3.11 They Came From The Street

Silven’s reverie was interrupted by a sudden echoing voice booming from a dozen little white wall-mounted boxes at once. “Three minutes until opening. Shop floor must be clear. Tin cans, to the warehouse. Prepare for opening! And most importantly, don’t forget your brews, lads. Diz, you get the next lot. Blue shelf in left racking.” The voice crackled off. By his side, Jez groaned. “The zombies are here!”

Silven reached for his sword, remembered he was now a real-life pretend worker, and turned in horror in the direction of Jez’s gaze. Beyond the row of screens, there was a row of spotless glass panels that could only be doors. Beyond the doors, the horde had gathered.

Silven frowned and peered closer. The clothes were strange, yes, and some looked like they had literally just got out of bed. But the flesh of their cheeks looked almost alive.

“Elf ‘n’ safety, elf ‘n’ safety,” a supervisor was droning as he whisked past. “Out back, Crystal.” He joined a wave of blue-shirted workers as they scrambled for the barricade of screens. One brave soul approached the doors. The crowd swayed and watched his motions with hungry eyes. Silven clunked away eagerly.

In the warehouse, most of the pallets had disappeared. A couple of similar skeletons were hauling a heap of towels into place on a bulging shelf and blaming Gerry for the overs. Gerry was shaking his head and pointing an accusing finger at a man clutching a black hand-held device in a protective hug. That man was blaming head office for the poor control, even though head office had blamed the supervisors for poor control in the first place. A nearby supervisor was blaming the robots for not stacking the towels properly on the shop floor, and insisting that at least another case would go out. And thus the circle of blame was complete.

Silven ignored it all and pistoned over to the products to be reduced. They had, apparently, been going to reduce them yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Now, with the workload almost unbearable, they had decided that it would prove an unmissable training exercise for an inexperienced member of the team such as Crystal.

The creator of two kingdom-leading corporations had little trouble with the work. He did, however, have trouble with the company. The one other robot that was helping, by the name of Saz, was excruciatingly boring. She told him of the plot of a secret cult of magi to overthrow the government. She talked of shapeshifters stealing top positions in the company to spread their subliminal messages of compliance and consumption. She gave evidence of the existence of ghosts and ghouls and telekinetic spirits from across the globe. It was all terribly basic stuff.

Silven’s confidence was growing. He knew more about this world than he’d thought, and he soon polished off the rest of the reductions. Once tickets were on, it was up to the humans to heave them onto metal crates on wheels and brave the battle beyond the door. When they returned for more, they were haggard, they were pale, they looked ready to crumple up on the floor and cry, but Silven had yet to see a drop of blood. Perhaps Jez had been wrong. It had to be vampires.

Silven was just beginning to wonder when the giant skeleton reserve would be brought into play, when the beverage reserve paraded past. Saz turned to watch the crate of mugs go past. She droned her lowest drone. “And that’s why I’m never in biologically. Why do you think they’re so eager to make them drink coffee?”

“Because they’re nice?” Silven was struggling. “No, that can’t be it.”

“Because it’s not just coffee,” urged Saz. “I have sources in accounting who say there’s a big discrepancy between pharmaceutical spending and first aid kits. Namely, there are no first aid kits.” The canister of a head hummed closer. “It’s stimulants, girl. For the coffee. To get you working more.”

Silven was puzzled. “Is working hard really so bad?”

“It is when you’re working for The Man,” came the steely reply.

Silven briefly considered disposing of the boss known as The Man and shelved the thought. The Man was only trying to run a business, potential covert industrial-scale drugging operations aside. That made him wonder if his workers thought the same of him. He wondered if he was the real villain all along.

He wondered if The Man could give him Gems.

A sudden crackle reverberated around the cavernous warehouse. A tinny voice boomed out in panic. “All Senior Customer Request Fulfilment Officers to the shop floor.” Nearby, a group of spotty youths slammed down their mugs in exasperation and plodded for the warehouse doors. When they opened, cackles and shouts and wails and screams spilled out into the back. The battle was really heating up. Silven moved to stack a tower of pallets with the dwindling reserves. Before long, all junior CRFOs were required too. Then the fulltime warehouse louts were called into action. One by one, the more fleshy humanoids disappeared and never returned. Before long, the warehouse belonged to the metal skeletons. And then, it happened. Slowly and uncertainly, men in white shirts and black jackets crept from within the cubicle marked ‘Manager’. Saz turned swiftly away, doing her best impression of invisibility. The men stalked off. “A rare sight,” she droned. “We might make it to the weekly Mandatory Unpaid Sales Improvement Overtime Cancellation Bonus after all.”

The warehouse was silent for five minutes. The robots clicked together tiny metal wagons and waited. The work was done. Maybe that meant Gem-time from The Man.

A sudden crash echoed down the long market. “Aisle 18 assistance! Customer waiting in Aisle 3! Telecommunications Expert required at the Download Helpdesk! Hygiene Maintenance Member for Lavatory 9!” The tin voice suddenly dimmed. “You sure?” it said uncertainly. And then, more clearly but no less happy, “All remote units to the shop floor!”

The thing called Saz drew itself up to its full height and hummed tunelessly. “What the hell? Suppose the login records are getting erased tonight, at least. Full pay! As long as you don’t grind any old grannies into mush against the freezers.” She sighed. “I liked Jimmy ‘n’ all. Anyway, let’s go.”

The robot pushed off for the door. Reluctantly, Silven followed into the chaos.

He had been in battles before. Many, in fact. This was no battle, and it was a lot worse. At least when there’s a brute charging you with a battleaxe raised above his head, you’re expected to murder him. As he had suspected, the zombies were not zombies, or, indeed, vampires.

“’Ere, where’s the tomartas?” hollered a very cross looking gentlemen right in front of him.

“I’ve been waiting longer than ‘im. I need the megaton crisp special in me car!” screamed a.... female creature beneath tangled locks of greasy hair.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“When there’s no chocorolls on the shelf, does that mean you don’t have none?” mused a young philosopher by his side.

A wrinkled prune of a woman waddled up to him and rapped him smartly in the midriff with a wooden stick. “I need to speak to your manager,” demanded the prune. “Two weeks last Wednesday, I purchased three two-hundred gram packets of Auntie Mag’s doughtower batter from this very store. I only provided my patronage due to the ticket beneath clearly stating two pence off last January’s RRP. When I analysed my receipt at home, I was shocked to discover that I had in fact been charged that very RRP! I should be taking this to the very top, but I’m willing to see what the sorry oaf has to say for himself first.”

Silven looked from man to creature to prune in horror. One claw curled and uncurled, woefully swordless. His metal brain struggled for an answer. “Speech replicator malfunction! Please alert a Replenishment Professional at once!” he managed, and hurried off down the aisle. Angry voices beat at his back as he went.

He reached a crossroads, dumb and directionless. From his left approached a gaggle of thugs in striped assassin wools, cawing and holding aloft tiny Silverviews all at once. Ahead, the way was blocked by a pair of toddlers joyfully tearing down a pyramid of shiny boxes while their guardian laughed and reported the cheek to her best mate through a tiny black box at her ear. And to the right... a red-faced man in a white tunic waving him down desperately through the carnage. Direction at last.

The supervisor’s eyes were haunted by what he couldn’t unsee or undo. Something unmentionable clung to his collar. “Crystal, is it?” he gasped. Silven nodded. “Report to checkouts immediately,” he snapped. “There’s some tart making a right fuss. We’ve done everything we can, but we’re not mind-readers, are we? Don’t know what you’re like with nutrition, but anyway, see if you can help.” He stumbled off up the aisle in search of more reinforcements.

Silven didn’t know what a ‘checkout’ was, but he headed for the glass doors on account of the ‘out’ part. From the commotion around the bank of screens and lines of people, he concluded he was a detective of the highest order.

A throng of managers were milling about in distress. From what he’d witnessed this morning, Silven would never have guessed so many could have fit into that office. There were dozens of them, and they all looked ready to sob. They reached out for the centre of the mob, fervently waving letters that said ‘50% off’ at the woman who stood there. But the woman would have none of it. She shooed the vouchers away timidly, looking from face to face with wide, earnest eyes. “Very kind, but I just need to know,” she repeated over and over as the men sank to their knees before her. One spotted the approaching frame and shoved his fellows aside. “Ah, a colleague, finally!” he whined. “We needed you, so you should have been here thirty seconds ago at least! Well go on then, help her out. She’s asking questions. Questions!”

The men parted like a congregation at Rockborough Cathedral. The woman took a step back as she beheld the monstrous replenishment unit bearing down on her. “Oh!” she squeaked, and clutched a wide, flat box tightly to her chest.

“Crystal will see to your needs, madam. Apologies for the tardiness of the staff,” called someone from the rear of the crowd. The outer lines gratefully peeled away and dived for the safety of the back rooms.

The frightened woman held out the box. There was a stunning likeness of a very unstunning baked product printed on the top. “I was wondering if anyone could help. You see, I have a son. He’s called Billy, and he’s seven years old with blond hair and blue eyes.”

Around the customer, the managers wrung their hands in despair. “No, not the story,” one whispered. “Get to it.”

The woman was oblivious. “So, I’ve realised that my Billy loves pizza. I took him for pizza last Saturday at that new restaurant down Willow Street and he loved it. We also went for a new school coat from Vilmy’s. He looks absolutely adorable in it! Since then, he’s been asking for pizza and seeing as it’s his cousin Becky’s fifth wedding anniversary next Tuesday I thought I’d surprise him. The trouble is, he’s been having stomach problems this year, and Doctor Smith did some fancy new tests and said he’s allergic to pineapple, ham and cheese. After that we went for some vanilla ice-cream to calm him down and he was fine. We’re going back next Friday for a follow-up on that football injury on his ankle. Anyway, what I would like to know is... would this pizza be suitable for my little Billy?”

Silven looked down and took the box in one mighty claw. He didn’t have a clue what a pizza was, or allergies, or football. Or nutrition, for that matter. But he would try his best.

He read Ham, Pineapple and Cheese Pizza in big letters on the top. He handed it back. “No,” he droned. “This pizza is not suitable for your little Billy.”

The woman’s face sunk. “Oh well, I’ll have to choose something else.” But when she looked up, there was a warm smile spreading across her lips. It would have made Silven feel warm too if he wasn’t made out of metal. “Thank you so much. Crystal, wasn’t it? You’ve been very helpful. I’ll be sure to intend on filling in one of those surveys from my receipt about how much of an asset you are to this company and forget all about it the instant I get out of this tip. Thanks again!”

The woman bustled off on her way. “Be quicker next time,” grunted the closest manager. Silven watched in disbelief as they dispersed.

“Way to go,” called a voice from somewhere up ahead. Silven looked into the lines of metal carts and saw a bearded man smiling from behind one of the ‘checkouts’. “You saved my skin there, Crystal. Jim was going bananas that I wasn’t helping, but Bob would have pulled me later for talking over the heads of my line. I was screwed, but us colleagues stick together, right? I’ll buy you a drink at the Christmas-”

“Excuse me!” shrieked the woman he was supposed to be serving. The man winked and hurriedly looked away.

A pretty blue-bloused girl detached herself from a customer and glided closer. “Yeah, we’ll look after you, Crystal. Whizco ain’t so bad once you get used to it. We’ve got each others’ backs, that’s for certain. You’ll soon learn how to get by with management.”

“As long as we don’t get shut down for having robots on the floor!” called the bearded man. “It’s not the best, but you could be at Zoommart. They’re always so tired and miserable over there. I’ve got children to feed too, and at least this place does that. And you’re not gonna get three days holiday anyway else.”

Silven smiled inside. Beneath the obvious mountains of rubbish, this was a decent place, with decent people, just trying to get by. Oldeburgh had been like that, but this was somewhere he couldn’t just redesign on a whim. Still, there was one thing he could do to make things a bit better. After seeing the henchmen of The Man at work, he had decided he wasn’t going to associate with him after all. He wasn’t like that. Far from it.

“You’re right. I don’t want you getting in bother. Farewell, friends!” he grated, and followed the fools towards the back. Now to put this place to rights. It was time for a New Supermarket Order.

He burst through the warehouse doors, stalked quickly through the back, and marched into the managers’ cubicle. Suited men squawked and shrieked as he strode onward to the big metal safe at the rear. Its door was at least two inches thick, and Silven’s claws buckled beneath the strain, but finally, the bolts snapped and it swung back with a reluctant squeak as men cursed at his back. He shoved through the contents, useless bits of paper fluttering in the air all around like snow. There were no Gems in sight, but he finally found what he was looking for – a punnet of tiny tubes filled with a line of brownish liquid. The label on its side said ‘Dr. Beamer’s Mild Holistic Energy Boost for Hot Beverages.’ The gamble had paid off. It was true.

Triumphantly, he held the secret cache aloft and boomed out over the gaggle of hysterical managers. “Freedom for the workers! Power to the people! Quest complete!”