Brian Keene: Jack's Magic Beans

Shivering, Sammi clasped her arms around her shoulders. “It’s cold in here.”

“It’s a freezer,” Jack said. “It’s supposed to be cold.”

Their breath hung in the air like wisps of fog when they spoke. The compressor hummed softly on the other side of the wall.

“Besides,” he continued, “it could be worse.”

“How?” Sammi asked. “What could possibly be any worse than this?”

“The lights could go out.”

“Actually,” Marcel said, “that’s a good point. We know the power is still on. Otherwise the freezer wouldn’t be running. So if the electricity is still on, then maybe this didn’t happen everywhere. Maybe it was just confined to Save-A-Lot.”

“I don’t know,” Angie said. “Even on the way here, people seemed angrier than normal. On the highway. I didn’t realize it at first, but looking back now, I remember it. There was a lot of road rage. And we all heard fire sirens and police cars. They weren’t all coming here. If they had been, we’d have seen them arrive.”

Marcel snorted. “So everybody all over the world just went insane at the same fucking time? That’s what you’re saying?”

“Maybe not all over the world.” Angie shrugged. “But at least here in town. Could be it’s some sort of localized thing.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, “but what kind of thing? I mean, what makes everyone go bat-shit crazy all at once and start killing each other?”

“Terrorists.” Marcel got to his feet. “Al Qaeda, or maybe some homegrown group like those Sons of the Constitution motherfuckers. Maybe they dropped some gas on us.”

“How?”

“They could have used a crop-duster or something. Like what happened in that little town in Pennsylvania a few years ago. That chemical got released from a hot air balloon and made the rain purple, and then everybody died? Supposedly they all went insane before they were killed. Remember that?”

“I do,” Sammi whispered. “I had nightmares about it for weeks. Those poor people…”

“It couldn’t be gas,” Jack said, watching Marcel as he crossed the freezer and checked the door again. The man seemed to be counting his steps under his breath. “If it had been, you guys would have smelled it when it came through the store’s ventilation system.”

“Not necessarily,” Angie said. “Gas can be odorless and invisible. But I agree that it wasn’t gas. It was windy outside. If they’d used gas, some of it would have blown away. If that happened, then it wouldn’t have been as effective in the parking lot, and the way Marcel talks, things were just as bad out there right before he came in. And besides, if there was gas, then each of us would have breathed it and gone nuts, too—and we’re okay.”

“Maybe we’re immune,” Jack suggested.

“You can’t be immune to gas.”

“The water, then.” Sammi’s teeth chattered as she spoke. She rubbed her arms briskly. “Somebody could have spiked the town’s water supply.”

“Maybe,” Angie agreed, watching Marcel. “But I drank water from the tap today, and took a shower, too, and I didn’t go crazy. How about you?”

“I don’t drink city water,” Sammi said. “I only use bottled spring water.”

“But you showered, right? Brushed your teeth?”

Sammi nodded. “Yeah, after my morning run.”

“Well, there you go.”

Jack noticed Sammi’s face turn red, as if she were embarrassed. He wondered why. Sammi looked away from them. Jack turned his attention back to Marcel. He was checking the straps again.

“What’s up, Marcel?”

He shrugged. “Just making sure these will hold.”

“Dude, they’re okay. I told you, I’m the knot master. You keep messing with them, somebody on the other side is going to hear you.”

“I know.” But even as he said it, Marcel gave no indication of stopping. He tugged the bonds again. “Just want to be sure.”

“Marcel…”

“I can’t help it, kid. Leave me be.”

“My name’s Jack. Not kid.”

Releasing the bands, Marcel turned around and walked back to them.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Guess I should have said something sooner. It’s just a little embarrassing is all—especially telling strangers.”

They stared at him, but it was Jack who finally spoke up, asking what they were all thinking.

“What is?”

Marcel sat down again. “I’ve got OCD—Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. That’s why I was fucking with the straps. You guys know what OCD is?”

They nodded.

“Of course you do,” he muttered. “Everybody does these days. People make jokes about it at work and on TV. Most people think that folks with OCD are crazy. But we’re not—and it ain’t funny. I hate being like this. Hate the fucking looks people give me.”

“So your OCD has to do with doors?” Angie asked.

Marcel nodded. “Yeah, something like that. Doors and appliances, mostly. I need to make sure the doors are locked and everything is turned off. That’s what I was doing when… well, when everything went to shit. I was sitting in my car, double-checking the headlights and stuff. The more stressed I am, the worse it is, and right now, I’m pretty fucking stressed. I’m scared and worried about my family and I’m sick of sitting in here freezing my ass off. But at the same time, I know it’s suicide to go back out there. So, my OCD kicked in and I was making sure the straps around the doors are secure. We know they are. Your knots will probably hold. But I’ve got to make sure anyway. I can’t help it. And it ain’t just doors, either. I have to count things—how many potato chips I eat out of the bag, how many steps I take, how many times the phone rings. And I can’t stand odd numbers. Like, if I’m reading a book, I can’t stop on an odd numbered page. If I walk somewhere, I have to end on an even numbered step. When I’m channel surfing, I skip past the odd-numbered channels. If I go out to eat and the check comes and it’s an odd number, I’ve got to tip enough to make it even.”

They stared at him, not speaking.

Marcel shrugged. “I guess you probably think I’m crazy.”

“I don’t,” Jack said. “Shit, man—we’ve all got our problems, you know? I’m on Prozac. People make fun of that, too.”

Marcel grinned. “Prozac? So am I. It’s the only thing that works for me. I tried Paxil, Luvox, Xanax, and Zoloft, but all they did was make me comatose. So now I’m on Prozac. It works better.”

“Not to be rude,” Angie said, “but if you’re checking the door even though you know it’s secured, then are you sure the medicine is working? Maybe you need a different dosage.”

“Yeah. Believe me, I’m sure it’s working. Like I said, my symptoms get worse when I’m stressed. So pardon me if I seem a little freaked out right now.”

Outside the door, somebody screamed—a long, unwavering howl that seemed to rise in pitch and intensity. Then it stopped.

“Fuck,” Jack whispered. “That sounded like some kind of animal. Are you guys sure it was other people that did these things?”

“You didn’t see them.” Angie burst into tears. “I’m not surprised they sound like animals.”

She lowered her head and sobbed. Her shoulders shook, but she made no sound.

“Hey.” Marcel reached out a tentative hand and squeezed her shoulder. “If you’re worried you offended me with that medicine remark, don’t be.”

“No,” she sobbed. “It’s not that. I’m just scared. And depressed. Story of my life. I’ve got chronic depression. You guys aren’t the only two people on Prozac. That’s what I was here for, too.”

Marcel nodded. “Me, too. I ran out of meds yesterday, in fact. Haven’t taken any since yesterday morning. Come to think of it, that might be why my OCD symptoms are a little worse today. I was on my way in here to pick up my prescription.”