Chapter 3
Chapter Three
My knees sting as they impact the floor with a crack. I shove the till’s rolling chair out of my way and duck under the solid frame of the bagging area. The lights go out, and the ambient everyday noise of the supermarket—the torturous store music—cuts off.
It feels eerie.
The silence is broken only by customers’ obligatory whimpers and rasps of my breath. Seconds later, a massive blast of magic rolls through, heating the air and making my ears pop. The windows along the front wall rattle, and the entire building trembles.
The taste of ozone burns my throat, and the wave of energy brings a ripple of sound. Outside in the car park, car alarms blare, and the thud, thud, thud of presumably pieces of blown-up stuff rain down. I flop on my bottom, knees to my chest, and cover my head with my arms.
Oh fate.
What the heck was that?
My entire body trembles, and for about sixty seconds, I keep my head down; when nothing further happens, I push off the ground and peek around the back of the till.
The sensible people huddle for cover, and the bold ones stand and stare through the wall of windows, unconcerned, as if explosions happen every day.
I notice one guy at the end of the row of checkouts twitch.
He’s the closest person to the main doors.
Don’t do it. His feet jiggle, and he rocks a bit.
Please give it a little longer. In the next second, he must decide as suddenly he takes off running.
His frantic bolt to the doors seems to knock everyone out of their stupor, and a mass exodus ensues.
A flood of customers and staff, some dumping their trolleys, others taking the chaos and lack of power and cameras as an opportunity to steal stuff.
The store goes wild.
The hold that binds them to decency has snapped.
My mouth pops open as I watch, keeping low, tucked into the till’s bulky side.
I shake my head. They’re behaving like animals.
There’s nothing I can do, and I don’t get paid enough to deal with this shit.
After another few seconds, the store’s emergency lights flicker on, and I can’t help but sag a little in relief.
Then the sweet eater’s legs wobble into view.
Her once precious receipt flutters, discarded to the floor.
Her hands grip the green handle of her trolley, making her knuckles turn white and her pink nails dig into her palms. The sweet eater hunches over as if she is going into a rugby scrum, and with a growl, she barrels off with her shopping.
The customers in front of her who don’t move out of her way fast enough get rammed.
Shit.
I watch people go flying. Wow. When the shit hits the fan, everyone is out for themselves.
“Oh, come on! Come on!” yells the three-items guy.
His sudden scream makes me jump. I wince when I knock my head. He throws a tenner on the till, and clutching the precious three items to his chest, he’s off, joining the melee to get outside.
Stay or go, Kricket? Stay or go?
What I can’t do is stay hiding next to the till all night.
Shock and fear pulse through me, and my heart pounds.
I brave it, get to my feet, glance around at the madness and brush my trousers off with trembling hands.
I avoid looking anywhere near the windows.
What if there’s carnage outside? I’m unwilling to look in case I see something that I can’t unsee.
I have enough nightmares as it is.
Does anyone need any help? The time of night means at least most of our older customers are tucked in bed. I nibble on my lip as I take in the mess the shoppers have left and realise it’s going to be me who will have to clean it up…
There’s another explosion. This one feels closer, and perhaps it was in the other direction. It’s hard to tell as I’m back on the floor, hiding behind the till.
Feet move past me as more terrified customers leave.
One explosion could be an accident.
Two explosions in different directions are a pattern.
I shiver, peek out, and this time force myself to look through the windows. There is thick, fog-like smoke. Without streetlights cutting through it, I can’t see a thing.
Are we under attack? Could the supermarket be next?
I gnaw on my lip. “Does anyone know what’s going on?” I yell. “Does anyone need any help?” No one bothers to answer. Those explosions sounded severe, like war-level bad.
Where are the peacekeepers?
The smoke outside is getting denser and is pooling through the store’s open doors. I need to do something. I need to move. The shaky duty manager—who was after me a few minutes ago—fiddles with the main automatic door, which is unwilling to close.
I was working when the doors were serviced, and I know there’s a keyhole at the bottom of the door on the left that switches the automatic function off and on. In case of a power outage, it allows someone to manipulate the doors by hand.
She needs to close those doors for safety. I’ve already seen people stealing and keeping them open only exacerbates the problem.
There hasn’t been an explosion for a few minutes. I don’t think it’s safe to move, but I must. I know how to help, and it’s the least I can do. I glance to the left at the far-off staff area and my locker and look right at the trembling manager.
Bloody hell, Kricket.
Heart pounding, I grab the edge of the till and drag myself to my feet.
My head is on a swivel. I don’t want to be rammed by a trolley or some idiot to see me as a target.
I huff out a disgusted breath. I watch way too much TV.
This entire situation is not helping my overactive imagination.
I move my feet and creep to the manager’s side.
It might be my imagination, but the smoky wind off the car park still has heat and moves strangely, like a river of dry ice.
Magic.
It makes the little hairs on my neck rise.
“Here, let me.” I take the manager’s keys out of her sweaty hand, and she stares at me with big, round eyes.
“There’s a feature in these doors so you can manually open and close them if the power goes out.
” I crouch next to the door, my back hugging the window, and nerves skitter up and down my spine. I don’t like being next to the glass.
The freaky magic smoke billows through the open doors. It smells mildly sweet and tickles my throat. I swallow a cough and cover my mouth with my arm, not wanting my lungs to filter any more of it.
“The doors should have their own electric supply, perhaps a battery, so things like this don’t happen, but what do I know? I’m not a door technician,” I mumble, half to myself and half to the manager.
With some wrangling, I get the key into the slot, and as it turns, the door mechanism clicks. I give the door an experimental shove, and it moves easily on its tracks. I push against the black frame, and it slides. As one side closes, the other follows, and they meet in the middle.
My thighs burn as I push from the floor, wobbling to my feet, and slide the key into the lock, turning it until there’s a reassuring click.
I close my eyes in relief.
The duty manager nudges me out of the way and takes control of the keys.
“Thank you. I’ll stand here to help the customers leave if you can gather the staff and return any meat and cold products where they belong.
We will need to save every perishable before anyone goes home.
Leave any ambient.” She means tins and long-dated stuff.
“We can do that when we have full power.”
I blink at her. “Sure.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her if we don’t get the power soon, things will unfreeze anyway. Also, is it really a priority with what’s happening outside? Most of the staff ran out the door. I even saw the security guard jog out with a couple of whiskey bottles.
I rub my neck and stare out at the swirling smoke.
Goosebumps rise on my bare arms. Standing so close to a wall of glass, I feel a tad freaked out and vulnerable, as glass and random explosions aren’t a good mix. I do not want a glass facial.
“Shouldn’t we… um… move away from the windows?” My voice squeaks at the end with stress, and I can’t help hunching my shoulders.
Yeah, standing here isn’t the best idea.
The duty manager gives me a funny look, as if I’m the one being stupid. “What? Why? This safety glass will be fine.” She taps the door to highlight her point.
Safety glass? It’s not even magical, and things are exploding.
“Do you want me to grab a ward from the office?” We have an emergency stash, and nothing will be if this isn’t counted as an emergency.
“No, I can’t authorise that. Now look—” Her eyes drop to my stolen name badge.
“Karen,” she says the name with a sneer.
Now that the doors are closed, she is growing bolder and has slipped back into her bossy persona.
Her hand flaps to encompass all the abandoned trolleys.
“You’ve been accommodating with the doors, but can you do as you’re told and go and sort out the frozen and the meat products?
” She drops her voice and narrows her eyes. “Don’t make me write you up, Kricket.”
Yeah, and now I’m not going to argue. I back away from her with my hands up. “Okay,” I whisper and scuttle. Heading for a safer area, I move to the wide centre aisle—away from the windows—and instead of doing what she asked, I hustle to get my stuff from my locker.
Bye-bye, I’m out of here.
I pass a few determined customers still hanging around, although they look just as shell-shocked as I feel.
I keep my head down and power past. I’m a horrible person for not asking if they need help, but I’ve got to get to my phone and check in with my family—the urge to check that they’re okay drives my fast steps.
I move too fast to change directions when I see a familiar figure.
My nemesis, Anton Hill, shouts at a young cashier, “Why can’t you check me out? I’ve got my card.” He waves his card in Rich’s face.
Ugh. I keep walking; if I dart away, it will look like I’m running away from him. I’d never live it down. Trust him to be between me and the staff room.
“I’m sorry, but we have no power. The till can’t work, and no till equals no card reader,” Rich explains.
But Anton Hill isn’t listening. He continues to talk over the top of Rich, his voice smarmy and condescending. “You stupid kid,” he continues to rant.
Okay, that’s it. I’m not a confrontational person.
Well, I’m confrontational in my head, but I try to keep my mouth shut.
Life taught me that much. I try to be a bubbly, friendly girl.
But seeing horrible Anton Hill behaving rudely to a teenager after what is going on outside—people could be hurt or dead—makes something inside me snap, and entirely out of character, I yell.
“Oi, Anton Hill, get out!” My voice carries over and above his shouty rant, and both guys turn to watch me approach.
Rich’s mouth hangs open.
Oh heck, I’ve done it now. Oh well, in for a penny, as Nan always says.
I can’t abide rudeness; it’s on the level of chewing with your mouth open. “The store is closed,” I snarl.
“You.”
“Me.”
I went to school with this guy. He was a dick then, and he’s a dickhead now.
I like people. I consider myself a people person.
Yet I really dislike one person in this world, and it’s Anton Bloody Hill.
He’s a caricature of a bully. It’s like the man has a checklist in his head of all the cruel things he can get away with, and he daily ticks them off one by one.
The number of times he has made me cry… and he hasn’t changed, not one bit.
“Kricket.” He gives me a big, wide, toothy smile.
His teeth are so fake white they remind me of square pieces of chewing gum. It takes everything inside me to remain professional. I swallow down my retort and do my best to get hold of this situation. “Sir—”
He lets out a lecherous laugh and leans forward into my space. “Sir, I like that.” He raises his eyebrows, licks his fleshy lips, and rocks his pelvis towards me.
Ew. Just ew.
I shuffle a few steps away from his thrusting. “Anton Hill, whatever’s happening out there is an emergency. We. Are. Closed.”
To highlight my point, there’s another explosion.
I throw myself next to a roof support post and drop to my hands and knees. The building creaks ominously and the emergency lights flicker. Whatever is happening is getting closer.
Both guys stare down at me as if there’s something wrong with me being on the floor and covering my head. I don’t care if I’m on the floor, but what is more concerning is that they aren’t.
“While you’re down there, Kricket, love.” Anton Hill holds his hand out like he’s miming, holding the back of my head, and he does another pelvis shimmer.
Blarg. I think I threw up a little in my mouth. Oh boy, it’s a close call as I curb the almost overwhelming urge to dick-punch him. I don’t even need to touch him. I can swipe a can off the shelf and throw it.
Stuff being professional; I’m level with his basket. I lean up with one hand and tip it towards me with the other. I peer inside. “Hot date with your hand?” I ask with a sweep of my lashes and a coy smile.
Did I really say that?
Rich lets out a gasp snort.
Oh yes, I did. I mentally fist pump. I’m on a roll and far from finished. “Surely you don’t need hand cream, frozen pizza, and a six-pack of Coke this badly, eh, Ant?” I smile sweetly.
“Bitch,” Anton snarls. He moves his foot, and I snap my hand off the floor before he can tread on my fingers.
I scramble to my feet and narrow my eyes. “Out, or I’ll put you out.” He knows I can kick his arse.
Like gunfighters in the Wild West, we eye each other, and Anton Hill must see something in me as, with a roar, he launches his basket into the nearest shelf. Items clatter to the floor as he stomps away, heading for the main door.
I can’t help puffing a sigh of relief when he walks past the manager.
“That was stupid,” I mumble, scratching my head. He’ll make my life even more difficult. And worse, this incident will get right back to my mother.
“Thanks, Kricket.”
“You’re welcome, Rich.”
“What do we do now?” he whispers, rubbing his arms as he stares at the mess surrounding us.
“I have no idea. I’m sure the peacekeepers will sort this all out in no time. Avoid whatever is happening out there, I guess, and when you get home, hide. You only live across the road, right?”
He nods.
“The duty manager is on the warpath. I’d avoid the front door and slip out the rear fire exit. That’s what I’m going to do.”
“What? Now? You’re going home? What about your shift?”
“Rich, almost everyone has left, and they do not pay me enough to stick around. I need to check in with home.” I give him a small, worried smile and hurry to grab my phone.