Nightshift

The fluorescent strip lights flickered on and off, as though they were engaged in an endless battle between light and darkness. The persistent hum of the alternating current snaking its way through the wires and coils contained in the long, narrow glass tubes was soothing, a gentle buzz that massage the base of the skull. A welcome relief from the generic ‘Muzak’ that was piping out from the speakers dotted around the store; each beat and tonal inclinational piercing and stabbing at the eardrums and head. Xander looked at the clock face directly opposite him. 4.35 am. He placed his hands at either side of his head, applying the necessary pressure as he it twisted from side to side, trying to rid his neck of the tension and pain, one crack at a time. It was slow, methodical, a ritual. He opened a little bottle of hand sanitiser, pouring the viscous liquid over his hands and rubbing them together a set number of times.

‘…6, 7..8,’ muttered Xander before replacing the lid on the bottle. He slipped it into the pocket of his faded and frayed jeans.

This had been his only movement in the last hour. He shifted his gaze down the colourful, sugar laden, processed food aisle that lined up in front of him. It seemed to stretch for miles, narrowing to glass fronted freezer lined wall. A gaunt, ghostly figure stared back at Xander from the glass. He had seen the emaciated, shaved hair man before, he knew he had. He pathetically raised a hand above the counter and waved it slowly, the man in the glass waved back. It took a moment for Xander to realise it was his reflection.

‘Huh,’ said Xander, as though surprised.

He raised his heavy eyes back up to the clock stuck to the wall above the freezers. 4.36am. Each tick of the second hand seemed to last an eternity.

‘One year, 3 months, 22 days, 21 hours, 6 minutes.’ The words drifted down the aisle, no one was there to listen. Not even Xander was listening.

Xander cast a glance towards the parking lot. The gas pumps were empty, the only car in the forecourt was his beat-up Chevy truck. It was another long and lonely night. As he stared out the window, something moved in Xander’s peripheral vision. It was though a shadow had darted between aisles. No one had been in the store for the last 30 minutes, no one had even pumped gas in that time. Xander was alone. But the shadow…something was back there.

‘Hello?’

Nothing. The florescent strips continued to hum, the ‘Muzak’ continued to provide a bland, pre-recorded soundtrack to the events that were unfolding.

‘Hey!’

A dark blur flashed along the freezers.

‘Fuck.’

Xander felt his heartrate increase as he slid his hand under the counter, fumbling for the panic alarm or at least a weapon. His finger hovered over the red button that linked the store to the local police station.

Someone or something was back there. Xander glanced at the small black and white security monitor that was perched on the counter top. There was nothing on the screen as the CCTV cycled through the cameras. He backed away from the counter, his hand moved from the panic alarm to store baseball ball. The cold, solid ash wood provided a slither of comfort in the middle of the graveyard shift. He moved in front of the processed food aisle, his steps slow and laboured. He looked up at the clock, 4.37am. Xander closed his eyes for a second, it felt good, even if it was a temporary relief. It had been over a year since he had slept. He had forgotten how good it felt to see nothing, a black empty void. The tiredness had stopped bothering him, he had gotten used to it. He found a freedom under the cover of darkness, it provided him with a unique perspective of the world, one most the population missed out on. He squeezed his eyelids tighter. In that fraction of a second the black space gave way to an explosion of white lights illuminating the darkness, he felt the blood pumping through his face. He breathed deeply, savouring the moment. He opened his eyes, blinking as he stared at the harsh, overhead lighting and made his way down the aisle, past the luminescent breakfast cereal boxes and rows of processed junk food. The ticking of the clock grew louder the closer Xander got to the end of the aisle, the second hand syncing up with his heartbeat.

‘Look man, if you don’t come out, I’m gonna call the cops,’ said Xander. ‘Come on just…stop being a dick.’ He glanced over his shoulder to see the empty till counter he had just left.

Finally, he reached the bottom of the aisle; he looked left and right, there was nothing there except stacks of barbeque briquettes, moonshine liquor, mops and buckets. Xander sighed with relief. He looked at the glass freezer unit; condensation had built up obscuring the rows of mechanically reclaimed meat. The reflection of the gaunt figure that had earlier waving back at him was no longer there, instead there was just a black outline. Where Xander should have been was a skinny black shape, an emptiness. The baseball bat fell limply to his side, the clunk of wood meeting concrete echoed around the empty aisles. Xander reached his left hand out towards the freezer, he could feel the cold air wrapping tingling his fingertips. The clock seemed to tick louder the closer he got to the shadow. It felt as though time was slowing down. Just as Xander was about to connect with the black mass, the automatic doors of the store slid open and the familiar beep that signalled a customer called out, puncturing Xander’s thoughts. He spun round, away from the freezer, unsure of what to expect.

Two young black men swaggered into the shop. They were a walking stereotype, the wannabe rappers and thugs that hung around the streets surrounding the gas station — baggy pants, oversized basketball tops and caps obscuring their faces. As they reached the counter, they stopped in their tracks. The cash register was unattended.

‘Yo, anyone here,’ shouted the smallest thug, peering across the cash desk. He theatrically hit the little bell that was on the counter to the amusement of his friend. ‘Shit, must be self-service. Yo’ Trey, keep a look out’

Trey knew the procedure, he nodded as he walked up to the windows and scanned the parking lot anxiously. ‘Come on, Darnell, open that motherfucker.’

Darnell hopped over the counter and hit the cash register buttons, the drawer popped out with a metallic ping. He flipped up the spring-loaded levers that kept the bills prisoner in the tray. Darnell could barely contain his excitement at the unexpected payday. Bill after bill, he pulled them out and stuffed them into his pocket, but then he stopped. Something had flashed by his peripheral vision, something fast, a black blur. He raised his head slowly. Trey glanced over his shoulder to see Darnell standing still, looking down an aisle.

‘Yo, D, come on man. Quit playing.’

Darnell raised a hand and pointed down the aisle.

‘What the fuck man?’ said Trey, moving slowly in the direction of the aisle.

‘Look at this motherfucker,’ said Darnell.

Trey abandoned his look-out post and moved to the aisle. Standing at the freezers was a grey, gaunt figure looking like shit, baseball bat swinging loosely by his side.

‘What the fuck is this pasty-ass bitch on?’

‘Motherfucker looks like he’s an AIDS patient or something,’ Darnell hopped back over the counter, leaving the cash drawer open.

‘Nah, nah man, look at him. He some “Walking Dead” motherfucker. Yo’ man, the fuck is you doing?’

Darnell drew attention to the baseball bat, patting the back of his hand against Trey’s chest. ‘Man, we got a little leaguer here man. Sunday school batting practice is over dawg.’

Xander walked towards them. The aisle seemed shorter than it ever had. He glanced back towards the clock. 4.41 am. He started walking faster, the florescent lights flickered on and off, he felt their energy coursing above him. The baseball bat trailed alongside him, bouncing off the floor; the sound of wood connecting with concrete worked its way down the aisle. Xander was a matter of feet away from Darnell and Trey, he raised the bat high above his head, ready to swing. The black shadow speed past the two thugs at the end of the aisle. Trey and Darnell backed up in panic, the counter stopping their retreat. Xander’s eyelids widened, exposing his bloodshot, sleep-deprived eyes, his face contorted with rage. Black shadows and blurs were flashing all around him, as though they were multiplying through his new-found energy. A guttural, blood-curling scream erupted from Xander’s mouth, it surprised him.

‘Fuck you man,’ cried Darnell, reaching into his waistband.

Xander saw the muzzle of a hand gun. He closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly, bursts of white light flashed across his eyelids, like lightening illuminating a dark night.

He heard the gunshot.

The automatic doors of the store slid open and the familiar beep that signalled a customer rang out over the sound of the endless, generic, store music.

‘Yo’ man, wake up. Motherfucker got some narcolepsy or summat’

Xander opened his eyes. His neck was stiff due to the position he had been lying on the counter. He stood up and placed his hands at either side of his head, applying the necessary pressure as he it twisted from side to side. Xander looked at the two young black men in front of him and glanced up to the clock that was positioned above the freezers on the far wall.

4.35am.