Black Walnut trees flash past the passenger window of the yellow hatchback. Their branches seem lighter than they did a month before, when they still bowed down below the weight of their flesh-covered seeds. Some of those still lay on the ground in the shadows below the behemoths. They will stay there until eaten by some wild animal, or until they rot away. The villagers from Happy Springs who can use them have already filled their larders. Or, as is the case with Leslie’s grandmother, their entire house. She always gathers far more than can be eaten and uses them to create beautifully dyed items that she sells on her Etsy shop. Until they are all processed, though, they sit on whatever surface she feels like leaving them on as a type of impromptu seasonal display.
Leslie presses her tongue against the insides of her teeth and peers into the darkness that covers everything a few feet away from the road. No streetlights line the roads out where she and her grandparents live on a tidy little farm to the west of town. Even though it is barely 530 p.m., the sky is already darkening, and the towering trees along the sides of the roadblock out any light that might remain.
“Why do we have to go out tonight? There will be better sales on Friday..”
“Truck came in today, Leelee. And I can guarantee that if we wait until all the rest of those vultures descend on Friday your Grandpa won’t be getting the new rod he was wanting.”
Leslie nods and looks away. She hates that nickname and has always hated it. But once her grandma decides on something, well…that’s the way it will forever be. Which is also why they rushed through dinner and threw on jackets so that they could get to Rusty’s before it closed. She stares out the window again, careful not to roll her eyes because the woman in the driver’s seat has some kind of supernatural ability to see such things, even in the dark.
The trees ahead on the left end abruptly and pavement takes over. Two light poles soar into the air and offer meager pools of light for the cars parked below them. Grandma flips her left turn signal and waits patiently while a spackled car turns from the other direction, followed by a beat-up old truck. Leslie squirms again, barely containing the sneer that nibbles at the corners of her mouth. It was too much, apparently, to hope that nobody else would be at Rusty’s Tractor Supply and Value Bonanza so close to closing. With any luck, she won’t have to face the idiot jocks that she knows are driving those vehicles. Being around them for too long makes her feel like her brain is going to hemorrhage. Idiots, the whole lot of them.
“Alright, let’s get in there and grab the rod and get out. No need to dawdle or stop to talk to your friends.” Her grandma pulls the little two-door car into a parking spot down at the end closest to the showcase doors. They are wide open, still, and spilling cheerful light out on the pavement.
Leslie pushes out a thin smile. “Don’t worry, in and out. That’s us.” She follows behind the tiny woman with ramrod straight posture and thinks bitterly, “Right, like I would be friends with anyone here..”
It isn’t worth it to say any of those things aloud. The only thing that would make this night suck worse is a lecture about trying to get to know people before judging them. For someone who liked everything planned and on schedule, her grandma didn’t understand that trying to get to know any of them is a massive waste of time. Leslie looks toward the front entrance at the other end of the building when she hears laughter echoing around her. She can’t tell which of the airheads it comes from, and she scoffs at herself for taking the time to wonder. Eyes point ahead again, and she marches through the opening into the show area.
An employee, some old man she vaguely recognizes, is pushing riding mowers inside and lining them up inside of a rectangle taped onto the floor. The room stretches all the way to a painted cinder block wall at the back of the building. One set of swinging doors on the right leads to a stock room, and next to it is a large opening that leads into the main body of the store. The smell of fresh paint and oil from the large machines on display falls behind them, replaced with the strange blend of wood and metal that is Rusty’s. A new circular rack of insulated coveralls next to a camping display draws her gaze, but her grandmother marches past them. Her gaze is dialed in on a bright cardboard sign above the racks of fishing rods and tackle, following the labels until she gets to the one she wants. She pulls the last of a polished wood model out of the fly fishing area and tests the neon pink reel to ensure it lets out.
“There, I told you. If we waited until Friday the last one would have been gone.”
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Leslie nods until her grandma turns to the front of the store, then drops her lips and allows herself a nostril flare. There was probably only one rod that came off the truck, and nobody else would want to buy it, but it isn’t worth arguing with her about it.
They turn at the end of the aisle, and Leslie groans loudly. Her grandma frowns at her disapprovingly, but she is clearly annoyed as well. There is only one register open and a line has already formed up behind it. “At least,” Leslie thinks bitterly, “They are all at least getting things for the holiday that couldn’t wait.” Metal wire baskets on arms and in hands are filled with turkey fryers and grilling equipment. A mother and her small child chat cheerfully as they hug camp chairs against their quilted zip-up vests. No doubt they were planning out their Friday trip to Eau Claire or Green Bay. Which store they would be setting up those chairs in the line for before opening with their new chairs, and where they would go next. Their excitement is like sandpaper to her eyes and she pulls them away to look at the others as they get into the line that doesn’t seem to be moving.
To make the wait even better, the employee scanning merchandise with all the speed of an asthmatic snail is that slimy, creep Marcus. Being the Mayor’s son certainly didn’t give him anything in the looks or brain departments to make him interesting. His desire to piss off his dad is apparent in his black hair dye from a box and the art that he chose instead of football. An artist she could possibly respect, but his art has all the allure of mold growing under a sink. But, maybe he can serve up a little bit of entertainment for the evening.
Leslie looks around as they approach the end of the line, but she can’t see the trio of sport brains that arrived right before she and her grandma. If they would just grab what they need and get into line she can look forward to a real car crash of social interactions. Everyone knows Marcus has a crush on Isabella Harris. There is no question in Leslie’s mind that the girl wouldn’t look twice at him. She is so stuck up her feet don’t even touch the floor. If she thinks she is too good for the football meatheads, she certainly isn’t going to say yes to the slimedrop that is Marcus. Maybe she will finally snap at him and stop pretending to be shy. Or maybe she will just wish she was somewhere else. Anything that can put a sour look on that girl’s face would be worth the wait in line. Leslie might even try to talk her grandma into waiting just so she can see it.
Through the bodies blocking her way to the register and a long drive home, Leslie sees the automatic door open too slowly for some customer. Over the impulse buy racks that every store seems to have, she can see the doors beginning to slide open when one is knocked askew. The pop as the metal swings off of its track pulls everyone else’s attention as well. A disheveled man stumbles into view, screaming something unintelligible. “This is more like it,” she thinks, looking past the man to the wide glass window of the manager’s office. Watching a drunk get kicked out should provide some entertainment.
“Close the door! Somebody close the doors!” His frantic yells grow clearer, then turn into a scream as something runs through the still-open doors and plows into him. Someone screams and the customers trip over each other trying to move away, and Leslie gets a clear view of what is happening. The man is on the floor, his arms raised over him, one forearm caught in between the jaws of…she can’t tell what it is. Her body freezes as she stares at it, at its teeth that must be razor sharp the way they are sawing back and forth against his arm, shredding skin and muscle. Leslie can feel her arm being tugged and she screams, whirling to face whatever is attacking her.
Her grandmother is frowning, more serious than Leslie has ever seen her. “Let’s go, Leelee. Move it! Double time!”
She looks back as she is pulled along, and sees the creature let go of the decimated arm and jaws dart toward the source of the endless wailing. The image of blood burbling up from the man’s neck is cut off as she is pulled around a corner and back into the aisle she and her grandma walked down just moments before.
Turning around, Leslie shakes her arm free and runs next to her grandma. The lights cut out and a deafening crash fills the air. She stumbles, hitting the small back in front of her. The diminutive woman swears, but orange emergency lights kick in and they can see where they are going again. They are almost to the opening leading to the showcase when the elderly employee from before runs through, chased by the same type of creature that was at the front of the store. Leslie nearly plows into her grandma once more when the woman stops and doubles back. Her lips are moving, but the screams from the front of the store are drowning everything out. Dodging around an ice-fishing display, the still powerful woman runs straight to an empty area in front of propped-up fishing boats and canoes. She pulls a gray boat down to the ground so it is bottom-side up and grabs Leslie, shoving her underneath. Leslie props the boat up and watches as her grandma runs quickly to a nearby display and grabs an armful of things before hurling herself into a slide that carries her under the upturned boat. Leslie drops the edge she is holding, hitting herself in the head with one of the benches spanning the five-foot width. For a moment she sees stars, and then she sees nothing. Cold fingers probe at her head, making the stars multiply for a second before moving away to pat her on the shoulder.
“You’ll live.”
The gruff whisper doesn’t make her feel better, but it does bring her around. She feels in her pocket for her phone before remembering it is at home on the charger. Light flares and she squints her eyes shut. At least someone remembered to bring theirs. The brightness against her clenched eyes fades and she opens them again. Inches away, her grandma is ripping packages open two at a time and pulling out shiny silver emergency blankets. “What the hell are you doing? Call for help!”
She shrinks back against her side of the boat at the ferocious glare sent her way. “Don’t be a dumbass, Leslie. You know there isn’t any signal in here. And watch your mouth. “
Leslie watches the empty packages get shoved beneath a barely raised bit of the boat before it is dropped again. Outside of their metal coffin, the screams and cries for help slowly die.