Bentley Little: The Store

The lights in the building dimmed.

Bill held his ground as King strode down the aisle toward him. The Store was silent, the only sound King's boot heels clicking on the tiled floor.

The crowd parted nervously before him as he approached. The CEO drew closer, and Bill saw that his face had begun to corrode. The plastic teeth were gone, replaced by decayed stumps. The skin was now yellowish white and stretched thin in places, blackness visible beneath it.

Only the eyes remained the same, and Bill could sense the burning intensity radiating from them and he was afraid.

_What was he?_ Bill thought.

King raised his hand, snapped his fingers, and instantly, from the opposite end of The Store, came the Night Managers. They did not spread out and begin walking past racks and displays like they usually did. but marched forward en masse.

King was at the front of the espresso bar now, but he made no effort to move any closer. He stood at its edge, looking at Bill on top of the table. "I

_built_ The Store," he spit out. "I made it! I invented it!"

"You ruined it!" a brave soul in the crowd called out. A kid.

King swiveled, turned, cast a withering glance at the assembled employees.

"I made you!" King said. "I gave you jobs! I made you what you are today!"

He turned his attention back toward Bill, and Bill was frightened, but he heard the anger in the CEO's voice, felt the panic, the desperation. King was dying, he realized. Just like Lamb and Walker and Keyes. And he felt a small twinge of satisfaction at the thought.

King advanced slowly. "I should've killed you when I had the chance, pussy boy. But instead I took you under my wing, trained you, allowed you to be a manager."

"You shouldn't've used my daughter," Bill said, holding his ground.

"That whore!" King roared.

Hatred and anger drove away what was left of the fear. "You have no power here," Bill said coldly. "This is _my_ Store. Get the fuck out."

In front of the espresso bar, the Night Managers were moving forward, passing through the rapidly dispersing crowd. Employees were slinking away, hiding behind racks of clothing, backing up the aisles. Several headed for the doors, making a run for it.

"I will not allow you to do this," King said. "I will not allow you to take The Store away from me."

"You killed my friends. You killed my town."

"It's _my_ Store!"

Bill was thrown back, off the table, against the counter at the rear of the bar, and all of the breath was knocked out of him. King had not touched him, but _something_ had shoved him backward, a force that had not put pressure on any one part of his body but had slammed into all of him equally, an overwhelming wall of unseen energy.

King continued to advance, his decaying face a terrifying mask of rage and hate that Bill knew was only a milder version of the real face beneath it.

Bill sucked in his breath, stood to face King. He wanted to run, but he knew he couldn't, and he -- was thrown back again, the force this time slamming into his chest and midsection, feeling like a cannonball.

"I _am_ The Store!" King cried.

Once more, Bill staggered to his feet. He stood proudly, breathing painfully. "The Store is ours," he said. "And _this_ Store is _mine_!"

He was flattened against the counter this time, pinned in place by unseen energy. Through teary eyes he saw more employees fleeing, saw the Night Managers press forward.

King smiled at him, and the sight was truly terrifying to behold. "How come you didn't get rid of the Night Managers, huh? Why didn't you terminate them?" King looked at him, the smile turning into a snarl. "Because you couldn't! They're not yours, they're The Store's. They're mine."

Bill struggled, strained, broke free of the grip of whatever was holding him. King was standing directly in front of him at this point, and the CEO pushed him back, but there was no accompanying invisible force, no bolt of power. There was only the pressure of King's hands, strong and cold and unnaturally bony.

Bill grabbed one of King's arms, thrust it away.

The CEO looked at Bill, confused.

Bill shoved him.

King did not move back at all, was not thrown even the least bit off balance, and Bill felt only iron immobility against his hand muscles as he shoved, but for the first time, he saw what looked like fear on King's face. It lasted only a second, was preceded and then replaced by anger, but it had been there, however briefly, and even as King threw him to the floor, Bill smiled.

"You have no power here," he said.

In a rage, King whirled around toward the Night Managers gathered behind him. He snapped his fingers, clapped his hands, pointed. "Kill him!" the CEO ordered.

The black-clad managers remained in place, unmoving.

"Kill him!" King screamed.

And the Night Managers turned on him.

Bill scrambled to his feet, backing up against the counter.

King was confused, taken completely by surprise, and he stumbled, falling.

Bill was equally surprised, and he did not know what to say, did not know what to do. His eyes darted toward the converging aisles in front of the espresso bar, and he saw that most of the remaining employees were not running away, not moving forward to watch, but remained in place, waiting to see what happened next.

King was trying to get up, trying to right himself, but the Night Managers had completely surrounded him now, and they were kicking, hitting, punching.

They _were_ The Store's, Bill realized.

They were his.

And they were protecting him.

One of them withdrew from his black garb a knife.

"No!" King cried.

More knives were drawn.

Bill should have been happy. He should have felt good. This was what he'd wanted. This was what he'd been hoping for. But somehow it didn't seem right.

The Night Managers, who were victims of The Store, were also part of The Store.

They had turned against Newman King, but they were using his tactics. They were his creations, his children.

In a sudden wave, the Night Managers moved in, dozens of knives flashing in the dim light. The knives disappeared, reappeared, and they were covered with red. There was the sickening sluicing sound of blood and rent flesh. Between the moving, shifting forms of the Night Managers, Bill saw the body of Newman King jerk once, the head rising, then collapse, unmoving.

A black inky shadow moved upward from the melee, fluttering wildly, dissipating in the air, and the Night Managers, as one, bent and stood, the contingent in the center picking up the limp dead body of Newman King. Holding it aloft, they moved out of the espresso bar and began walking silently down the center aisle of The Store toward the door that led to the basements.

Bill remained flattened against the side of the kitchen counter for several shocked seconds before finally straightening and facing the employees who were left. The looks of disgust and startled confusion that greeted him must have mirrored his own. Sucking in his breath, he strode between the overturned tables and out into the center aisle. He faced the departing Night Managers.

"Stop!" he ordered.

As one, the Night Managers halted.

He ran to catch up with them, other employees following. Near the back of the group, amidst a cadre of unrecognized faces, he saw Ben. Like his brethren, Ben's face was blank, impassive, and dotted with small splatters of blood. But the corners of his mouth appeared to be turned up a fraction, and it seemed as though he was smiling.

Bill looked up at the body of Newman King, then back at the Night Manager who had once been his friend.

"You're fired," he said softly.

Ben collapsed.

There was no transformation, no change in expression or appearance, only an immediate slumping to the floor, as though the Night Manager had been an electric toy and his power cord had just been yanked out of the socket.