Bentley Little - The Store

He forced himself to push that reaction aside, however, as he pulled the cruiser in front of the store entrance, slamming the transmission into Park. He took the oversize flashlight from underneath the dashboard and, leaving the engine running, stepped out of the vehicle. There was no need for the flashlight, really. Every inch of The Store appeared to be clearly illuminated.

But the parking lot was still dark, and after midnight there was no such thing as too much light. Besides, the flashlight doubled as a club, and he was more than prepared to use it in that capacity if necessary.

He stepped up to the glass doors, looked inside. He saw nothing at first, only aisle after aisle of products and a bank of unmanned cash registers. Then he caught the blur of movement out of the corner of his eye, and he focused his attention on the right rear corner of The Store.

And saw figures.

Black-clad figures.

Aaron's grip on the flashlight tightened. They were fanning outward from the corner, walking up aisles, moving around racks. They couldn't be employees, he thought. There was no way these strangely garbed individuals were here to perform any sort of legitimate work. They wore hoods and hats and looked like a variation on the cinematic conception of a cat burglar. Which meant they were probably here to rob or vandalize the place, to commit some sort of crime. Which meant that he was going to have to confront them and prevent the crime from being committed.

There were a lot of them, though, and he would be perfectly justified in calling for backup. The problem was that, aside from himself, only Dirkson was on duty tonight, and it would take at least ten or fifteen minutes for him to rouse the other officers and dispatch them to The Store.

Ten or fifteen minutes was a long time.

In the night.

In the dark.

It was then that he saw the words THE STORE stenciled on the back of a shiny black -- jacket? shirt? -- it was hard to tell what it was, but one of the figures had turned around, and the words -- black on black -- were visible in the fluorescent light.

They _were_ employees.

Aaron breathed gratefully, unaware until now that he'd been holding his breath. He watched through the closed doors as the figures separated, heading over to the various Store departments.

Figures.

Why did he keep thinking of them as "figures" instead of "people"?

Because they didn't look human.

It was true. There was something about the figures, their build, their appearance, their movements, that struck him as odd, that looked, to his eye, unnatural.

He stepped back, away from the entrance, trying to blend into the darkness, not wanting any of the figures to see him. From this vantage point, he watched them as they moved through the store. Beneath the black hoods and hats, their faces were white, skin the color of alabaster and possessed of an abnormal quality, an unidentifiable property that ordinary skin -- _human skin_ -- did not have.

That wasn't possible, though. He was just being crazy. The animals had thrown him for a loop, and he'd been spooked ever since. There was nothing unusual here, nothing out of the ordinary. These were just people, people working the graveyard shift like himself, people who were trying to do their job. Graveyard shift.

He was being stupid again.

But was he? What work were these figures performing? They were wandering through the store, but they didn't seem to be doing anything. They certainly weren't cleaning the floors or replacing lightbulbs. They weren't even taking inventory. They were just . . . walking through the building. That wasn't work. A figure stepped in front of the door.

Aaron jumped, instantly retreating further back into the darkness of the night. The figure stood inside The Store, behind the glass, facing out. Its head moved from left to right, as if scanning the parking lot. Seen this closely, from this angle, its movements seemed even stranger even more unusual and unnatural, and the skin of its face seemed whiter than any skin could be.

Aaron's heart was thumping wildly in his chest, and his mouth was completely dry.

The figure's head suddenly snapped to the left. Its eyes locked onto his.

The surrounding night suddenly seemed much blacker.

The figure stared at him.

Grinned.

Beckoned.

Aaron ran around the patrol car to the driver's side and its welcome open door. He slammed the door shut, put the vehicle into gear, and took off. There was no crime being committed here, no reason for him to hang around.

Technically, he was trespassing. He had no cause, no suspicions, nothing that would stand up in court if he attempted to explain why he was lurking outside The Store in the middle of the night.

He glanced in his rearview mirror at the black shape of the building as he swerved onto the highway. He could see a small square of light where the entrance was.

And a small black shape in the middle of the square.

That settled it. Fights or no fights, problems or no problems, Virginia was not going to work. Not at The Store. He'd get divorced before he let her apply for a job at that place.

He accelerated quickly, speeding down the highway toward Main, refusing to look in his mirror again until trees had blocked the view of The Store behind him. He did not rest easy until the cruiser was once again parked in front of Len's, and the well-lighted donut shop and its jovial proprietor were all he could see through his windshield.

2

The polarities had reversed.

Bill had been unsure at first whether the change in their winning streaks meant that the outcome of the chess games would return to a normal randomness or whether it meant that the win-loss pattern would simply be transferred between him and Street.

Obviously the latter.

He'd grown to hate the game, but, as before, he felt compelled to play, driven to follow this through to the end.

Yesterday, they'd played computer chess. Street had won.

He was winning today's board game.

No, he had won today's board game. "Check," he said, moving his bishop into place. "Mate."

Street examined the position of the pieces on the board, then with one sweep of his hand knocked them to the floor. "Shit."

"Two to two," Ben announced.

Street stood. "I need a beer. Anyone else want one?"

Both Bill's and Ben's hands went up.

"Buds all around." Street retreated to the kitchen, emerging a moment later with three cans. He tossed one to each of them, then popped open his own, taking a long draught. He sat back down, began picking up the chess pieces off the floor.

Bill stooped to help him.

"I can do it," Street said.

"I don't mind."

"If you really want to help . . ." Street's voice trailed off. He straightened, threw the pieces into the box, downed a long swig of beer. "Ah, fuck."

Bill frowned. "What is it?"

Street sighed. "You know I don't like to trade on friendship," he said.

"I've never tried to make either of you feel obligated to buy equipment from me, I've never tried to force you or con you. But I'm asking you now: do you think you could use some electronic equipment?"

Ben's voice was quiet. "You're really hurting, huh?"

Street nodded. "The Store's killing me." He looked from Ben to Bill. "I'm not asking for charity, but check around your homes or your offices, see if there're any electronic items you legitimately need. I'd appreciate the business."

"Are . . ." Bill cleared his throat. "Do you think you can survive?"

Street shrugged, finished off the beer. "I hope so, but who knows? At least I don't have alimony payments anymore. And at least the house is paid off.

I suppose, if worse comes to worst, I can always file for bankruptcy." He chuckled. "Then, after my electricity's shut off and I can't afford to buy food, I can catch squirrels and cook them in the fireplace."