Retail Hell: Psychic Storm – Chapter 4

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The emergency alarm whirs, then cuts out as all the doors and windows are locked and bolted on their automatic switches. It’s midnight, and every nook and cranny, every aisle and shelf, every inch of S-Mart is, for the moment, undisturbed by neither sound nor movement.

On the main floor, anyway. Past the storeroom, down the stairs, through the long enclosed hallway, and behind a door made of reinforced steel, this night is just beginning.

The room feels circular and is full of shadows. Around the perimeter are rows of large solid backed steel shelves filled with sundry weapons and cannisters containing acerbic-smelling liquids. These storage/barricade units fan out from a main aisle that leads from the door to the center of the room where there sits a wooden rectangular table. Past the table is another steel door. There are also doors to the left and right. In the back left corner is a makeshift med station with an examining table, monitors and tall lamps with moveable necks.

Yellowed light beats down onto the squat table from the hanging lamps above, illuminating the items strewn about–everything from books to Bowie knives–and casting stark shadows on everything else. Just outside the radius of the light, on the side of the table away from the entrance, paces the tall sturdy figure of a man, straight-backed, proud, even cocky, with his hands clasped behind his back. He walks from one end of the table to the other, dark eyes taking stock of the six men and women on the other side of the table facing him. His lips betray just a hint of a smile. This is his favorite part of the night. The part where he is in charge, where he is the one who undeniably gets to make the rules, where he is totally awesome. The part right before they all remember that he has no idea what he’s talking about.

Retail Hell: Psychic Storm – Chapter 3

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A swoosh of warm air hits Lori’s frosty skin like a furnace as the automatic doors open, beckoning her inside. She pushes her tired limbs to keep going, diving through the entrance and finally into the warmth of the store. The doors slide closed behind her, sealing the cold outside.

Making her way through the second set of sliding doors and into the store, she searches for the digital customer service clock. 11:24pm. Nearly an hour and a half late. Only a couple checkout lanes are still in operation, serving the last trickle of customers who speak in lowered voices in the echoey, emptying store.

Lori trots over to customer service, hurrying both due to the lateness of the hour and in an attempt to warm up her freezing limbs. She sees Cooper standing at the register, apparently talking to himself. As she approaches she overhears the conversation between him and his invisible pal.

“If you die it puts people at risk anyway. You have to learn when to ask for help.”

“I’m not dead.”

“That doesn’t make you right. It just means you got lucky.”

Grace pops up from below the counter, hair hanging greasy and disheveled around her grime-streaked face. Her standard blue collared work shirt in favor of a cheap promotional t-shirt featuring a map of Michigan with a star in the upper peninsula and emblazoned with the words “S-Mart 2010 Company Picnic: Raising UP Spirits!”

“Yeah, well , he’s still lying facedown in the store closet. You can go kick him in the face a couple times if that’ll make you feel better.” Grace places her balled up workshirt on the counter, a stained bunch of reds, purples and blues. As she attempts to tug and smooth her hair back into something resembling a ponytail, she catches sight of Lori.

Retail Hell: Psychic Storm – Chapter 2

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Grace slams back against the wrought iron shelving unit. It shudders but does not fall. All her breath is yanked from her body, and she collapses to the floor. As she groans and gasps for air, the towering shadow on the other side of the room pulls itself to its feet, hunching low in the small space. It twists its distended neck in the direction it had thrown her, every grinding vertebrae visible under skin so thin it looks as if it might tear in half.

She snorts, almost growls, in frustration. “The one time I leave my hammer in the break room…” she mutters to herself.

The sharp edges of the shelves’ metal frame dig into her hands as Grace pulls herself to her feet. The thing across the room takes a long stride in her direction. Its boulder of a foot drops with a boom, and she has to cling to the trembling framework to steady herself. Several rolls of paper towels tumble down from the shelves above her. She pushes blood-and-sweat soaked hair out of her eyes as she watches the towels roll away. They’re no good to her anyhow, not in the face of this piece of crap.

Another step. This time the shelving unit next to her pitches forward, spilling industrial amounts of hand soap and Mop-N-Glo in every direction. Grace turns her body to fully face her enemy, feeling the twist and pinch in her spine of bones gone awry.