Jack's Magic Beans

ONE

The lettuce started talking to Ben Mahoney halfway through his shift at Save-A-Lot.

He’d shown up for work ten minutes late. Mr. Brubaker was waiting for him at the time clock.

“You’re late, Mahoney.”

Ben sighed. “Sorry, Mr. Brubaker. I had to stay late after school. I was talking to my teacher. Been having trouble with calculus.”

This was bullshit. In fact, Ben had hung around to ask Stacy Gerlach if she’d go to Eleanor Murphy’s party with him on Friday night. Eleanor’s parents were in New York for the weekend on one of these bus trips where you got to go shopping and see a Broadway show. The party was supposed to be off the hook—two kegs and a DJ playing trance-hop all night long. Sadly, Stacy already had a date. Pissed off at this news, Ben had blown through two red lights on his way to work. He’d also blown his sub-woofer because the bass was cranked too high. Ben’s bad day got worse, and his anger was still simmering when he rushed in.

He did not tell Mr. Brubaker any of this. Instead, he apologized and swore that it wouldn’t happen again.

Scowling, hands on hips, Brubaker stomped away to holler at somebody else. Ben swiped his timecard, walked into the break room, pulled his smock out of his locker, and fished around in his pockets for loose change. He put four quarters into the soda machine, waited for the can to clunk down, popped the tab, took a sip, and then started his shift—all while trying to ignore the dull headache building behind his eyes.

Ben worked part-time in Save-A-Lot’s produce department. He came in during the evenings and spent four hours rotating the fruit and vegetables—a process that involved pulling all of the produce out of the bins, placing fresh produce on the bottom, and then putting the older produce back on top. That way, customers would pick the older stuff first and it wouldn’t go bad. The only problem with this method was that most of the people who shopped at Save-A-Lot knew about rotation and they invariably dug through the fruits and vegetables to the bottom of the bin, thus finding the fresher selections and fucking up all of his hard work.

Old people were especially bad about doing this, and that was one of the reasons Ben hated them. He also hated the way they walked and the way they smelled. He hated it when an old person was in front of him on the road. They didn’t know how to drive. He hated it when they walked in front of him, blocking the aisle. He hated how they always bothered him with stupid questions when he was busy stocking shelves. He worked in the produce department. He knew where the apples were. Why, then, would they ask him where the spaghetti was located? You want to find the pasta? Try reading the fucking signs.

Ben was sixteen. He was physically and mentally fit—a teenaged Adonis. He would never get old. Never lose his hair or his hearing or control of his bladder. His joints and teeth would never ache. He would never have to worry about running out of breath from the simplest of tasks. His eyesight would never go bad. Neither would his internal organs. He would never have to worry about not being able to have an orgasm—let alone getting a hard-on. He was young and in his prime. These were the best years of his life and those years did not involve getting old. Old people filled him with loathing.

So when he saw the old woman squeezing the peaches, and the lettuce told him to kill her, Ben agreed. It seemed like a reasonable idea.

His headache got worse.

“Kill that old bitch,” the heads of lettuce said in unison. They’d each grown a little mouth, the size of his thumbnail. Their voices were high-pitched, like a cartoon character. “Knock her over and kick her goddamned face in. Bet she’s wearing dentures. No fucking way those teeth are real.”

Ben dropped the spray bottle that he’d been using to mist the cucumbers. He stared at the lettuce. After a moment, he smiled, forgetting all about the pain behind his eyes. The lettuce smiled back at him.

“Go on, Ben,” the lettuce urged. “Make her bleed.”

“How do you know my name?”

“We are the lettuce. We know everything. It has always been thus and always will be. The lettuce is wise. Now kill that old bag.”

It was hard to argue with lettuce. Like they’d said—they were wise. Shrugging, Ben dropped his apron on the floor, rushed across the store and knocked the old woman to the floor. Her head cracked against the linoleum. It sounded very loud. The sound made Ben smile. He kicked her in the side of her face. The old woman’s dentures skittered beneath the banana display. The lettuce had been right. They weren’t her real teeth.

The old woman pawed at his pants leg. Her eyes implored him.

Ben spit in her face. “You squeezed. The fucking. Peaches.”

Somebody screamed.

Ben giggled.

The old woman groaned.

Then Ben stomped her face again, harder this time. Her nose splintered beneath his heel. Ben realized that he had an erection. Rubbing himself through his jeans, he raised his foot and stomped a third time. And a fourth. Then he stood on top of her face with both feet and ground his soles back and forth, pushing down with all his weight. Something gave way beneath his feet. His shoes grew wet.

The old woman was the first to die. Ben died seconds later when Roger from the floral department skewered him through the chest with a broken mop handle. Roger laughed as he thrust the spear again. He stopped laughing and became the third to die when a customer ripped his tongue out with her bare hands.

Then everybody started dying at once.

Tom Brubaker had a headache and shouting made him feel better. After he was done hollering at Ben Mahoney, he shouted at the cashiers and the butchers and the baggers and a delivery guy and the little old Asian woman who ran the grocery store’s Chinese kiosk. Then he yelled at Jeremy Geist, the short, pudgy kid who was re-arranging the book and magazine display.

“Damn it, Geist. How many times do I have to tell you? Every book should be faced out. People are more likely to buy the fucking things if they can see the goddamned covers.”

Mr. Brubaker arranged the books on the shelf so that the front covers were facing outward. “See? How hard is this?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Brubaker.”

Geist’s bottom lip trembled. Brubaker focused on it, overcome with disgust. His headache intensified. His temples throbbed. Somebody screamed on the other side of the store. Brubaker ignored it. He said nothing. He didn’t speak. Didn’t holler. Didn’t move.

Jeremy Geist thought that was worse—the not hollering part. He’d never seen Mr. Brubaker be quiet before. It made him nervous. He wondered who was screaming and why. Then more people started shrieking. There was some kind of commotion in the produce department. Things were getting weird. Shouldn’t Mr. Brubaker be concerned about what was happening, rather than the book display? Jeremy, remembering some advice his counselor had given him on dealing with conflict, decided to reason with his boss.

“I knew I was supposed to face them out, sir. It’s just that there’s not enough room. There are too many books and not enough space in the display.”

While Jeremy had been talking, Brubaker had been staring at the books. He’d barely heard a word the young employee said. His protests and explanations were like the buzzing of insects. Now that Jeremy was done, Mr. Brubaker grinned.

The screams grew louder.

Brubaker’s headache vanished. He glanced back to the shelves. Each of the paperbacks had the same title: KILL ‘EM ALL.

It was very sound advice. After all, these were bestsellers written by important authors who knew what they were talking about. Oprah said these books had meaning and value. Oprah said these books would enrich your life. You couldn’t argue with Oprah. That was crazy.

So he didn’t. Instead, Brubaker wrapped his hands around Jeremy Geist’s throat and squeezed. Geist’s lip began trembling again, so Brubaker squeezed harder to make it stop. It did. The lip stopped trembling, and then Jeremy stopped breathing. A few feet away from them, a customer overturned the magazine rack onto a little girl. Then the customer hopped onto the rack and jumped up and down. The child, still pinned beneath the wreckage, blood leaking from her mouth, screamed in anguish and terror for her mother. Her mother didn’t answer, because her mother was too busy shouting obscenities and clawing the face of another customer. She raked her fingernails deep, gouging furrows in the flesh.

Brubaker remained oblivious. He focused on Jeremy and kept squeezing, even after Geist was dead.

He didn’t stop squeezing until another customer squirted him with lighter fluid and set him on fire.

Mr. Brubaker laughed as he burned. The more intense the flames became, the louder his laughter grew.

Angela Waller was third in line at the pharmacy counter when the screaming started. She flinched, almost dropping her purse. The redneck guy in front of her was startled enough by the commotion to stop arguing with the pharmacist. Angie paused, waiting for gunshots—expecting maybe a robbery or some disgruntled nutcase on a rampage. When the gunshots didn’t come, she held her breath. The screams got louder.

Behind her, somebody said, “I wish they’d shut up. My head hurts.”

It had been a weird afternoon—getting weirder with each second. Angie had seen more road rage and rudeness on her way here than she normally saw in a month. There was something in the air, something heavy and malignant, ready to burst like storm clouds bloated with rain. If there was trouble in the store, then Angie wanted no part of it. She just wanted to get her prescription filled and go home, where she’d take off her work clothes, put on some pajama pants, curl up on the bed, and paint her toenails.

In three days, Angie and her girlfriends were taking a cruise to Antigua in celebration of her twenty-ninth birthday. Girls only—no boyfriends or husbands. She needed her Prozac before she left. That was the only reason she remained in line when the screams began. The pills were a necessity, just like tampons, her diaphragm, her passport, and cell phone. Prozac: don’t leave home without it. She’d been diagnosed with chronic depression when she was fifteen, and had been on the drug most of her adult life. Sure, the recommended length of usage was only six to twelve months, but like her doctor said, if it helped, it helped. And help it did. She could function on Prozac. Taking it was as natural as breathing.

The screams increased, multiplying throughout the store.

And then Angie forgot all about Antigua and her prescription because the pharmacist lunged over the counter and stabbed his pen into the neck of the man in front of her. The redneck reared back, grasping at the pen. A little bit of blood bubbled out around it, but not as much as Angie would have expected. The redneck made a startled, squawking sort of sound. Humming the theme from The Young and the Restless, the pharmacist grappled with the injured man. Angie backed away from them, too frightened to scream, and this time she did drop her purse. Doing so saved her life. She knelt to pick it up and thus avoided a sweeping blow from the woman behind her, who had decided to crack Angie in the back of the head with a bottle of green mouthwash.

“You slept with my Herbert,” the woman shouted. “Little whore!”

Angie tried to skitter backwards, but there was nowhere to go. All around her, fights broke out. Customers and Save-A-Lot employees clawed, punched, and shrieked at each other. A naked fat man crawled around on all fours, growling like a dog. A severed penis dangled from his clenched teeth. A woman tried swinging from the skylights but crashed to the floor. A crowd of people leapt on her, tearing her to shreds with their bare hands. Another woman with a nail file sticking out of her breast ran past, screaming about a gnome in her tiramisu. Blood flowed—pooling on the floor, splashing across displays, pouring from wounds, and staining the hands, mouths, feet, and makeshift weapons of the attackers.

“You fucked Herbert! You fucked him hard!”

Angie’s attacker kicked her in the side. Slipping in a puddle of liquid soap and someone else’s blood, Angie curled into a ball and tried to protect herself. The woman yelled again, once more accusing Angie of sleeping with Herbert, but Angie was pretty sure she’d never slept with a Herbert, married or otherwise. She tried to tell her attacker that, but all that came out was a whimper.

“Did he lick you?” the woman shrieked. “He never did that for me. The son of a bitch. He never once licked me. He said he didn’t like it. But I know the truth. He couldn’t find the clit.”

“Please,” Angie rasped. “I don’t—”

The woman aimed another kick, and Angie focused on staying alive.

Marcel Dupree had just turned off his car and was double-checking the headlights, radio, and everything else when somebody rear-ended him. The impact bounced him off the steering column, knocking the wind from his lungs. Shocked, Marcel flung the door open and stumbled outside, forgetting all about the headlights. He was too flustered to speak. He could only watch in stunned silence as a black Cadillac Escalade reversed, then raced forward and rammed his car again. The SUV’s driver was hidden behind tinted windows.

“Hey,” Marcel tried to shout. It came out more like a whisper. The driver gave no indication that they’d heard him. The Cadillac’s engine roared and smoke belched from the tailpipe.

The impact of the collision slammed his car door shut. Marcel wondered if the door was locked. As the Cadillac backed up, he checked the door and then checked it again. He was about to check a third time, when he became dimly aware that other people were hollering, as well. He heard the distinct impact of another car crash. Sirens wailed—police, fire, and ambulance. Marcel glanced around, trying to determine what was happening. The Cadillac ran into his car again, crumpling the rear bumper.

“Hey,” Marcel shouted, finally finding his voice. “What are you doing?”

Forgetting about the door lock, he ran towards the Escalade, waving his fists and yelling. The tinted window slid down, revealing the driver. Marcel had never seen him before.

“What the hell is your problem, man?”

“You took my parking space!” Spittle flew from the enraged driver’s mouth. His face was red. “How do you like it? Huh, motherfucker? How do you fucking like it, nigger?”

The racial slur shocked Marcel. He’d been called it before, when he was younger, but the word still had impact. Before he could respond, the Cadillac’s driver turned the wheel and sped towards him. Marcel leapt out of the way and rolled across the hot pavement. Then he jumped to his feet and shouted for help. All around him, people ran through the parking lot. Most of them were engaged in similar battles, fighting in groups or one-on-one, using vehicles, shopping carts, tire irons, and anything else as weapons. He gaped in horror as a pick-up truck ran over a fleeing mother pushing a baby stroller, then reversed and ran over them again. The vehicle bounced up and down as the tires rolled over the corpses. A young man with a pistol shot the truck’s driver and then turned the gun on other bystanders. Some charged him, some ran away, and others totally ignored the assault, involved as they were in other fights. A cop shot the young man with the gun, blowing his lungs through his back. The officer then fired at an old woman beating a teenager over the head with her walker.

“Police!” Marcel tried to get the cop’s attention. “Over here. Help!”

The cop wheeled around, attracted by his cries. Marcel’s relief vanished as the cop aimed the pistol at him.

“No!” Marcel held his hands up in surrender. “What are you—”

A neon-green Volkswagen slammed into the cop. The policeman flipped up over the hood, smashing against the windshield. His shoes remained on the pavement—his feet still inside them. The blacktop turned red. Inside the car, four teenage girls laughed. Then they turned on each other, clawing and gouging. The Volkswagen crashed into a parked car.

Marcel fought the urge to puke. There were angry cries behind him. He ran for the Save-A-Lot, aware that people were suddenly chasing him, shouting things—threats, curses, promises. He focused on counting his steps.

One… two… three…

His heart pounded. His mouth went dry. His lungs burned with the exertion. More feet echoed behind him as others joined in the chase.

Thirteen… fourteen… oh God… fifteen…

He burst through the doors of Save-A-Lot and skidded to a halt. Normally, Marcel would have spent the next five minutes trying to select the right shopping cart. But today, his disorder was all but forgotten. He felt the urge to call his doctor and tell him he’d found a cure. After all the frustration and the constant experimenting with different medicines, he’d found a way to beat it.

He didn’t need meds. He just needed chaos. Chaos and disorder.

Marcel stood staring at the scene inside the store.

If the parking lot had been a battleground, this was the frontline.

And then the war really started.

Sammi Barberra had just closed out her register, and was getting ready to turn in her cash drawer and clock out, when everybody in the store went insane. It started with one scream, then six, then a dozen. Fights broke out across the store. There was a lot of savagery, and a lot of blood. An explosion in the parking lot rocked the building on its foundation, and for one moment, Sammi feared the ceiling might collapse. The overhead lights flickered, swaying violently back and forth, but stayed on. One of the big panel windows at the front of the store shattered, spraying shards of glass all over the floor—and all over the customers who had been fighting in front of it. Sammi ducked down behind the register, huddling into a ball and trying to remain out of sight while all around her, people slaughtered each other. She put her hands over her ears, attempting to block the screams, the cries, the impact of flesh on flesh—and the wet, tearing sounds. Another explosion rumbled from farther away. Somebody shrieked for God to come save them.

Sammi stayed where she was, hidden from view. The only problem was, she couldn’t see what was happening now. Sammi peeked around the corner of the counter and immediately wished she hadn’t.

Mr. Brubaker’s burned head rolled slowly across the floor. Sammi resisted the urge to scream. The manager’s eyes and mouth were still open. A customer was bowling with it, using plastic milk jugs as pins and Mr. Brubaker’s head as the ball. Even though his flesh was burned, Sammi still recognized her supervisor’s severed head. It came to rest at the foot of the candy rack in her aisle. His head was upside down and she could see into the ragged stump, straight down his windpipe. Mr. Brubaker’s eyes stared at her. He looked angry, even in death. Sammi ducked back beneath the register and bit her lip to keep from crying out.

“Damn,” she heard the bowler mutter. “I need more balls.”

There was a brief moment of silence. The crazy person had apparently moved on.

She needed to pee. She squeezed her thighs together and wept silent tears. She bit her lip harder.

Footsteps drew towards her.

“Oh God…”

Sammi jumped to her feet, preparing to flee. Before she could get out from behind the register, somebody grabbed her wrist and yanked her forward over the counter. It was Jerry Sadler, the retarded guy who collected shopping carts in the parking lot and sometimes bagged groceries for customers. Sammi didn’t recognize him at first, because one of Jerry’s ears was missing and there was a wide gash in his cheek, deep enough to reveal his teeth and gums. Pain shot up her arm.

“Jerry,” she gasped. “Let go, you’re hurting me. Are you okay?”

“You’re so pretty. I always thought you were pretty.”

His words were slurred as a result of his injury, but his eyes shone with clear intent.

“Jerry!” Sammi tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip.

“You’re too skinny, though. It makes you look younger. Makes you look like a little girl.”

“Stop it!”

“I like little girls. I like them a lot. I watch them all the time.”

“Get off me, you freak.”

In the next register aisle, a child in a brightly-colored Spongebob shirt sprayed a wounded, quivering woman in the face with a can of hornet spray. The chemical stench filled the air. The spray bubbled, foamy and white, mingling with the woman’s blood. The pint-sized maniac giggled. The woman screamed, clawing at her eyes. Sammi began to cry. She turned her attention back to he co-worker.

“Jerry, you’re hurting me. Stop it.”

“You called me a freak,” Jerry said. “I know what that is. I’m not stupid. Freak—that’s like a retard. You called me a retard.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” Sammi tried to reason with him. “We’ve got to get away, Jerry. We’ve got to get out of here. Something’s wrong. Please let go.”

A man stumbled by them. He was bent over, clutching his stomach. The handle of an umbrella jutted from his back. He didn’t pay them any attention, muttering instead about wanting to go swimming in a vat of tapioca pudding.

“Look how skinny your wrist is,” Jerry slurred. “I can snap your bones, just like a little bird.”

He smiled. A thin line of pink drool dripped from his bottom lip and landed on the counter. Nearby, an injured employee crawled towards them on her hands and knees. Sammi couldn’t tell who it was because the woman’s face, hands, and name badge were covered in blood.

“Jerry,” Sammi warned. “Let me go.”

Still smiling, Jerry twisted her wrist. Another sharp jolt of pain shot up Sammi’s arm. Screaming, she slapped at him, but Jerry dodged the blow. With her free hand, Sammi grabbed her cash drawer. Then she lashed out with it, striking him in his already wounded face. Teeth shattered. Jerry let go of her wrist and moaned, shaking with rage. Sammi hit him again. He struck out, backhanding the drawer. It flew from Sammi’s grip and clattered across the floor.

“Gonna break all your little bones, skinny girl.”

A broken tooth fell out of his mouth as he made the threat. Jerry didn’t seem to notice. He made another grab for Sammi’s wrist, but then the crawling employee reached them. This close, Sammi could see her features through the blood. She recognized her as Hazel Stern, one of the supervisors who usually worked the service desk. Sammi didn’t know her very well. Rumor around the store was that Hazel and Mr. Brubaker were having an affair. Sammi also glimpsed the scissors clutched in the injured woman’s hand. Without pausing, Hazel stabbed them into Jerry’s leg, cooing softly as she did.

Shrieking, Jerry turned his wrath on the new opponent. As the two employees struggled, Sammi vaulted over the counter and fled down the aisle, dodging attackers and leaping over corpses. A jar of spaghetti sauce whizzed by her head, smashing into a row of pickles. A customer tried to push a breakfast cereal display over on her, but she dodged the falling boxes and kept running.

A little boy lay sprawled on his stomach in front of her. Blood trickled from one of his ears. As she passed by, he reached for her, his tone pleading.

“Please, help me.”

Sammi paused, but before she could act, an adult grabbed the child’s feet and dragged him away.

“Come on, kid. Let’s get you on the butcher’s block.”

The boy wailed. His eyes remained on Sammi. Weeping, Sammi kept going, heading towards the rear of the store. There was nothing she could do.

Not for the first time today, she felt like throwing up. The only difference was that this time, she hadn’t eaten.

And then there was Jack Bartlett, who spent his fifteen-minute break bundled up in a heavy coat, taking a nap inside the meat department’s big walk-in freezer.

Jack missed the whole thing.

TWO

When Jack woke up, people were screaming.

Several of them, judging by the sound.

He opened his eyes and sat up straight, banging his head against the cold steel wall. Wincing, he blinked, trying to figure out what was happening. There were two women in the freezer with him. That accounted for the screaming. One of the women was about his age, startlingly skinny and wearing a Save-A-Lot uniform just like his. Her long, blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail with a neon-pink scrunchy. The other woman was older, maybe in her late twenties, dressed in jeans and a white, spaghetti-strap blouse. Her short, brunette hair was plastered to her scalp with sweat and blood. Jack didn’t know her, but he definitely knew the skinny girl—Sammi Barberra, one of the cashiers. She was a freshman at the community college, just like him. His buddy, Phil, had gone out with her a few times back in high school. Rumor was that Sammi had bulimia. Looking at her, it was easy to believe. She was pretty, in a super-model-goes-to-Auschwitz sort of way. Definitely not his type.

Both women continued yelling and crying, and Jack realized that they were trying to hold the door shut. Somebody was pounding on the other side, hollering to be let in. The blows echoed through the freezer, loud enough to be heard over their cries. Neither Sammi nor the other woman seemed to have noticed Jack. Their backs were to him. Both of them gripped the door handle tightly and kept pulling it shut, bracing their feet apart. There was blood on their clothes. Their panic was palpable.

Jack sat up the rest of the way and said, “Hey.”

Ignoring him, they kept their attention focused on the door.

“Pull,” the woman shouted. “Pull!”

“I’m trying,” Sammi sobbed. “Oh my God…”

Outside, whoever was pounding on the door hollered, “Let me in, god damn it! They’re gonna kill me.”

“Stay out there,” the woman yelled. “Don’t you come in here.”

“Please, listen to me! I’m okay. I’m not like the others. You’ve got to let me in!”

“Just go away.” Sammi grunted, pulling harder. “Leave us alone!”

Jack stood up. His heavy freezer coat rustled.

“Hey,” he tried again. “What’s going on?”

The women screamed in unison. Sammi let go of the door handle and turned around. The other woman held tight but looked over her shoulder. Smiling in confusion, Jack took a step towards them, hands held out in front of him, palms up, to show that he meant no harm.

Sammi’s eyes grew wide. “Stay back. Just stay away from us. Don’t come any closer!”

He stopped. “Sammi, it’s me—Jack. Phil’s friend? What the hell are you doing? What are you afraid of?”

Before she could answer, the door was wrenched out of the other woman’s hands. A black man ran into the freezer. His clothes were also spattered with blood.

“Shut it,” he yelled. “Shut the door, quick!”

“Are you one of them,” the woman demanded. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Do I look like I’m trying to claw your eyeballs out? I told you before, I’m, not like the others. Now shut the god damn door.”

Jack heard more screams from outside the freezer. Lots of them. Wide-awake now, he took another cautious step forward while the woman slammed the freezer door shut again.

“What’s going on?” Jack asked. “Is somebody hurt?”

“Who the hell are you?” The man whirled around, fists raised.

“Who the hell am I? I work here. My name’s Jack. And unless I’m mistaken, customers aren’t allowed in the freezer. So who the fuck are you?”

“Marcel. And you just stay right there, man. Don’t make me hurt you. I’ll mess you up.”

Shaking his head, Jack turned to Sammi. “What’s going on?”

“They… the people… Mr. Brubaker… Jerry tried to…”

She broke off, sobbing.

“Somebody help me with this door,” the other woman said. “Is there a way to lock it?”

“It’s a safety door,” Jack told her. “Can’t lock it from the inside, just so nobody accidentally gets trapped. You can lock it from the outside, but even then, somebody inside the freezer can still open it. But why do you need to lock it?”

“Duh. So they don’t get in. Haven’t you been listening?”

Jack took a deep breath. “Who? Who is they? Where did all this blood come from? Who’s hurt?”

Sammi wiped her nose on her apron. “A lot of people. Hurt or dead.”

“Look…” Jack ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t understand this. What the hell is happening?”

“First the door,” Marcel said. “Otherwise, we’re not going to be around long enough to tell you.”

A quick search of the freezer turned up several lengths of plastic strapping bands that had been used to fasten boxes to skids. There was also a large roll of shrink-wrap. While the women held the door closed, Jack and Marcel tied it shut with the plastic bands and makeshift shrink-wrap rope—running them from the doorknob to a nearby shelf, thus making it hard for anyone outside to pull open the door. As they finished, someone else pounded on the door. Unintelligible moans and shrieks accompanied the blows. Fingernails screeched across steel. The four survivors stared at the door, not daring to speak, barely breathing. After a few minutes, the sounds faded.

“Sounds like a zombie movie out there,” Jack said.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Marcel replied.

“Jesus,” the older woman panted. “I can’t believe this.”

“Quiet,” Sammi whispered. “They might still be out there.”

“You’re right. Sorry.”

Sammi shrugged. “It’s okay. What’s your name?”

“Angie. Angie Waller.” She winced, gently rubbing her side.

“Are you okay?” Sammi asked.

Angie nodded. “I’ll be fine. Some old lady kicked me in the ribs, but I don’t think they’re broken.”

“I’m Sammi. This is Jack.” She turned to the black man. “And what did you say your name was?”

“Marcel.” He moved past them and checked the door, fingering the bands and shrink-wrap ropes, making sure they were tight and secure. “Marcel Dupree.”

“It’ll hold,” Jack said to Marcel. “I was in the Scouts. I know how to tie a knot.”

Marcel didn’t answer. His attention remained focused on the door.

“So,” Jack sighed. “Are you guys going to tell me what’s going on or not?”

“How can you not know?” Angie asked.

“I was taking a nap. What did I sleep through?”

They told him.

THREE

They remained inside the freezer for the next hour, huddled together for warmth and whispering, careful not to attract attention. Occasionally, someone on the outside would try the door, but the makeshift bonds held. Eventually, the screams and cries subsided. Angie, Marcel, and Sammi all had cell phones with them, but when they tried to dial for help, none of them could get a signal since they were surrounded by steel walls.

Shivering, Sammi clasped her arms around her shoulders. “It’s cold in here.”

“It’s a freezer,” Jack said. “It’s supposed to be cold.”

Their breath hung in the air like wisps of fog when they spoke. The compressor hummed softly on the other side of the wall.

“Besides,” he continued, “it could be worse.”

“How?” Sammi asked. “What could possibly be any worse than this?”

“The lights could go out.”

“Actually,” Marcel said, “that’s a good point. We know the power is still on. Otherwise the freezer wouldn’t be running. So if the electricity is still on, then maybe this didn’t happen everywhere. Maybe it was just confined to Save-A-Lot.”

“I don’t know,” Angie said. “Even on the way here, people seemed angrier than normal. On the highway. I didn’t realize it at first, but looking back now, I remember it. There was a lot of road rage. And we all heard fire sirens and police cars. They weren’t all coming here. If they had been, we’d have seen them arrive.”

Marcel snorted. “So everybody all over the world just went insane at the same fucking time? That’s what you’re saying?”

“Maybe not all over the world.” Angie shrugged. “But at least here in town. Could be it’s some sort of localized thing.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, “but what kind of thing? I mean, what makes everyone go bat-shit crazy all at once and start killing each other?”

“Terrorists.” Marcel got to his feet. “Al Qaeda, or maybe some homegrown group like those Sons of the Constitution motherfuckers. Maybe they dropped some gas on us.”

“How?”

“They could have used a crop-duster or something. Like what happened in that little town in Pennsylvania a few years ago. That chemical got released from a hot air balloon and made the rain purple, and then everybody died? Supposedly they all went insane before they were killed. Remember that?”

“I do,” Sammi whispered. “I had nightmares about it for weeks. Those poor people…”

“It couldn’t be gas,” Jack said, watching Marcel as he crossed the freezer and checked the door again. The man seemed to be counting his steps under his breath. “If it had been, you guys would have smelled it when it came through the store’s ventilation system.”

“Not necessarily,” Angie said. “Gas can be odorless and invisible. But I agree that it wasn’t gas. It was windy outside. If they’d used gas, some of it would have blown away. If that happened, then it wouldn’t have been as effective in the parking lot, and the way Marcel talks, things were just as bad out there right before he came in. And besides, if there was gas, then each of us would have breathed it and gone nuts, too—and we’re okay.”

“Maybe we’re immune,” Jack suggested.

“You can’t be immune to gas.”

“The water, then.” Sammi’s teeth chattered as she spoke. She rubbed her arms briskly. “Somebody could have spiked the town’s water supply.”

“Maybe,” Angie agreed, watching Marcel. “But I drank water from the tap today, and took a shower, too, and I didn’t go crazy. How about you?”

“I don’t drink city water,” Sammi said. “I only use bottled spring water.”

“But you showered, right? Brushed your teeth?”

Sammi nodded. “Yeah, after my morning run.”

“Well, there you go.”

Jack noticed Sammi’s face turn red, as if she were embarrassed. He wondered why. Sammi looked away from them. Jack turned his attention back to Marcel. He was checking the straps again.

“What’s up, Marcel?”

He shrugged. “Just making sure these will hold.”

“Dude, they’re okay. I told you, I’m the knot master. You keep messing with them, somebody on the other side is going to hear you.”

“I know.” But even as he said it, Marcel gave no indication of stopping. He tugged the bonds again. “Just want to be sure.”

“Marcel…”

“I can’t help it, kid. Leave me be.”

“My name’s Jack. Not kid.”

Releasing the bands, Marcel turned around and walked back to them.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Guess I should have said something sooner. It’s just a little embarrassing is all—especially telling strangers.”

They stared at him, but it was Jack who finally spoke up, asking what they were all thinking.

“What is?”

Marcel sat down again. “I’ve got OCD—Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. That’s why I was fucking with the straps. You guys know what OCD is?”

They nodded.

“Of course you do,” he muttered. “Everybody does these days. People make jokes about it at work and on TV. Most people think that folks with OCD are crazy. But we’re not—and it ain’t funny. I hate being like this. Hate the fucking looks people give me.”

“So your OCD has to do with doors?” Angie asked.

Marcel nodded. “Yeah, something like that. Doors and appliances, mostly. I need to make sure the doors are locked and everything is turned off. That’s what I was doing when… well, when everything went to shit. I was sitting in my car, double-checking the headlights and stuff. The more stressed I am, the worse it is, and right now, I’m pretty fucking stressed. I’m scared and worried about my family and I’m sick of sitting in here freezing my ass off. But at the same time, I know it’s suicide to go back out there. So, my OCD kicked in and I was making sure the straps around the doors are secure. We know they are. Your knots will probably hold. But I’ve got to make sure anyway. I can’t help it. And it ain’t just doors, either. I have to count things—how many potato chips I eat out of the bag, how many steps I take, how many times the phone rings. And I can’t stand odd numbers. Like, if I’m reading a book, I can’t stop on an odd numbered page. If I walk somewhere, I have to end on an even numbered step. When I’m channel surfing, I skip past the odd-numbered channels. If I go out to eat and the check comes and it’s an odd number, I’ve got to tip enough to make it even.”

They stared at him, not speaking.

Marcel shrugged. “I guess you probably think I’m crazy.”

“I don’t,” Jack said. “Shit, man—we’ve all got our problems, you know? I’m on Prozac. People make fun of that, too.”

Marcel grinned. “Prozac? So am I. It’s the only thing that works for me. I tried Paxil, Luvox, Xanax, and Zoloft, but all they did was make me comatose. So now I’m on Prozac. It works better.”

“Not to be rude,” Angie said, “but if you’re checking the door even though you know it’s secured, then are you sure the medicine is working? Maybe you need a different dosage.”

“Yeah. Believe me, I’m sure it’s working. Like I said, my symptoms get worse when I’m stressed. So pardon me if I seem a little freaked out right now.”

Outside the door, somebody screamed—a long, unwavering howl that seemed to rise in pitch and intensity. Then it stopped.

“Fuck,” Jack whispered. “That sounded like some kind of animal. Are you guys sure it was other people that did these things?”

“You didn’t see them.” Angie burst into tears. “I’m not surprised they sound like animals.”

She lowered her head and sobbed. Her shoulders shook, but she made no sound.

“Hey.” Marcel reached out a tentative hand and squeezed her shoulder. “If you’re worried you offended me with that medicine remark, don’t be.”

“No,” she sobbed. “It’s not that. I’m just scared. And depressed. Story of my life. I’ve got chronic depression. You guys aren’t the only two people on Prozac. That’s what I was here for, too.”

Marcel nodded. “Me, too. I ran out of meds yesterday, in fact. Haven’t taken any since yesterday morning. Come to think of it, that might be why my OCD symptoms are a little worse today. I was on my way in here to pick up my prescription.”

Angie wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

“That’s kind of weird,” Marcel continued. “Right? That all three of us would be taking Prozac?”

“Not really,” Jack said. “There are lots of people on Prozac these days, dude. The doctors prescribe it like candy.”

“Yeah, but to have three people out of four on it? That just seems odd to me.”

“Four,” Sammi mumbled.

“What’s that?”

“Four people on Prozac. I take it, too.”

“You’re depressed?” Jack asked.

Sammi shook her head.

Marcel let go of Angie’s shoulder. “OCD?”

“No.” Sammi sighed, pausing before she spoke again. “Bulimia.”

“I knew it,” Jack said, then stopped, realizing he’d blurted it out. His mouth hung open. His cheeks reddened with shame.

“Knew what?” Sammi snapped.

“Just… well, some of the guys back in high school said that you were anorexic. That was why you were so skinny. Phil, too. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You should be sorry. And I’m not anorexic. I’m bulimic. There’s a difference between the two, you know. And I’m getting help. That’s why I’m on Prozac.”

“So… you throw up after you eat?” Now that the rumor had been confirmed, Jack was honestly curious.

“No. Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but I’m an exercise bulimic. I used to binge—I mean, eat— and then I’d exercise my ass off. At first, I thought it was a healthy, competitive way to lose weight. I had lots of energy—like I’d just chugged a can of Red Bull. It felt good, you know? When the endorphin rush kicked in, I wasn’t depressed anymore. Didn’t feel bad about myself. And most importantly, I looked toned. But I wasn’t toned. I was just building muscle while I dehydrated myself to burn off the fat. My skin clung more closely to my muscles. People tried talking to me about it, but I wouldn’t listen. Finally, I got real sick. Passed out at a rave. My doctor prescribed Prozac to curb my desire to binge, since food is a form of comfort. I’ve been taking that and going to counseling for six weeks now.”

“Six weeks,” Jack said. “Must be nice. I’ve been on Prozac most of my life.”

“That’s dangerous,” Marcel warned.

“I know. But the doctor said if it’s working, then we should stick with it.”

“Maybe you’re better off,” Marcel admitted. “There is a crazy side effect when you stop taking it. At least there was for me. I got horrible vertigo—like someone just pulled the floor out from under me. It lasted for a couple weeks, totally at random. At least you didn’t have to go through that.”

“I started taking it when I was ten,” Jack said. “I didn’t want to at first. Thought it meant I was crazy or something. My Mom coaxed me, though. She used to call the pills ‘magic beans’. You know, like in Jack and the Beanstalk?”

The other nodded.

“She said my depression was like a big giant, and if I took my magic beans, then I’d have a way to defeat it. The doctor liked that. In fact, he liked it so much that I think he started using it on other kids, too. He told me to visualize the beanstalk as a line to recovery and wellness. My cure was waiting at the top of the beanstalk—a castle in the clouds. He was always spouting psychobabble bullshit like that. Weird old geezer. I don’t go to him anymore, but my new doctor has me on Prozac, too.”

Marcel chuckled, then broke into laughter. It echoed in the freezer, bouncing off the walls. The others stared at him in shock, dismayed by his bizarre reaction.

“Dude,” Jack whispered. “Stop it or they’ll hear you.”

Still laughing, Marcel put his hands over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Asshole,” Sammi pouted. “You’re just as fucked up as we are. What gives you the right to laugh at Jack?”

Marcel paused, catching his breath. “I’m not laughing at him. Seriously.”

“Well, then what’s so funny?”

“Us.” He gestured at them. “We’re all on Prozac. We’re stigmatized by society because of it. Think about it. Everybody in town goes fucking insane, and the only four people left alive and apparently immune are people who all suffer from some form of mental illness. Everybody else used to think we were crazy. Suddenly, we ain’t so fucking crazy anymore. We’re the sane ones.”

Marcel giggled again. Angie smiled. After a moment, Sammi did, too. Both women began to laugh. Jack didn’t say anything. His expression was serious. After a moment, the others noticed.

“What’s wrong?” Angie asked. “Did you hear something?”

“No,” he whispered, “but I think I figured out why we’re still alive—why we’re immune to whatever made everyone else go nuts.”

“Why?”

He grinned. “The magic beans.”

All three of them stared at him.

“Prozac,” he explained. “Remember? I said my Mom used to call them magic beans?”

“Yeah,” Sammi said. “What about it.”

“It’s the one thing we all have in common. We all took Prozac today.”

“I didn’t,” Marcel reminded him. “I’d run out.”

“Yeah, but you still take it regularly. We all do. And I bet there were other people out there who were on it, too. Think about it. Was everybody crazy?”

“I saw a little boy,” Sammi said, her voice trembling. “He asked me to help him, but before I could…” She trailed off, unable to finish.

“I saw people, too,” Angie confirmed. “They seemed fine—scared, like me.”

Marcel nodded. “Same here.”

“I bet they were like us,” Jack said. “Bet they were on Prozac.”

“You don’t know that,” Angie said. “There are too many variables. Dosage. Type. Things like that.”

Jack shrugged. “I’m on pills. What about the rest of you?”

“Pills,” Angie said.

“Liquid.” Sammi shivered. “But it can’t be the Prozac. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes about as much sense as everybody else suddenly turning into homicidal fucking maniacs. Didn’t you ever have Mrs. Repasky’s biology class?”

“No.” Sammi shook her head. “I had Mr. Jackson. He’s gross. He was always biting his fingernails and then spitting them all over the floor while he talked.”

“Yeah, I never liked him.”

“Me either.”

“Mrs. Repasky,” Jack said, “told us about how diseases change over time. With each generation, some new and terrible disease pops up. The Black Death, leprosy, cholera, cancer, Aids. That flu strain that killed all those people after World War One. All of these illnesses came out of nowhere, with no warning, and infected millions. So what if mental illnesses suddenly started doing the same thing? What if they mutated?”

Angie snorted. “You’re saying that all those people were infected by some bizarre new psychosis?”

“Maybe,” Jack said. “And we’re immune to it because of the Prozac.”

Sammi shook her head. “Is that even possible?”

“Shit.” Jack shrugged. “How the hell do I know? I’m just a stock boy.”

THREE

“I hope my family is okay.” Sammi’s nose had turned from red to white, and tiny ice crystals clung to her eyelashes. “I promised my little sister I’d help her with her homework tonight. She’s in eighth grade.”

Without warning, she started to cry again.

“Try not to think about it,” Marcel said. “Ain’t nothing we can do for them right now.”

Angie frowned. “That’s pretty cold, don’t you think?”

“No,” Marcel said. “It’s not cold. Just practical. I got people at home, too. And I know they’d want me to stay alive.”

“Cold…” Sammi sniffled. “It’s so cold in here.”

The others nodded in agreement. Jack stood up, stretched his stiff arms and legs, and crept to the door. He put his ear close to the frigid metal and listened.

“Hear anything?” Marcel asked.

“No. Nothing. It’s quiet. Seriously, guys—it’s been a while since we heard anything. Maybe they’re all gone—or dead.”

“Maybe,” Marcel said, “or could be it’s just a trap. Maybe they’re waiting right outside the door.”

“Well,” Angie whispered, “we can’t stay in here much longer. That’s for sure. We’ll get frostbite, not to mention there’s no food or water—unless you count that frozen stuff. And pretty soon, I’m going to have to go to the bathroom.”

Marcel pointed to the corner. “Go ahead. Knock yourself out. We won’t look.”

“No thanks. I can hold it a little while longer.”

“I’m staying put,” Marcel said. “You guys will too, if you’re smart.”

Jack returned to the group and hunkered down on his haunches. “Screw that. I’m not starving to death inside a grocery store freezer. I’d rather take my chances out there.”

“Same here,” Sammi said. “I want to see my family. I want my Mom.”

“One step at a time,” Jack told her. “First we have to get out of this freezer.”

Marcel sighed. “Oh fuck me running. I’m not going to be able to talk you guys out of this, am I?”

“No,” Jack said, “but we won’t blame you if you want to stay behind. We’ll send help, soon as we find some. I promise.”

Angie pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open, checking the time. “It should be dark outside. If we’re going to try it, now is the time.”

“We’ve been in here that long?” Jack was surprised.

Angie nodded.

“You know what they say,” Marcel muttered. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

Jack smiled. “Does that mean you changed your mind? You coming with us?”

“I was outvoted, wasn’t I? Either way, you guys are gonna open that door. I’m not staying here by myself. There’s safety in numbers. Besides, my head hurts. Think I’m probably dehydrated, so I need to find some water, at the very least. Either that, or start licking the ice off those boxes over there.”

They fell silent. Sammi, Angie and Marcel stared at Jack, waiting for him to make a decision. It was not lost on him that somehow, he’d become their leader. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath.

“We need weapons, just in case they are waiting for us.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a box cutter. “Look around. What do we have?”

They searched the freezer, hunting through the shelves, racks and drawers, and looking under pallets. Marcel found a jagged length of wood from a broken skid. A nail jutted from the end. He swung the board through the air, testing it.

“That’ll work for me.”

Sammi found an old mop and broke the handle over her knee, creating a makeshift spear. She winced in pain, and rubbed her knee. Although he didn’t say it out loud, Jack was impressed. Sure, Sammi had muscles from her particular type of bulimia, but he was surprised she had enough strength to snap the handle. Maybe her fear was giving her extra power.

Then he noticed that she was also rubbing her wrist.

“You okay?”

She nodded, grimacing. “Yeah. Jeremy almost broke my wrist earlier. It’s just a little sore.”

Angie grabbed a pack of frozen steaks.

“What are you gonna do with those?” Sammi asked.

Angie smacked the steaks against her thigh with a loud whack. She grinned. “Knock somebody out until I find something better.”

Sammi returned the smile. “That’s pretty kick ass.

“I thought so, too.”

Jack extended the blade of his box-cutter. The dim overhead bulb glinted off the razor’s edge. He took a deep breath and shuddered.

“I hope I don’t have to use this. I’ve never… cut anybody before.”

“Maybe they’re gone,” Sammi said. “It’s pretty quiet out there now.”

Nodding, Jack looked at each of them. They nodded back in return.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s do it.”

“You guys sure about this?” Marcel whispered. “Maybe we should wait?”

Jack frowned. “I thought you were coming with us?”

“I am. But I’ve never been more fucking scared in my life. Just stalling I guess.”

“We’re all scared,” Angie said. “But if we wait any longer, we’ll freeze to death. Let’s get it over with, before we lose our nerve.”

They surrounded the door, weapons at the ready. Their breath clouded the air. Working as quietly as he could, Jack sliced through the strapping bands and shrink-wrap . Then, with one last glance at the others, he opened the door. It swung slowly outward. Jack’s breath caught in his chest. He shielded his eyes with his free hand. Behind him, the others did the same. The lights were still on in the stockroom, and they were temporarily blinded by the brightness.

Sammi sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

Their eyes slowly adjusted to the light. Angie gasped, dropping her steak. It thumped on the floor. Marcel retched. Turning away, Sammi put her hand over her mouth and nose. Jack stepped out into the wreckage and tried to be brave. His left shoe squelched on something—a kidney, a liver, a spleen—he wasn’t sure what. Some kind of internal organ. That much he could confirm. When he picked up his foot, there was a tread mark in the remains.

The stockroom had been ransacked. Blood-spattered boxes and cartons were ripped open. Some of the containers had been emptied of their original contents and were now filled with gore. Cases of canned goods had been dumped out on the floor. A stack of skids had fallen over. Arms and legs stuck out from beneath the wooden pallets. Blood pooled around an upended pallet jack. The lower half of a naked torso lay on the floor. Innards stretched away from the body like fleeing snakes. A dead man hung from a forklift, the prongs impaling his limp corpse. Severed hands, limbs, fingers and heads lay everywhere, along with unidentifiable scraps of human tissue—cuts of meat that mirrored the choices in the butcher’s showcase up front. The room was silent, except for the incessant buzzing of flies. It stank—blood, shit, slaughter. The unpainted concrete walls were red. So was the floor. Blood had even splattered across the ceiling.

“Well,” Angie said, “the power’s still on.”

Marcel gagged. “I wish it wasn’t.”

Jack tried to respond and found that he couldn’t. He just reeled instead. The stockroom seemed to spin and his vision blurred. He knelt on the floor, leaned over, and vomited. Marcel did the same a moment later. Sammi and Angie stood guard until they recovered, looking around nervously. The room remained deserted. Both men slowly rose, unsteady, wiping their mouths.

“You okay?” Jack rasped.

“Yeah,” Marcel said. “I will be. Getting a killer headache, though. Probably from all this stress.”

“Might be dehydration,” Angie said. “Like you said before.”

“Or stress,” Sammi offered. “Tension. Maybe you should rest.”

Marcel shrugged. “Don’t worry about me. I’m all right.”

Jack turned to Sammi and Angie. His cheeks turned red with embarrassment. “Sorry about doing that in front of you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Angie said. “Happens to everybody. If it makes you any happier, I feel like puking, too.”

Sammi giggled. “Nice to see somebody other than me throwing up for once.”

“Girls rule,” Angie whispered, “and boys drool.”

Marcel scowled at the comment, flicking a thread of saliva from his chin.

“You sure you’re all right?” Jack asked him.

Marcel nodded. His expression was one of annoyance.

“You girls ready?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” Sammi whispered. “Let’s quit stalling. The smell is getting worse back here.”

“Okay,” Jack whispered. “Let’s see what is what.”

He led them forward, trying not to look at the carnage, trying not to hear the sounds their shoes made as they stepped through a glistening tangle of stripped flesh or intestine, or the slow drips of blood falling from the stains on the ceiling. Jack wondered how the blood had gotten up there. He could read nothing in the splash patterns. They were everywhere—a crisscross of crimson.

At the end of the warehouse was an employee restroom. The door was slightly ajar. Although it was dark inside, they could make out the form of a woman crouched in front of the toilet. The seat was up. Her shoulders rested on the rim. Her head was deep inside the bowl. Water dripped from the faucet, and the mirror on the wall was shattered. The edges of the white porcelain sink were splashed with red, just like everything else in the warehouse. A sign on the wall next to the bathroom admonished all employees to wash their hands before returning to work. The irony filled Jack with a sick sense of dread.

He turned back to the others. “So far, so good.”

“Maybe they’re all dead,” Sammi whispered.

“Let’s hope so. Just stay quiet and stick together. Okay?”

Angie and Sammi nodded in understanding. Marcel appeared distracted. His eyes were shut and his expression was pained. One hand clutched the length of wood. The other rubbed his right temple, fingers probing deep into the flesh.

“Marcel?” Jack reached for him. “What’s the matter? I know you said you were okay, but you don’t look so hot.”

The older man glanced up at them. His eyes were red and watery. When he spoke, he sounded tired.

“What’s up?” he rasped. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. What did you ask?”

“What’s wrong with you, dude?”

“My fucking head hurts. That’s all. I think Sammi’s right. It’s just the stress. Exhaustion. Just need to get some painkillers.”

“You okay to keep going?” Jack asked. “We can stop if you need to.”

Marcel nodded. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Lead on, kemosabe.”

“Kemo-what?”

Marcel frowned. “You never saw The Lone Ranger?”

“No,” Jack said. “I think my grandfather used to watch it when he was a kid.”

“Never mind.”

They approached the large double doors that led out into the grocery store. Jack and Angie peeked through the windows, while Sammi and Marcel hung back.

“Holy shit,” Jack moaned.

FOUR

The slaughter in the stockroom paled in comparison to what awaited them in the store. They smelled the carnage even through the closed doors—a noxious brew of blood, piss, shit, bleach, ammonia, and other chemicals from the household cleaning products aisle. The stench made their eyes water and their throats and sinuses burn.

“I don’t see anybody moving,” Angie whispered after a moment. “Maybe they all left. I say we make a run for it.”

“What do you guys think?” Jack asked Sammi and Marcel without turning around.

A loud crack rang out behind them. Sammi breathed a long, drawn-out sigh. Marcel laughed—a bubbling, high-pitched croak.

Jack and Angie turned around. Sammi stared at them, her head cocked to the right, her eyes glassy. A thin ribbon of blood trickled down the side of her face. Marcel stood behind her, gripping his club with both hands. The other end—the piece with the nail in it—was embedded in the top of Sammi’s skull. The mop-handle spear slipped from Sammi’s fingers. Her knees buckled. Marcel released the weapon and Sammi toppled to the floor. She thrashed on her side, arms and legs jittering, mouth agape.

“Fuck!” The razor knife shook in Jack’s trembling hands.

“She was stealing from me,” Marcel explained, his voice calm and self-assured. “She was stealing my thoughts. I had to teach her a lesson. Had to curb that shit.”

“Sammi?” Jack whispered, hoping she’d respond. Her convulsions grew weaker.

“You guys would have done the same thing,” Marcel said. “She was inside my head, stealing everything I thought about. If you’re taking her side, then I have to assume you were stealing from me, too. And that means I’ll have—”

Angie’s scream cut him off. “You son of a bitch!”

She lunged at him, swinging the pack of steaks. The frozen meat collided with Marcel’s head, stunning him. Jack heard the crack, even over Angie’s cries. Marcel’s head rocked backward. Grunting, he staggered to the side. Already his ear had begun to swell. Before he could recover, Angie hit him again, breaking his nose and driving the splintered cartilage up into his brain. Marcel made a gulping noise. His eyes fluttered and his hands clenched, then unclenched. A single tear slid down his cheek. He fell forward, his body jittering on the floor next to Sammi. As they watched, Sammi’s movements ceased and Marcel’s slowed. A dark stain spread across his pants. The sharp smell of urine filled the air, mixing with the store’s miasma.

“He’s still alive,” Jack said, watching him flop around.

“No he’s not.” Angie dropped the steaks and checked Marcel’s pulse. “He’s dead.”

“But he’s moving. And he pissed himself. Look at him.”

“That’s just the last few electrical impulses from his brain. It will stop in a minute.”

Even as she said it, the convulsions slowed more, just as Sammi’s had. Marcel’s limbs twitched a few more times, and then ceased. Jack watched with a mixture of awe and revulsion.

“How did you know how to do that?”

Angie shrugged. “I didn’t. My grandfather was in Vietnam. He served in the First Cavalry and went through all that hand-to-hand combat training. He told me once that if you hit somebody in the nose just right—and hard enough—it would kill them. I was never sure about it until now, though. Guess he was right.”

“Jesus…”

Angie knelt by Sammi and felt her throat, checking her pulse as well. Jack watched with trepidation.

“Is she?”

Angie nodded. “Yes. She’s dead. Poor kid.”

“Damn.”

“Were you friends?”

“Not really. I mean, we knew each other. But that was all. She dated a friend of mine for a little while.”

“Yeah. I kind of got that impression while listening to you talk in the freezer.”

Jack tried to swallow. His throat felt tight, his breathing constricted.

Angie picked up Sammi’s spear. “You okay, Jack?”

“Yeah. I just… I’ve never seen anything happen like that before. Never saw somebody die.”

“Neither have I, until today.”

“It’s not like in the movies, is it?”

“No,” she agreed, “it’s not. Not at all. But we’d both better get used to it. I’ve got a feeling that’s the new world order.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you were right. Your theory—the magic beans? The beanstalk?”

“Seriously?”

Angie shrugged. “Why not, Jack? I mean, shit, it’s not like I’ve got any better ideas. None of this makes any sense.”

“But if the Prozac protected us, then why did Marcel snap like that?”

“He said he’d missed a dose. Maybe that was all it took. One missed dosage and you go nuts like everybody else. Perhaps it just took a while to catch up with him. Maybe the Prozac had to leave his system first.”

Jack glanced back out at the store. “If that’s the case, then we’d better stock up on meds before we leave. God knows when we’ll find some again.”

Angie leaned against the wall and sighed. She closed her eyes. Her body shook slightly.

“You cold?”

She shook her head, sliding down the wall until she crouched.

“Depressed?”

“No. Yes. Look… Jack—I’m not a commando. I’ve never killed anybody before. Just give me a few minutes, okay?”

“Sure.” He turned back to the window, granting her some privacy. “I’ll keep watch until you’re ready.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Jack looked out the smudged glass, staring at the carnage. From his vantage point, he had a view of the freezer aisles and part of the dairy aisle. He knew them well. He worked them several nights a week and most weekends—rotating the milk, yogurt, and sour cream; restocking frozen pizzas and vegetables, TV dinners, ice cream and a hundred other items. He barely recognized the aisles now. The glass doors in the frozen vegetables section were shattered. Mist curled out of the freezer, lazily rising towards the ceiling. Dead bodies littered the floor, sometimes three high. The few areas without corpses were littered with pieces of them. Blood and scarlet handprints covered the other freezer doors. Somebody had removed the popsicles from their shelves and replaced them with dozens of severed heads—men, women, and children, young and old.

People-sicles, Jack thought.

He stifled a laugh. It scared him. Was he cracking up, too? Would he be turning on Angie next? He didn’t feel crazy, but would he really know if the illness was starting to set in? All his life, he’d had to deal with people picking on him about his mental illness. Cruel taunts and jokes from classmates who had no fucking clue. He’d been called crazy a thousand times, but now…

He glanced over his shoulder at Angie. Her eyes were still closed, her face serene.

No, he decided that he wasn’t crazy. He was just scared. They both were.

He heard movement behind him. Jack turned, and saw Angie climbing slowly to her feet.

“You ready?” she asked.

He nodded. “Ready if you are.”

Angie made a seesaw motion with her hand. “Not, really. But I sure as hell don’t want to stay here.”

They crept into the store. The double doors creaked on their hinges. Jack had never noticed them doing it before, but now, the sound seemed to echo down the aisles. Both of them braced for an attack, but the store appeared deserted. Muzak still played over the loudspeakers—Elton John’s ‘Island Girl’. Even though he hated the song, Jack knew all the words. It always came on at least once during his shifts. It used to be an annoyance. Now, the song filled him with dread—and a strange, surreal sense of longing. It was familiar in a world that was anything but. It reminded him of home.

Home. The word ran through his head, looking for something to connect with. His parents—he hadn’t thought of them since this whole thing began. Were they okay? Both of them worked during the day. Chances were good they’d been sitting in rush hour traffic when everything happened. Depending on how far the illness had spread, they could be okay. Maybe they were out of range.

And maybe not.

Elton John continued wailing. “You feel her nail scratch your back just like a rake. He one more gone, he one more John, who make the mistake.”

Jack shivered.

“That music’s creepy,” Angie whispered, echoing his thoughts.

“Yeah, it is.”

“Why don’t grocery stores play stuff like the Foo Fighters or Dave Matthews or The Mighty Mighty Bosstones?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “It could be worse.”

“What could possibly be any worse than Elton John?”

“Fergie. The Pussycat Dolls. Fall Out Boy. Kanye West. Take your pick.”

“You fight dirty, Jack.”

He grinned, despite his fears. “So do you.”

She reached out and took his hand, giving it a squeeze. Jack squeezed back.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” Angie said. “This doesn’t mean we’re gonna hook up. You’re a little too young for me.”

“Okay…”

“This is just because I’m happy to be alive and because I’m scared. Understand?”

“No worries,” Jack said, trying to project confidence. “Don’t be scared. I’ll protect you. My doctor didn’t call me Jack the Giant-Killer for nothing.”

“You’ll protect me? So far, I’ve been covering your ass.”

“I know,” Jack admitted. “But I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

Despite their efforts to stay quiet, both of them giggled. Then they moved on, still holding hands. They moved slowly, picking their way around human wreckage. Angie slipped in a pile of intestines. Jack accidentally dropped his knife and bumped into a bloody shopping cart full of severed feet—most of them still wearing shoes. Elton John gave way to Christopher Cross, singing about being lost between the moon and New York City. Jack and Angie knew how he felt.

“Notice something?” Angie asked.

“What’s that?”

“I think we’re alone in here. They’re all dead. Each and every last one of them. It’s like they butchered each other until there was nothing left.”

“Well, we should still be careful. Somebody had to be the last one standing. He or she might still be around. Or there may be others like Marcel, that didn’t change until now.”

What he thought to himself but didn’t say out loud was that they should probably be wary of each other, too.

They made it to the pharmacy without encountering trouble. Angie paled as they approached the counter. Her grip tightened around Jack’s hand.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered. “Did you hear something?”

“No,” she said. “Just brings back bad memories.”

“Well, wait here. I’ll try to hurry.”

“Where are you going?”

“To get us some meds. If my theory is right, then we’re gonna need them.”

“Did you ever work in a pharmacy?”

“No.”

“Then how the hell do you know what you’re looking for?”

“Prozac is really fluoxotine, so that’s what they should have it labeled as.”

The pharmacy’s employee door was locked. Setting his box-cutter aside, Jack vaulted over the counter. There were two corpses behind it. One of them, a woman, was missing her eyes. The other, a man, lay on his stomach. His head had been bashed in with a coffee maker. Jack knew because the bloody appliance lay next to the corpse.

“Is it bad?” Angie called.

“Not as bad as out there, but it ain’t pretty either.”

He stepped over the bodies and went to the back. Then he searched through the shelves and bins until he found what he was looking for—a drawer full of fluoxotine.

“Bingo!”

“You found some?”

“Yep. Grab me a bag, will you?”

“Paper or plastic?”

“Plastic. Easier to carry.”

Angie retrieved a plastic bag from one of the registers and handed it to him over the counter. Jack returned to the shelf, yanked the drawer out of the cabinet, and dumped its contents into the bag. Then he returned to the counter and smiled.

“Do you have your insurance card with you?”

Angie gave him a puzzled look. “No. Why?”

“Oh, well.” Jack chuckled nervously. “What the hell. Prozac’s on the house today. Can I interest you in some free samples of Oxy-Contin, as well? Or how about some high-grade pharmaceutical marijuana?”

“Just the anti-depressants, please. Thanks.”

“Angie…” Jack shook his head. “You should never turn down free weed.”

“We should probably divide up the meds,” Angie suggested. “In case we get separated or something.”

“Okay,” Jack agreed, “but I think we should take them at the same time. That way, we can sort of remind each other. Less chance of forgetting a dose.”

“Good idea.”

“Thanks.”

“So what now?” Angie asked. “Do you think we should leave?”

“That depends. You’ve probably got people you want to check on. So do I. We need to at least determine if the whole city is like this. The power is still on. Maybe we can find a television or a radio—check the news and see if we can learn anything.”

“Something tells me we’re not going to.”

“That’s crazy talk,” Jack teased.

“I just think we just need to prepare for the worst possible scenario. You and I might very well be the only two sane people left in this city. What if we find our loved ones and they’re like everybody else? Or what if they’re still alive—and they try to kill us? Could you defend yourself against your family? Do you have what it takes to stay alive? To kill them?”

Jack’s expression soured. “I don’t want to think about it.”

“You might not have a choice, Jack.”

“Shit…”

“And there’s something else to consider.”

“What?”

“While we’re watching each other’s backs, we also need to keep an eye on each other. If either of us misses a dose—or if we’re wrong about that and this… whatever it was that caused this, infects one of us, the other could be in real danger.”

“We’ll be okay,” Jack insisted. “In truth, I was thinking about that earlier. I figure that if we were gonna go psycho, we would have changed when Marcel did.”

“We don’t know that. We don’t know anything.”

Jack’s expression fell. “So you think we should split up? Go our separate ways?”

“No. I just think we should be careful around each other. Marcel was complaining about a headache right before he snapped. If either of us gets a headache, we should tell each other right away. Agreed?”

“And then what? We kill the person with the headache? We abandon them?”

“I don’t know.”

Jack sighed. He looked as if he were ready to cry.

“Look,” Angie said after a pause, “I think you’re right about finding some news. Let’s try that first. We’ll worry about everything else in time.”

“Okay.”

Still using caution, they found two student-sized backpacks in the employee locker room. They filled these with bottles of spring water, crackers, sardines, dried fruit, and other canned goods, as well as medical supplies, toiletries, matches, cigarette lighters, and anything else that might prove useful. Jack considered grabbing some cash from the registers, but decided against it. He wasn’t sure what good cash would do them now, except to maybe start a fire with. Angie took a carton of cigarettes from behind the customer service counter.

“Do you smoke?”

She shook her head and then shrugged. “Fuck it. I do now.”

They crept to the front of the store. The electronic eyes above the doors registered their movements and the doors slid open as they approached.

“Oh…” Angie stared out at the parking lot. Sodium lights bathed it in a sickly yellow glow. “It’s even worse than it is in here.”

Jack said nothing.

FIVE

The parking lot was littered with corpses and debris. Something had sparked a fire, and many of the cars were now nothing more than blackened hulls. Some of the bodies were burned as well. Crows and other birds perched on the dead, scavenging the choice bits. The stench was revolting. A dog wandered amidst the chaos, but ran away when it saw them.

Slowly, they walked outside, clutching their weapons, supplies, and most importantly, Jack’s magic beans. The doors slid shut behind them, and the electricity went out, plunging the store and the parking lot into total darkness. Squawking, the birds took flight. The stench grew stronger.

“I can’t see shit,” Angie whispered.

“Neither can I. The power must be out everywhere.”

Jack looked around. There were no streetlights or glows from the windows of the nearby buildings. No car headlights, no radios blaring. Even the birds had fallen silent. He gazed up at the sky. The stars were hidden behind a curtain of clouds. He searched for the twinkling lights of a passing airplane, but the sky was empty.

The silence overwhelmed them.

“It’s the end of the world,” Jack said. “For real. The end of the fucking world.”

“No,” Angie disagreed. “It’s not the end of the world. It’s just the end of the people. The world will be just fine. Look around us. The world is still here. It’s just the people that are gone.”

“We can’t be the only ones left alive,” Jack said. “It doesn’t make any sense. There has to be others like us.”

To Angie, it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

They took a few hesitant steps forward. Jack stumbled over a severed arm and almost tripped. After he regained his balance, Angie found his hand in the dark and held on tight.

“Be careful,” she whispered. “Wouldn’t do to break your leg after all of this.”

“That would suck. Doctors might be hard to come by now.”

She held up a hand, silencing him. Her expression was alarmed.

“What’s wrong?” Jack whispered.

Angie nodded at the Chinese restaurant, adjoined to the supermarket. The door was slightly ajar. The smell of cooking meat drifted out of the building. Despite his terror, Jack’s mouth watered.

“Listen,” Angie mouthed.

Jack cocked his head and focused. After a moment, he heard it—a slight rustling sound, followed by a crunching noise. Someone walking on broken glass, perhaps, and trying to be stealthy about it.

Gripping her weapon tightly, Angie crept toward the open door.

Something zipped by them—an angry bee. A second later, they heard the shot.

“Get down,” Jack shouted.

Angie was already ahead of him. She flung herself to the pavement, skinning her elbows and knees. Another blast boomed across the parking lot. Ducking behind a toppled shopping cart, Jack saw a brief flash of light from inside the restaurant.

“Get out of here,” a man screamed. “Get the fuck away from me, you crazy bastards!”

Unable to seek cover without becoming a target, Angie cast a terrified glance at Jack. Still cowering behind the shopping cart, he motioned at her to stay down.

“Hey,” he shouted. “Stop shooting! We don’t want to hurt you. We’re not like the others!”

The unseen man responded by firing another round. A car windshield exploded nearby. Fragments of glass rained down on the pavement. When the echoes of the gunshot finally died down, they heard the shooter yelling.

“The whole fucking world’s gone insane. But you won’t get me!”

“We’re not trying to,” Jack insisted. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. We just want to go home. Please!”

“Bullshit! You’re like everybody else. Bug-fuck crazy. They were cooking people in here. Cooking people who were still alive. Look at this grill! Who would do something like this?”

“Are you okay?” Jack called. “Are you injured? Do you need help?”

“You’re trying to trick me. I let you come in, and you’ll kill me. You think I was born yesterday, you crazy fucker?”

“We’re not crazy,” Angie yelled. “We’re like you. We just escaped from the grocery store.”

Jack decided to try a different tactic. “My name’s Jack. This is Angie. What’s your name?”

“Fuck you, Jack!”

“Why did you tell him our names?” Angie whispered.

“I’m trying to calm him down.”

“Well, I don’t want him knowing who I am. He just tried to kill us. Did it ever occur to you that he could be one of them? Maybe he’s trying to lure us in?”

“He just said the same thing about us, Angie.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.”

“Get out of here,” the man hollered. “I’m not telling you again. If you don’t leave right the fuck now, I’ll drop you right there.”

Jack cupped his hands over his mouth. “Are you on Prozac?”

The man didn’t reply.

“If you are,” Jack shouted, “then you need to keep taking it. You’ll be okay as long as you stay medicated. We’re leaving now. We don’t want any trouble. Okay?”

Silence.

“Are you listening? Don’t shoot us, man!”

Slowly, excruciatingly, Angie crawled towards Jack. She held her breath, anticipating another shot, expecting to feel a bullet slam into her—but the man in the restaurant had fallen silent. When she reached Jack, the two of them crab-walked to a nearby vehicle. They ducked down behind it, breathing hard.

“Well,” Angie panted, “there’s one crazy person who’s not dead yet.”

“I still don’t think so.” Jack wiped the sweat from his forehead with his t-shirt. “I don’t think he was crazy.”

“He tried to kill us!”

“Because he was afraid. And I think that’s all it was. He’s like us—he’s scared. Paranoid.”

“And that’s what we’ve got to look forward to? Paranoia? Shooting at everyone, be they friend or foe?”

“Only if we give in to it.”

He got quiet. His head hung low and his shoulders slumped. At first, Angie thought he was just waiting to see if the man in the restaurant had forgotten about them. The she realized he was sulking.

“What’s wrong?” Angie asked.

“I’ve been thinking,” Jack said. “When we get to a safer location, we need to check the expiration date on these pills.”

“They won’t have any,” Angie reminded him. “We filled the prescription ourselves. We didn’t print out one of those little labels that has the expiration date. But usually, I think it’s about a year.”

“Well, after we check on our families, our next stop needs to be another pharmacy, so we can load up on more.”

Angie sighed. “So that’s our life now? We’re going to be drugstore cowboys, spending every day looking for more and more magic beans?”

“As fucked up as it is, yes. We need Prozac even more than we need food and water. Without Prozac, we’re screwed. I mean, without it, we might as well just give up right now and march back there and let that guy shoot us. We need more.”

“No,” Angie said. “What we need is a fucking pharmacist. With no labs producing it, how long before we run out of magic beans?”

“One step at a time, my fellow giant-killer. One step at a time.”

They slowly crossed the parking lot, taking deliberate steps and picking their way through the wreckage. Then they walked down the main drag, heading away from the relative safety of the store. Both of them felt eyes upon them, but when they glanced behind, there was no sign of the man with the gun.

The city skyline loomed in the distance. Columns of smoke rose into the sky. Massive fires burning on the freeway, washing the bellies of the clouds in a wavering orange glow. They saw signs of an explosion. The burned out shell of a tanker trunk sat smoldering on the median strip. The overpass had collapsed, burying the road beneath it in a mountainous pile of rubble. Chunks of concrete lay on top of crushed cars.

They reached an intersection and came across the first dead body. Then another. Then a dozen. Then two dozen. And then hundreds. Their revulsion grew with each city block. The streets resembled the grocery store’s interior, but on a grander and more gruesome scale. The only thing moving were the birds—crows, gulls, pigeons; they swooped down from the rooftops, perching on the mounds of corpses and feasting on the choicest morsels. Dogs and cats and even a few rats were present as well, not quite as bold as the birds—but they would be by the time the sun went down.

Jack and Angie walked in silence. They stopped at a restaurant and grabbed some napkins, and then stuck the napkins in their noses to block out the smell. It was already bad. It would be unbearable after the corpses had laid out in the sun for a few days. After a while, the silence began to get to them both. Jack tried calling out once, but the sound of his voice echoing through the empty streets disturbed him even more than the carnage all around them.

“Jack?”

“What?”

“Are you sure we won’t change?” Angie asked. “Are you sure we won’t become like them?”

“Yes,” Jack lied. “As long as we take our meds, we should be fine.”

They went out into the world, and hoped they wouldn’t wake the sleeping giant.

AFTERWORD

Jack’s Magic Beans started with the opening sentence.

Okay. Yes, I know that’s how all stories start, but in this case, that’s all I had—the opening sentence. I had no ideas about plot or characters or even a title. All I had was an opening sentence. I typed: The lettuce started talking to Ben Mahoney halfway through his shift at Save-A-Lot. Then I stared at the laptop. I had no idea what happened next. I had no idea who Ben Mahoney was or why the lettuce was speaking to him.

About six months later, my wife at the time (now ex-wife but we remain best friends), Cassandra, told me about a business associate who referred to Prozac as ‘magic beans’. I thought that was interesting. I mulled it over for an evening.

The next day, I knew what happened after the lettuce started talking.

What happened was this story.

I seem to write two kinds of stories. There are my serious books (such as The Girl on the Glider, Ghoul, Dark Hollow) and then there are my fun books (such as The Conqueror Worms and all of my zombie novels). Critics and fans may disagree with those classifications, but that’s okay. These are just personal terms. This is how I think of my work. Anyway, I’ve noticed that I tend to write a fun book immediately after finishing a serious one. With the exception of the opening sentence, I wrote Jack’s Magic Beans right after finishing Ghoul—and Ghoul was a novel that kicked my fucking ass on both a psychological and emotional level. It was a serious book. It was a hard book. It was probably—at that time—my most autobiographical work to date, and it was difficult to revisit some of the shit from my childhood and work it into my fiction. In short, it left me depressed.

Luckily, Jack’s Magic Beans worked like an anti-depressant—just like in the story. Writing this novella was a cure for the depression I felt after battling my way through Ghoul.

Jack’s Magic Beans was originally supposed to be published by a small press. They never managed to get it into print (although they did publish a handful of promotional soft cover copies—I’ve never understood why they spent their money on promotional copies rather than just spending the same amount and publishing the actual book). When the contract expired and the book still wasn’t published, I got my rights back. Then I included the novella as the opening story in my now out-of-print short story collection Unhappy Endings. And now, Deadite Press have brought it back into print for everyone to enjoy. And that is my hope. That you enjoyed it, and enjoy my other books, as well. You keep reading them and I’ll keep writing them.