The Store

by Bentley Little

  The CEO held up the handful of papers, shook them. "So what do you want me to do?" he asked. "I've been reading your missives, and I can't quite figure out what you want. Do you want me to close the Juniper Store?"

  Bill was more frightened than he had ever been in his life, but he ignored his quaking legs and gathered his courage and, in the strongest voice he could muster, said, "Yes."

  King was smiling. "What would that accomplish? It would put a lot of people out of work, that's all. It wouldn't bring back all of those other businesses." His smile grew. "It wouldn't bring back your Buy-and-Save market."

  The smile stretched into grotesquerie. "It wouldn't even bring back Street's electronics shop."

  Bill's heart was pounding crazily. "You know about them?"

  "I know everything that affects The Store."

  "You drove them out of business."

  "So?"

  "You killed people. Or you had them killed. Or your people did. All those missing --"

  "Casualties of war," King said.

  Bill stared at him. If he'd only smuggled in a tape recorder . . .

  "Tape recorders don't always record me correctly," King said. He turned away, began walking back up to the head of the table.

  Lucky guess, Bill thought, hoped, told himself. Hands shaky, legs wobbly, he started after the CEO, not sure if he planned to jump on him or punch him in the back or simply yell at him. Everything he'd ever thought about The Store, the worst of it, was true, and though he was more terrified than he'd ever been before, he was angrier than he'd ever been before, as well, and he focused on the anger, used it to give him strength.

  King suddenly whirled around, and the air between them seemed to shift in a way that emulated but did not quite replicate wind. Bill instinctively moved back.

  "You were about to ask me about Store policy," the CEO said. "You wanted to know why we do what we do."

  "Why do you?"

  King smiled, not answering.

  He faced the CEO. "Why did you bring The Store to Juniper?"

  "It was an open market."

  "But what's your goal? What do you hope to accomplish? You're not just in it for the money. You had that from the beginning. You didn't have to . . ." He shook his head. "You get people dependent on your store, then you switch products on them, force them to buy . . . bizarre items. Why? What's the point?"

  King smiled. "I don't force people to buy anything. It's a free country.

  They can buy what they want."

  "Bullshit." Bill stared at him. "What are you after?"

  "We've just about conquered all the hick, hillbilly, Podunk, redneck, backwater, dipshit towns in America. It's time to move onward and upward, to expand our base, to drive Kmart and Wal-Mart and Target and all of the rest of those losers into the fucking ground." He pointed to a map of the United States on the wall next to him that was dotted with blinking red and yellow lights.

  "That's what you're after?"

  "Partially."

  "And what else?"

  King shook his head. "You wouldn't understand."

  "What do you mean, I wouldn't understand?"

  "You're not capable."

  "Try me."

  For a brief fraction of a second, there was a look on King's face that he could not interpret, an unfamiliar, unreadable expression that made him appear even more alien than he already did. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. "Believe me," King said. "My motives are not even in your vocabulary."

  Bill suddenly felt cold. King was right, he realized. He probably _wouldn't_ understand.

  And that knowledge frightened him.

  "Why did you invite me here?" Bill asked.

  "To talk."

  "About what?"

  "The future."

  "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

  King chuckled. "You're a good man, a smart man, a fine chess player, a worthy adversary. I admire that."

  "So?"

  "So I asked you what you wanted --"

  "And I said I wanted you to get The Store out of Juniper."

  "And what I tried to tell you was that progress can't be undone. The world can't go backward. It can _not_ go forward, it can stay where it is, but it cannot go backward. The Store is in Juniper. That's a done deal. But I'm offering you the next best thing."

  "What's that?"

  "As I said, you're a good man. I admire you." He paused. "I'd like you on my team."

  Bill started to respond, then shut his mouth as what King was saying sunk in.

  The man was . . . offering him a job?

  "Your own store." The voice was soft and seductive, the deep-set eyes piercing and hypnotizing in the pale-skinned face. "You pick the town. You run things the way you want. Juniper's available if you'd like it."

  "I --"

  The CEO held up a hand. "Don't say anything. Not yet. Don't make up your mind, don't say yes or no." His voice was smooth, mesmerizing. "This is a once in-a-lifetime opportunity. And I'm only going to offer it to you this one time.

  You turn it down, and you're out of this building and on your way back to Arizona within the hour."

  "Why?" Bill said.

  King smiled. "I've always found that my worst enemies, my most bitter critics, those who put up the greatest fight against me, invariably turn out to be the best managers. They're thinkers, they're doers. They're not sheep. They can handle power and they know how to use it when it's given to them. You'd make a great manager."

  "Why would I want to?"

  King's voice dropped, and he closed his long fingers into a fist. "You can _own_ that town. You can decide what people eat, what they wear, what they listen to, what they watch. You can control everything from their brand of underwear to their type of toothpaste. You can experiment. You can mix and match." He leaned forward. "That's what The Store can give you. Power." He held up the papers. "What I read here in these faxes and messages is that you're not happy with the way things are; you want to change them. Well, I'm giving you the chance to do exactly that. You can rebuild that town in your own image, and it'll be exactly the community you always wanted."

  "What I don't like is The Store. That's what I want to change."

  "And here's your chance. You can do it from the inside." King dropped the papers on the table. "The dirty deeds are done. That's all over with. You don't have to be a part of that. What we have now is a level playing field. And what I'm offering you is one of the pieces." He grinned. "Now give me your response.

  Now tell me if you'll accept the challenge."

  "Okay."

  He surprised even himself with the answer. He'd been planning to ask more questions before eventually saying no, but the word was out of his mouth before he had time to think about it, and he found that he did not want to take it back.

  King was laughing and shaking his hand, clapping him on the back, congratulating him, and the board members around the table were smiling and nodding their support. He wasn't sure why he'd agreed, and wasn't being allowed to think about it, wasn't being given the time to examine his motives. He hated The Store and wanted it destroyed, and he saw the opportunity here to infiltrate the enemy, to do damage from within.

  But . . .

  But there was something to what King had said, and he was not entirely immune to it. The Store offered power. And power was neither good nor bad. It was a tool, only as good or bad as the person using it. He could do a lot of good as manager of the Juniper Store. He would be in a position to call the shots, he could force the town council to roll back the ordinances it had passed, use it to pass better, more beneficial laws.

  "One thing," Bill said. "I want my daughters out of The Store. Now. Today.

  Fire them, release them from their contracts, do whatever you have to do, but get them away."

  King nodded. "Done."

  "They're out? No strings?"

  "If they want to be."

  "What if they don't?"

  The CEO shrugged. "I can't li
ve their lives for them."

  Shannon wanted out, he thought. She'd quit. Sam wouldn't, but Shannon would.

  It was a start.

  And when he was manager, he could fire Samantha.

  "So what do I do? Where do I sign? What happens next?"

  "Call your wife. Tell her good-bye. You have two weeks of training ahead of you. You won't be seeing her until you're done."

  "Is there a phone I can use?"

  "On the wall behind you."

  He didn't want to talk in front of all these people, but he called Ginny anyway. She'd just arrived home, and he explained briefly what was happening, told her not to worry, told her he'd be back in two weeks.

  "They kidnapped you!" she screamed. "They're forcing you to say this!"

  "No," he said.

  "Then what's happening? Why -- ?"

  "I can't explain right now. I'll tell you all about it when I get back."

  "They'll kill you!"

  "It's nothing like that," he promised. "It's a good thing. But I can't talk now."

  They went through this for several more minutes before he finally got her calmed down and convinced that it was on the level. They hung up, exchanging _I love you's_.

  If he were her, he wouldn't believe it either, he thought. He had come to Dallas this morning ready to rip Newman King a new asshole, and now he was going to work for The Store? It didn't make any sense.

  It _didn't_ make any sense.

  So why was he doing it?

  He still wasn't sure.

  Two guards had entered the boardroom behind him, and he started as they drew even with him and grabbed his arms. "What the . . . ?" he said, looking around at them, then over at Newman King.

  "It's training time," the CEO said. "They're here to escort you to our training facilities."

  Bill squirmed out of the guards' grasp. "They don't have to treat me like I'm a prisoner."

  "Quite right," King said. He made a motion with his hand, and the guards stepped back. "Sorry. Habit."

  Bill took a deep breath. What had he gotten himself into here? And how was he going to get out of it?

  He suddenly wished he had not taken King up on the offer to come to Dallas.

  No. That wasn't true.

  The CEO walked over to him. "We're happy you've decided to join The Store family," he said. "You will be a welcome and valuable asset to our team." He shook Bill's hand once again, and his grip was cold. "Please follow the guards.

  They will take you to our training facilities." Grinning, he motioned toward the elevator door. "And have a nice day."

  3

  Shannon was called into Mr. Lamb's office, not during her break but almost immediately after starting her shift. Another employee, a new employee, came by to tell her the news and man the register for her.

  There was something wrong.

  She was ushered immediately into his office, and he looked up as she entered. There was no preamble, no small talk; he did not offer her a seat. Mr. Lamb stared at her from across the desk with barely disguised contempt and said simply, "You're fired. Turn in your uniform and your _Bible_."

  She blinked, not sure she'd heard right. "Excuse me?"

  "Clear the fuck out." The personnel manager stood. "You're through, you're fired, The Store no longer wants you, you stupid fat cow. Get off our property.

  Now." She was stunned into silence.

  "Now!"

  She turned tail and ran. She didn't know what was happening or why, but she was smart enough not to question it. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, as Grandpa Fred always said. She quickly hurried away from the office, excited and angry at the same time. Excited that she was finally able to get out of here and away, to escape The Store's clutches, but angry at the way she was being treated. The anger was an instinctive reaction, though, an emotionally defensive response, and she knew enough not to act on it. She kept it controlled and sped downstairs to the locker room, where she took off her Store uniform while the camera videotaped her for the last time.

  This was too good to be true, and she wanted to get off the premises before Mr. Lamb changed his mind.

  She wondered, as she put on her street clothes, why it was that Mr. Lamb could fire her but Sam could not, then decided that Sam had probably arranged this, had probably figured out a way to get her out.

  Or her dad had talked to Newman King in Dallas and King himself had arranged this.

  No. It wouldn't have happened this fast.

  She left her uniform and her _Employee's Bible_ in the locker, went back out onto the floor, stopped by the Customer Service desk to find out about her last paycheck, was told to leave The Store immediately, and then she was outside, in the parking lot, and she was free.

  Free!

  She almost felt like dancing.

  She didn't know what to do. She didn't want to go home yet, and she got in the car and drove aimlessly and happily around town, finally pulling up in front of Diane's house.

  She sat in the car for a moment, not sure she was brave enough to go up and knock on the door, but before she could make any sort of decision, Diane opened the front door and started up the walk toward her.

  Shannon tried to read her friend's face, couldn't.

  "Hey," she said.

  Diane smiled shyly. "Hey."

  She blurted it out. "I just got fired from The Store."

  "They fired you?" Diane was up to the car now, leaning in the passenger window.

  Shannon nodded. "Thank God."

  Her friend laughed. The awkwardness that had existed between them for most of the summer seemed to have disappeared, and Shannon was glad she'd come by.

  "So what are your plans?"

  "Don't have any."

  "Want to come in?"

  Shannon thought for a moment, shook her head. "Want to cruise around?"

  Diane nodded. "Okay. Let me tell my mom." She ran back inside the house, emerging a moment later with her purse. She opened the passenger door, hopped into the car.

  "Still friends?" Shannon said.

  Diane smiled. "Always."

  "It would've been a long senior year without you."

  "Tell me about it." Diane looked at her. "I'm glad you're back."

  Shannon smiled. "I am, too," she said, starting the car.

  She put the vehicle into gear and burned rubber toward Main Street.

  THIRTY-TWO

  1

  For the first three days, Bill was kept alone in a completely dark room.

  Solitary confinement. There was no light, no sound, no furniture, only padded floors and walls, rounded corners. No one opened the door to feed him, but there were sacks of potato chips, bagels, and fruit against one wall, plastic bottles of water and soft drinks next to them. There was a toilet in one corner, a trash can in another.

  This was supposed to be training?

  He should have expected something like this from The Store.

  He couldn't help thinking that he was being watched, observed, videotaped with an infrared camera, and even in the pitch-dark he felt acutely self conscious about his movements and behavior and facial expressions. He could not relax, could not get comfortable, was always performing for an audience that might or might not be there, and when he was finally let out, blinking and flinching from the light in the training facility's main corridor, his muscles were knotted, tense, both his neck and back hurting.

  He'd been allowed to keep his clothes on in the dark room, but now he was stripped and placed naked in a glass cage in the center of a crowded office, pointed to and laughed at by secretaries and executives. He was left there for twenty-four hours, forced to defecate in front of staring strangers, since the office never closed and workers were at the desks night and day.

  What in God's name had possessed him to agree to this? If he'd said no, he would be back in Juniper now, with Ginny and Shannon, and Samantha would be over-seeing The Store.

  Maybe.

  He had only Newman King's word that h
e could have refused with no repercussions.

  The truth was that they could all be dead now if he had refused. King could have had them all killed.

  He would not put it past the man.

  Or whatever he was.

  They might be dead anyway, his wife and daughters. There was no way to know, no way to check, and it was the uncertainty of the fate of his family more than his own discomfort and embarrassment that consumed him.

  He was let out of the cage by two guards, a collar looped around his neck, and led naked and filthy through the office of giggling secretaries, down a long corridor, to an all-white room, where a huge blond man sat on a white bench.

  "Good morning, Mr. Davis. I am your instructor."

  Bill licked his cracked lips, trying to wet them. He hadn't eaten since he'd left the dark room more than a day ago. "I thought this was supposed to be management training."

  The instructor smiled coldly. "It is."

  "But what's the point of . . . all this?"

  "Humiliation is the key to cooperation. That is why we turn out such effective and efficient managers here."

  Bill licked his lips again. "Can I get something to drink?"

  "In a moment." The instructor stood, and Bill saw that behind the huge man was a freestanding black rectangle with several handles poking out from a hole in its top. Even from here, he could see the shimmering air of heat waves radiating from the object.

  The guards pushed Bill forward. They tied him naked to the bench, bending him over, buttocks up.

  "You will now receive The Store brand," the instructor told him.

  Behind him, he heard sizzling. He craned his neck, twisting to see the instructor holding a red-hot branding iron that he'd taken from the black rectangle.

  "No!" Bill screamed.

  "This is going to hurt," the instructor said.

  The hot metal seared the flesh of his buttocks, and he passed out.

  When he came to, he was strapped to a chair in a darkened cell, facing a gigantic television on which Newman King paced back and forth in a featureless white room, talking to himself. The pain was tremendous, unbearable, and he passed out again almost instantly, but he awoke sometime later in the same position, and Newman King was still on the TV screen, talking.