used his right to pull off and display the uniform's top, a strange-looking article of clothing that to Shannon resembled a straitjacket. Next, he held up the pants.
'They're tight in the crotch,' he said. 'You'll love them.'
There were a few nervous giggles from some of the employees.
There was a cap as well, a leather beret with a silver-studded insignia, and matching leather underwear: a codpiece for the males, French-cut panties for the females.
'And you all get boots,' he said. 'Knee-high storm troopers. They're perfect.'
He stood there, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, looking up and down the line, grinning at them. Neither Shannon nor anyone else seemed to know what came next -- what they were supposed to do or say, how they were supposed to react -- and they stood there dumbly, looking at each other, looking at Mr. Lamb.
'All right,' the personnel manager said finally. 'What are we waiting for?
Strip!'
Shannon sucked in her breath, not sure that she'd heard correctly, praying to God that she hadn't.
Mr. Lamb clapped his hands. 'Come on! Hop to! Take off your clothes! All of them! Now!'
Joad Comstock was next to her on the right, Francine Dormand to her left, and she didn't want either of them to see her naked. She had a big red pimple on the left cheek of her buttocks, and more pimples on her shoulders. Her breasts were too small, much smaller than Francine's, and despite all the dieting her stomach was still too big. She hadn't shaved her legs, either, not for over a week, and the stubble looked really gross.
She didn't want _anyone_ to see her naked.
Around her, the other employees were perfunctorily taking off their clothes: removing their shoes, unbuckling their belts, unbuttoning their tops.
'Throw your old uniforms into the center of the corridor,' Mr. Lamb ordered.
No one was balking, no one was complaining, no one was talking. There were no jokes cracked, and even the youngest employees did not giggle as their coworkers stripped.
Jake was somewhere in line, Shannon thought.
'Shannon Davis,' Mr. Lamb said loudly, warningly, staring at her.
She began unbuttoning her top.
'These are _our_ uniforms,' Mr. Lamb stated. 'They are the uniforms of The Store and they will not leave this building. You will keep them in your lockers, and you will put them on when you arrive and take them off before you leave. You will wear your uniforms only within the confines of The Store.' He paused. 'If you wear your uniform outside of this building, you will be terminated.' He paused again. 'If you are scheduled to work and do not wear your uniform, you will be terminated.'
A wave of cold passed through Shannon as she pulled down her panties. Mr. Lamb's peculiar emphasis of the word 'terminated' was extremely unsettling. She knew that was intentional, knew he wanted them to pick up on the double meaning of the word, but that did not make it any less upsetting.
Following Mr. Lamb's directions, they filed naked into the small, dark stockroom. They'd lined up alphabetically, and boxed uniforms with name tags attached were piled in the same order, illuminated by a single recessed bulb in the ceiling. Shannon kept her attention focused on load's head in front of her, not wanting to see his exposed back or legs or hairy buttocks, not wanting to see any part of any of her coworkers' bodies.
She hoped Francine was doing the same behind her.
Picking up the box with her name tag attached, Shannon carried it out to the assembly corridor.
No one was yet putting on the new uniforms. They all stood, holding their boxes, at attention. Somehow, in the few brief moments it had taken her to walk into the stockroom and out again, all of their discarded clothes had been piled in the center of the corridor.
'It is time,' Mr. Lamb said, when the last employee emerged from the stockroom.
They burned their old uniforms -- and their underwear and their shoes and socks -- in a ceremonial fire. Mr. Lamb made them walk around the flames, holding hands, singing The Store's irritating commercial jingle.
Or, as Mr. Lamb referred to it, 'The Store's Official Anthem.'
Still naked, they were herded into the chapel, where one by one they were each required to kneel down before the massive painting of Newman King.
Shannon's body was covered with goose bumps, the chilled flesh of fear, not cold, and she watched the employees before her kneel down on the red carpet, bow their heads and give thanks to Newman King for allowing them to graduate to this new level. There was no way any of them could not know that this was wrong, crazy -- _evil_ -- yet none of the other employees seemed fazed. They were quiet, a little more subdued than usual, perhaps, but there was no opposition to what they were doing, no recognition that this was something an employer should not be able to demand, or even request, from an employee.
Shannon knew it was wrong, but she walked forward just like the others, knelt, gave thanks, afraid to voice her disapproval, not brave enough to refuse to participate.
She stood, walked out of the chapel. All of the shifts would go through this, she realized. All of The Store's workers.
Sam would go through this -- if she hadn't already.
'Okay!' Mr. Lamb said, clapping his hands, when the last employee had given thanks. 'To the lockers! Put on your uniforms and be on the floor in five!' He glanced over at Shannon, smiled, and a hot flush of shame passed through her as she saw where his eyes were looking. 'The Store opens in ten minutes! Be there or be square!'
TWENTY-SEVEN
1
He had stopped jogging entirely.
The streets were getting too scary.
It was not something Bill had ever expected to happen in Juniper. A year ago -- six months ago, even -- such an idea would have been unthinkable. But things were different now. The Store had recruited its own security force to augment the police department, and though ostensibly the reason was to combat the increased crime in town, the truth was that The Store merely wanted to increase its hold, to flaunt its power, to make sure that everyone knew that it was now in charge of Juniper.
Besides, although he could not prove anything, most of the crime, in Bill's mind, seemed to be committed by this new security force.
And the victims always seemed to be people who were opposed to The Store.
Which was why he no longer jogged.
He had not yet received a new assignment, his days were still free, and he now spent most of them hanging around Street's place. Ben hung there, too, and it had the feeling of one of those cinematic barbershops where a group of crotchety old man sat around, day after day, critiquing the world that passed by the windows.
Only there was no world passing by the windows.
There were only occasional cars driving past on their way to The Store.
Bill pulled up in front of the electronics shop and hopped out of his Jeep. There was something different about the street today, and it took him a moment to figure out what it was.
Multicolored flyers had been posted on the trees, telephone poles, and abandoned storefronts downtown.
He walked up to the closest telephone pole. No, not flyers. Announcements:
BY THE ORDER OF THE STORE, NO CITIZEN MAY BE OUTSIDE HIS OR HER HOME AFTER 10 P.M. UNLESS ENGAGED IN STORE BUSINESS. THIS CURFEW WILL BE STRICTLY ENFORCED.
'Do you believe this shit?' Street walked outside onto the sidewalk, Ben following. 'A fucking discount store making laws and setting policy, telling me when I can and can't walk around my own town? How the fuck did this happen?'
'How did we let it happen?' Ben said quietly.
'Good point,' Street said. He walked up to the wooden pole, pulled off the pink sign, crumpled it up, grimacing disgustedly.
'When did these go up?' Bill asked.
'Last night, this morning. They had kids from church running around putting up this crap.'
'Church?' Bill said.
'Oh, yes.' Ben nodded. 'Most of our local clergy are big Store supporters.'
