Final Prey

The wind blew cold through the sleepy town. The dull yellow dollar store sign flickered in the rain. The few patrons parked their cars in the lot, taking shelter within the store's cramped walls. Most were seeking something, few finding anything, all wandering lost between the cluttered aisles. The cashier, Jim, sits quietly behind the checkout. His head dips slightly, the only sign of his tiredness. He would have closed an hour ago, but the rainy day had slipped into a severe weather warning, now the store serves as an emergency shelter until the warning lifts.


9 pm. Jim sighed at his watch. A regular customer paced to the checkout.

"Money is time, Jim," the old man said. Jim glances at him with a bored look.


"No, time is money," says Jim. Jim grabs a month-old magazine off the stand next to him. The pages send dust through the air as he flips through the pages. The lights flicker above. The old man leans on the counter, his Carhartt damp with rain, mud under his fingernails.


"Mae should have the roast done by now I reckon. I'd been home beforehand if not for the storm. Maybe I should have just gone home, maybe I should go home now. Mae'd be mad, reckon she'd let my dinner go cold. She would be mad about the storm, call me reckless, so I'll just stay here I guess," the old man droned. Jim hmmed and nodded, agreeing without listening. All the while never noticing the roar of an engine in the parking lot, or the open and shut of automatic doors. Jim thought the storm couldn't end soon enough. Working here was miserable. Every day in and out for ten years. The only excitement at this place came from leaving and Jim hated this old man. Hated him as a customer and a person. Who shops at a place like this? Old, crusty men who can't clean their fingernails. Jim huffed in annoyance and interrupted the old man.


"Yeah, listen. I gotta head to the back and call the station. I wanna check if the storm is gonna let up soon. Be right back." Jim shuffled to the back office and closed and locked the door. The back office was a mess of inventory files, empty pop cans, and an overfilled trash can. A broken-down office chair bore the weight of Jim's obese body, his exhausted grunt covering the noise of the squeaky chair. Jim leaned back and closed his eyes trying to sleep through the rest of the storm. Had he not tried for a nap he would have noticed the security screen on the desk. He would have noticed how each camera lens went black and full of static. He would have noticed the old man at the counter drop to the floor like a sack of flour, banging his head on the counter, blood splattering the month-old magazines. In fact, Jim didn't notice much until he woke up two hours later. A dream of forbidden pleasures caused Jim to roll out of his squeaky office chair with a bang. His drool-slick cheek slapped against the floor, dirt and grime clung to his skin like a stain. Jim groggily cursed and shakily got to his knees. Jim wiped his cheek and then looked at his watch. 11 pm. Jim cursed again and snatched the store keys off the desk. He noticed the black screens on the security screen.


"Must be the storm," he muttered to himself. Unlocking the door, Jim walked quickly to the windows by the glass doors. Outside, the storm had eased to a steady rain. Nothing like the violent storm that raged earlier.


"Alright, anybody else in here?" Jim yells to the store with his eyes still on the rain outside. They all must have left already, Jim thinks after a minute of no response. With the rain pattering on the glass, Jim reaches above his head to flick the automatic switch of the doors. Each night on Mondays through Thursdays, Jim closes the grungy dollar store with a quick and easy routine. First, he turns off the automatic sensor to the sliding glass doors; that way it's easier to lock. Second, he locks the sliding glass doors, that way no one comes into the store while he closes. Third, he pretends to tidy so that when his manager checks the camera no one can accuse him of not doing his job. Finally, he grabs his two phones from the manager's office, unlocks the sliding glass door, locks it again, and goes home in his 1994 rusty Ford pickup to his one-bedroom trailer with a malnourished dog tied out in the front. On any normal Monday through Thursday night, this routine might get him home at 8:30 pm. Jim curses the storm for his delay. With a huff, Jim fumbles for the right key with his fat fingers, anxious to get home. The keys slip out of his hands, falling between his feet slightly behind him. With a grunt of frustration, Jim turns away from the glass doors and crouches on wobbly stubby legs to grab his keys. When Jim stands straight, he finds a person five feet in front of him standing in the checkout aisle. Jim startles backward, banging into the glass. He drops the keys again.


"Godda-! What the hell is wrong with you? I just asked if there was anyone else in the store. Why didn't you say anything?" Jim screamed at the person. Past the startlement, Jim was able to observe the quiet customer or storm refugee. The man-Jim assumed- was wrapped in black. The customer wore leather gloves and a black motorcycle helmet with the visor pulled down. Jim couldn't look the man in the eye. The man was taller than Jim, but not by much. The man was holding a bag of chips in his hand. Jim saw the bag of chips and rolled his eyes.


"Now, listen. This store is closed, the only reason you could get in was because of the storm warning. You can't buy anything because we're closed," Jim reaches down to get the keys and turns back toward the glass doors, "now that the storm has passed it's time to go." With the doors unlocked, Jim pulls the glass doors open with effort. A breeze with a heavy smell of rain and salt rushes the small foyer. Jim turns back to the stranger. With a gesture of his large hands out the glass doors, Jim waited for the stranger to leave. The stranger simply cocked his head slightly to the right. Jim could feel the stranger stare behind his tented helmet; Jim felt like a specimen. Feeling his blood boil under his skin, Jim pointed at the stranger.


"Hey!" He shouted, " I'm not gonna tell you again. You either leave this store right now or I'll throw you out myself. Now, get out!" Jim shouted again. But this time it was a big shout, a loud shout. He wanted to be home. Now. With heat stirring in Jim's rosy cheeks and a bead of sweat down his temple, he waited for the stranger to move. The stranger, while never moving his tinted stare from Jim, raised his left hand to the chip stand next to him and pushed. The stand fell over and sent chips scattering all over the floor. Jim's anger reached a boiling point. Jim shouted again, a deep angry sound, and stalked towards the stranger. With both hands raised in front of him to grab the stranger, Jim suddenly noticed something in the corner of his vision. There in front of the cash counter lay the old man, a small pool of blood around his head. Instantly, fear filled the pit of Jim's stomach. Jim did a doubletake around the store, he saw the other partons from hours earlier littered in the aisles he could see from the front. All lying lifeless on the floor. Jim's heart began to race, he put his open hands up and his keys dropped again.


"Alright, listen, t-t-take what you w-w-wan-" Jim began to stutter but was cut off by a sharp pain in his face. Jim could taste blood pouring into his mouth. With a cry, he fell to his knees. The stranger had stuck Jim's nose with their elbow. The crack of a broken nose echoed in the store before Jim's cry did. Jim tried to catch his blood with his hands, but it overflowed.


"Please, take what you want," Jim pleaded, blood spitting out of his mouth onto the stranger's black leather boots. The stranger said nothing. Jim turned on his hands and knees in an attempt to escape in the direction of the manager's office. The stranger raised their foot and brought it down on Jim's ankle fast and hard. Jim felt the blinding pain radiate through his body to the back of his skull. Jim opened his mouth in a silent o, heaved a breath, and screamed like a newborn gasping for air.


"Help me! Somebody, please help me!" Jim shouted at the top of his lungs. If this were any other Monday through Thursday night, someone might have heard him but, the rain covered his sounds and no one was on this abandoned route this late. Jim began army crawling backward toward the open glass doors; his feeble arms slowly pulling his massive body to the outside. The strange gently set their back of chips down on the cash counter, boots smearing the old man's blood. The stranger swiped a box cutter that sat on the counter, ignored by the night's incapable employee. Jim was still pulling himself like a slug to the exit. The stranger slowly walked to Jim, stooped down, grabbed a fistful of his greasy unbrushed hair, and began to drag him back into the store. The stranger flung Jim onto the unclean floor. Jim began to cry.


"What do you want from me? I have nothing! Take all that you want from the register, I don't care! Please, what do you want?" Jim cried out in between sobs. The stranger raised their boot, placed it on Jim's neck, and kneeled. Instantly, Jim could feel his airway restricting. He began to gasp and claw at the stranger's leg. The stranger stared at Jim for a moment. The stranger always did this right before it happened. The stranger tends to think maybe it's for their humanity. Then the stranger remembers, there is none. The stranger in black swiftly takes off their helmet and sets it on the ground. Jim couldn't help but feel a tiny sliver of relief. The stranger wasn't a man at all. The stranger was a girl, a young girl. A young girl with soft features, soft skin, and hair braided tight to her head. Jim wanted to reach and touch the girl if only he could breathe. Jim looks into the young girl's eyes, pleading for mercy. While never taking her eyes off the helpless man on the ground, the young girl slowly reaches into her leather pocket and pulls out a phone. With a quick swipe of her fingers, the phone began to emit audio. At first, the sound was just static. The white noise seemed to fill the entryway of the store, interrupted only by Jim's pants for air. Then a man's voice cut the static.


"Are you scared?" the man's voice asked on the audio. Instantly Jim's attention snapped to the phone at the recognition of his own voice. He began to struggle under the pressure of the young girl's boot. He thrust his body, trying his hardest to break free. The young girl pressed the box cutter to Jim's throat and he stilled.


"Yes," a child's voice replied on the phone.


"It's okay, shh, don't cry," whimpers filtered through the phone, "It's okay, it will only hurt a minute. Now look at the camera and smile." The phone stopped making noise and the young girl slid it back into her pocket. Silence filled the store and dread crept into Jim's bones like a sedative. The box cutter still sat at Jim's throat.


"You are a thief. I am your judge, jury, and executioner. You have been sentenced," The girl said.


Blood poured out of Jim's throat like a river of penance. It flooded the store, cascading the concrete in a stain that will never be washed out. The girl grabbed her helmet and stood. Her boots squelched on his blood as she walked back to the counter to retrieve her small bag of chips. The old man from earlier stirred slightly as she approached. The stranger placed her helmet back on her head, grabbed her chips, and left the dripping boxcutter where she had found it. The blood on the stranger's boots washed away in the rain as she walked outside to her motorcycle that was discreetly parked behind Jim's rusty Ford pickup.


The rain slightly muffled the sound of the stranger's engine coming to life. With one last look at the store's sign, glowing yellow against the dark stormy skies, the stranger pulled out of the parking lot. She left behind the red stream slowly leaking from inside the cramped store onto the wet pavement outside.