.

  "Get out of my fucking way," he ordered.

  None of them moved.

  He considered going back inside, calling the cops, but he'd have to find his key on the key ring and then unlock the door, and he did not want to let these creatures out of his sight for a second.

  _Creatures?_

  He noticed for the first time that he could not see the faces of the figures. They looked like indistinct white blurs in the darkness.

  _Too white to be human_.

  Now he was just being stupid.

  The figures started to advance.

  "What do you want?" he demanded. He tried to make his voice angry, but it came out frightened.

  There was no response. The figures -- nine of them, he saw now -- kept walking silently toward him.

  He wanted to run. The silence, the raincoats, the white faces, everything seemed crazy, spooky. But he didn't want them to win, didn't want to give them that satisfaction, and he held his ground, reached in the pocket of his pants for his jacknife.

  The figures pulled out weapons.

  Knives.

  _Fuck it_. He turned, started to run. In the diffused light, the posters in his window looked eerie. Jim Morrison. Jimi Hendrix. Kurt Cobain. He realized for the first time that all of the musicians in the window were dead men.

  He dashed as quickly as he could toward the side of the building. If he could make it around back, there was a deep ditch abutting the trees that wasn't visible in the dark. He could jump it before the rest of them rounded the building and they wouldn't notice it and would fall in and break their fucking necks. If he was lucky.

  He was already panting, almost out of breath.

  Who the hell were these guys and what the hell did they want from him?

  Doane reached the corner of the building just as the figures reached him.

  He rounded the curve and was promptly shoved into the wall, the abrasive brick scraping open the skin of his face. A knife sliced into his right side, and he screamed as he fell onto the dirt.

  He was still screaming as he looked up into the circle of blurred white faces and dull silver blades that surrounded him.

  The figures crouched down, their knives beginning their work, and as the blood began to spurt, he suddenly realized why they were wearing raincoats.

  They were going to get wet.

  NINETEEN

  1

  There was an employee meeting a half hour before The Store opened, and Shannon barely made it. She was the last downstairs, the last to arrive, and she saw the look of disapproval Mr. Lamb gave her as, huffing and puffing, she took her place in line.

  Still, she felt good. She'd lost three pounds the past five days and had not even aroused her mom's suspicions. She'd decided to take Mr. Lamb's advice, pull the scarf-and-barf routine instead of skipping meals, and it was working like a charm.

  If things continued at this pace, she'd reach her desired weight by the end of the month.

  All of the employees on duty this morning stood straight, hands clasped behind them, feet spread shoulder-width apart in the official Store stance, as Mr. Lamb informed them that a new outlet was opening in Hawk's Ridge, Wyoming, today. This placed the number of Stores in the United States at three hundred and five. And three hundred and five, he said, was a very powerful and spiritually significant number.

  Here in the Juniper store, he told them, there was going to be a one-day sale on baked goods in the Grocery department as well as a weeklong promotion on coolant and antifreeze in the Automotive department.

  He finished his talk and then came the part Shannon hated.

  The chanting.

  Mr. Lamb stood before them, looking from one to the next, all the way down the line, then pointed to May Brown, in the middle. The line parted at that point, May and everyone to the left of her stepping to the opposite side of the concrete room, Mr. Lamb remaining in the center between them.

  "Okay," he said. "Repeat after me: My loyalty is to The Store."

  "My loyalty is to The Store!"

  "Before my family, before my friends, comes The Store."

  "Before my family, before my friends, comes The Store!"

  Shannon could see her sister standing across from her, on the other side of the room, three people down. Sam was chanting for all she was worth, caught up in the moment like a Holy Roller at a revival meeting, and the sight of her sister getting so caught up in all this made her a little uneasy. Shannon herself did not enjoy chanting, had her
parents' disdain for any type of groupthink, and the fact that Sam so obviously responded to this coerced excitement, this forced camaraderie, made her uncomfortable.

  They ended with the traditional "Long live The Store!" and then they ascended to the floor in groups of five to prepare for this morning's opening.

  It happened just before noon.

  They caught her.

  In a way, it was a relief. She'd spent every hour that she'd worked on the floor worrying about whether her mom or dad would walk in and see her. It hadn't been so bad when she was in the stockroom or one of the non-public areas, but ever since her first day of work she'd been living with a dread born of certainty that her parents would find out that she'd gotten a job at The Store rather than George's.

  Luckily, Sam was with her when it happened. Her sister had walked over to borrow a quarter for the Coke machine in the break room, and Shannon was just starting to dig through her purse for coins when she looked up and saw her parents striding purposefully up the aisle toward her.

  All traces of saliva instantly evaporated from her mouth.

  Her parents stopped in front of her register. Her dad's lips were flattened into a grim straight line. "You lied to us, Shannon."

  She didn't know what to say, didn't know what to do. Her parents had never hit her, had seldom even punished her, but she stood in fear of them now, afraid to face them. Why had she done such a stupid thing? What could have possibly possessed her? She stared down at her hands, which were not shaking only because they were pressed flat against the register counter.

  "Didn't we talk about this?" her dad said.

  She looked up, nodded meekly, dumbly.

  He met her eyes, held her gaze. "I want you to quit." He glanced over at her mom, who nodded. "We both want you to quit."

  "She doesn't have to," Sam said.

  "I say she does."

  "Why don't you ask her what _she_ says?"

  Shannon stared again at her hands. She didn't want to stop working, but she didn't want to hurt her parents, either, and she could not reconcile the two. It was impossible. This was what it meant to grow up, she supposed, breaking away from your parents.

  _Before my family, before my friends, comes The Store_.

  "I like working here," she ventured.

  This time her mom spoke up. "I don't like it," she said. "It's not a healthy place to work."

  "It's evil," her dad said simply.

  Shannon glanced around in embarrassment, making sure no one else had caught this exchange. "Jeez, Dad," she whispered. "Tone it down. You sound like a loony."

  "Evil?" Sam laughed. "This is a discount store, not the First Church of Satan."

  "You shouldn't be working here, either."

  "Give me a break."

  Shannon glanced uneasily from her father to her sister, not sure what to make of this exchange. It was Sam's militancy that was so surprising. She seemed to be taking all of this personally, and while Shannon was grateful for the support, she wanted to tell her sister to calm down, not take it so seriously.

  It was only a part-time job. If she had to, she'd find another one.

  The behavior seemed out of character for Sam, Shannon thought, but now that she considered it, Sam had been acting a little odd ever since she'd started working for The Store. She'd always been such a goody-goody, never getting in trouble, never doing anything wrong, and now it seemed as though she was bound and determined to break that image.

  The trouble was, she didn't seem happy about it. It didn't seem like something she wanted to do. It seemed like something she was _compelled_ to do.

  Now she was starting to think like her parents.

  _Before my family, before my friends, comes The Store_.

  "Look," she said, "I'm scheduled to work until five, and I'm working until five. Ground me, spank me, punish me, whatever. But I'm not going home until my shift's over. After that, we can talk about all this." She faced her father.

  "Okay?"

  To her surprise, her parents agreed -- although it was more her mom's doing than her dad's. He still seemed like he wanted to argue, wanted her to take off her uniform and follow him out of the store then and there, but he agreed to wait until tonight to discuss the situation, and he allowed himself to be led out of the building.

  Shannon turned toward her sister. "Thanks," she said. "You really saved me."

  "Yeah," Sam said. "Now how about my quarter?"

  2

  They confronted Shannon again that night.

  She called shortly before five, explaining that the girl who was supposed to work the five-to-nine shift in her department had called in sick and that she had to sub for her. Bill was playing online chess with Street when she and Samantha arrived home, and by the time he signed off, got out of his chair, and made his way down the hallway to the living room, both girls were safely ensconced in the two bathrooms, bathing.

  "Give them a little time," Ginny suggested. "Don't pounce on them the second they walk through the door."

  "They've had all afternoon. We've put this off long enough. It's family discussion time."

  Shannon went straight into her bedroom after her bath, closing the door behind her. They waited, gave her enough time to get dressed, but she did not come out again, and together they knocked on her door, then opened it.

  She was in bed, lights off, pretending to sleep.

  Bill flipped on the light switch.

  Shannon pulled the covers over her head. "I'm tired," she complained.

  "I don't care," Bill told her. "You're going to talk about this."

  Sighing, she pulled the covers down, sat up. "What?"

  "What do you mean, 'What?' You said you wanted to get a job this summer, and I said fine. The only stipulation was that you could not get a job at The Store. So what did you do? You got a job at The Store and lied to me about it."

  "I didn't lie --"

  "You told me that you were working at George's. That's not a lie?"

  Shannon was silent.

  "Why did you lie?" Ginny prodded.

  She shrugged. "I don't know."

  "You're not working at The Store anymore," Bill told her.

  Shannon did not respond.

  "I want you to quit. Tomorrow."

  "I can't," she said quietly.

  "You're going to."

  "No, she's not."

  Bill turned around to see Samantha standing in the bedroom doorway, legs spread, hands on hips, wearing only a white see-through negligee. "She's made a commitment. She's responsible for keeping it."

  Bill tried not to stare at his daughter. His first instinct was to tell her to put some clothes on, but he didn't want her to know that he'd noticed.

  Her breasts and pubic hair were clearly visible through the sheer material, and he felt embarrassed. He was not aroused, but he could not help seeing her in a sexual light, and he did not know what to say or how to react.

  Ginny was not so circumspect. "What the hell are you wearing?" she demanded.

  "A nightie," Sam said defensively.

  "You put on some pajamas. I will not have you wearing something like that in my house."

  "I bought it with my own money."

  "At The Store?" Bill said.

  "I got a fifteen percent employee discount."

  "You wear pajamas," Ginny told her. "Or you put on a bathrobe."

  Bill turned back toward Shannon. "You're quitting."

  "Mr. Lamb won't let her quit," Sam said.

  "Who's Mr. Lamb?"

  "The personnel manager," Shannon said.

  "He won't let her quit," Sam repeated.

  _He won't let her quit_.

  Bill felt a small shiver of fear pass through him, but he pushed it away, would not let it gain a foothold.

  "I'll talk to this Mr. Lamb," he said. "And I'm going to tell him that neither of you are working for The Store anymore."

  He was at The Store when it opened the next morning.

  Ginny had wanted
to come, but he thought it would probably be better if he went alone and had a man-to-man talk with the personnel manager. After speaking with the girl behind the Customer Service desk, he learned that Mr. Lamb was not in yet, so he wandered around the store for a while while he waited.

  He'd been avoiding The Store lately. Not staying away from it entirely, but only going when there was something specific he needed to buy. The aimless browsing and impulse shopping of the first few weeks was long gone, and now he came here only when necessary.

  It had been over a month since he'd just wandered through The Store, and as he walked down the crowded aisles of the toy department, he saw products that made his blood run cold. Klicker-Klackers. Sooper Stuff. Balloon Makeums. Toys that were supposed to have been taken off the shelves decades ago. Toys that had been banned for sale to children in the United States.

  Dangerous toys.

  On a hunch, he hurried quickly through the rest of the store. In Infants, there were no fire-resistant or flame-retardant baby pajamas available. In Hardware, there were no warnings on packages of toxic chemicals. In Pharmacy, there were no medicines with childproof caps. In the Grocery department, all the health food seemed to have been removed from the shelves. There were no fat-free or cholesterol-free items. There was a sale on bacon and lard.

  He walked down the row to the left of the soaps and detergents. Weren't the shampoos supposed to be here? He looked at the products on the shelf in front of him: embalming fluid, suture thread.

  "May I help you, sir?"

  He nearly jumped at the sound of the voice, turning to see a young director smiling mockingly at him.

  "Where's the shampoo?" Bill asked.

  "Right over here, sir." The smirking kid led him around the corner and down the next aisle, and there were the normal products: shampoo, mousse, conditioner, Grecian Formula.

  "Next time, please ask for help," the young man said. "Sometimes it's dangerous if you try to do things on your own."

  Dangerous?

  He stared at the back of the green uniform as the young man strode away from him. The more he learned about The Store, the less he liked it. He walked back to the Customer Service counter to see if Mr. Lamb was in yet.

  He was.

  The personnel manager was a slimy, unctuous man who fit the cinematic stereotype of a used-car dealer to a T. Bill hated him on sight. He remained seated as Bill entered his office, smiling insincerely and motioning for Bill to take a seat across the desk from him. "What can I do for you, Mr. Davis?"