Jacks Magic Beans (2 page)

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.