An Ill Wind at The Grab-Ur-Grub
There was a strong wind which blew through the trees huddled around the outside of the Grab-Ur-Grub convenience store out on the Old Semiyamoo Highway. The gusts shook the boughs and stripped the branches of their dead and dying foliage. An undulating hissing sound, like that of waves cascading onto the shore, punctuated the relative silence. The store’s pink-painted, brick structure stood straight and firm indulgently bearing the brunt of the onslaught. The structure withstood the gentle assault as it had for many years. Leaves blew about on the roof, collecting in large, wet piles at the corners and choking the rain gutters.
The front facade of the store was made up of three large floor-to-ceiling panes of glass in stout metal frames with a double door set in the middle. The huge windows were designed so that passersby could see that the store was open all the time and to show a bit of the merchandise sold inside. Across the glass storefront, banners announcing the availability of Lottery tickets, '2 Dogs for a Buck,' and ice cold drinks hung from hooks and whipped back and forth in the breeze.
The sale of gasoline was what drew most patrons off the Interstate and it had kept the little store alive when the rest of the town dried up and blew away years ago. It had been rough going there for a while, but between the few remaining locals and the steady stream of travelers seeking road supplies, they were still able to keep the lights on. Unfortunately, every day had become a dance with insolvency.
Out front, three gas pumps squatted like sleeping Indians. Small signs on springs which read 'Get Your Gas On' swayed back and forth in the wind. A blue Ford Taurus sat next to the pumps; its driver’s side door left hanging open. A lone shoe laid abandoned just under the car’s chassis. At the far end of the row of parking stalls, a beat-up red Hyundai Accent was parked; its bright paint obscured by a thin layer of road dust and bird shit. At the other end, a Mercedes E-class coupe sat looking regal and out of place.
Inside the store, a dozen rows of fluorescent lights lit up the place and gave the stock an all-too-white appearance both day and night. Along the wall on the left, an open cold case sat humming, brimming with an array of sodas, juices and energy drinks. At the back were the Beer, Dairy and Bulk Soda refrigerators with several glass doors set in a rubber-gasketed metal framework. A thin layer of frost coated the metal racks inside.
To the right, the L- shaped checkout counter was set up, its surface littered with impulse items like candy, lighters, and snacks. To one side of the cash register was a Quik Pik Lottery machine. Behind the counter, small pints of alcohol lined up like soldiers on long shelving with racks of cigarettes, cigars, pipe tobacco and prophylactics to one side. Below that, a small rack of men’s magazines stood, their covers obscured by black cards which read 'For Adults Only.' At the far end of the counter, the coffee station and fountain drink machines were surrounded by racks of condiments, creamers, cup lids and assorted straws.
The leftover floor space in the center was monopolized by six aisles which offered everything from candy, cookies and chips to bags of charcoal briquettes and loaves of bread. For the most part, if it could conceivably be needed in a car or in the middle of the night, the Grab-Ur-Grub stocked it in abundance.
An air of 'inconvenience' hung over the little convenience store now as several people nervously milled about the place. Most were either looking disgruntled or complaining loudly. Up until a short time ago, these people had been simple customers, who—for one reason or another—had stopped in for some necessity or to cure a craving for something sweet. Now, they were besieged—having become little more than hostages. As they paced up and down the aisles, the mood in the place was becoming more and more agitated and, in some cases, downright angry. They’d been stuck behind the store’s locked doors for about a half an hour now and, from the looks of things, no one was leaving any time soon.
Every now and then, one of them would cast a wary look outside and shake his head in disbelief. Each in his own way questioned what in hell was going on: some silently, some quite vocally. Oddly enough, 'what in hell' was, given the present situation, exactly the correct terminology.
Betty Gillespie stood anxiously behind the counter in her green and red striped uniform and tried her best to settle everyone down. She was the afternoon clerk at the Grab-Ur-Grub and while she had precious little experience telling people what to do, she was working on being able to assert herself. Betty was a plain woman with a heavy smoker’s voice and a look about her that showed she’d had her share of hard knocks. Married young, divorced early, and having raised two kids who’d both ended up doing some time, the job at the Grab-Ur-Grub was the best thing ol’ Betty could manage this far out from civilization. A good worker, she’d hoped to land a shot at a management position should one ever open up. From the look of things outside, those dreams were rapidly going up in smoke.
'Ok, folks,' her voice wavered nervously, 'I’m not sure what’s going on out there, but I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for it all. So, if we can all just remain calm, things should be ok.'
Across the counter, five people looked at her with unabashed exasperation. A couple of them were regulars, but the others were unknown to her. Just some folks who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had become stuck here like the rest of them.
Stanley Dillard was one of her regulars and had been coming here for as long as she could remember. His usual order of beer, smokes and an occasional girly book were as constant and dependable as the hands that wiped away the afternoons from the clock’s face. Stanley was an older, widowed man with skin like a worn saddle who always came dressed in a pair of bib overalls and a plaid shirt. His bright blue eyes which could be seen beneath his cowboy hat looked—even at this distance—confused.
Another local, Cody Chenault, was a kid whose parents owned the flower ranch out on the frontage road. His was a lonely life out here with few other kids his age to hang out with. Betty did what she could to take the time to talk to him, but the vast age difference between them always made their conversations consist of the smallest of small talk. He was a bright kid with a wide smile and an almost puckish nose who rode that bike of his all over the valley. His favorite topic of conversation was where he was going to go once he was old enough to drive. His plan pretty much started and stopped with him getting the hell out of Dodge.
'Look, Cody,' Stanley was saying, 'are you sure you saw what you think you saw? You have to admit it all sounds pretty far-fetched.'
'Honest to God, Mr. Dillard,' the boy said, his arms outstretched and his face pleading to be believed. 'I was sittin’ over by the newspaper machine eatin’ that Abba-Zabba I just bought,' he quickly shot Betty a glance for corroboration, 'and I saw Boyd Chambers come walkin’ down the highway there.'
He pointed off down the road and continued talking at a feverish pitch. 'At first, I thought he didn’t look right, y’ know? I mean, he was all pale and his face looked like he was sick, really sick, ya know? Or about to
Cody looked around to make sure everyone, even the people who weren’t from around there, understood what he was saying. He knew coming in here that his story was going to be pretty hard to believe, so he figured he needed to make sure he got each and every detail exactly right in order to stall any questions before they got asked. Even then… with what he’d seen, he wasn’t so sure he believed the facts of the matter himself.
'Anyway, the guy that was drivin’ that blue Taurus there was fillin’ up on Pump #3 and he had his back to the street. He’d just about finished fillin’ up when Boyd came stumblin’ up behind him. I swear to God, Boyd looked like he was going to get sick all over the hood of the Taurus when he got close enough for me to get a good look at his face.'
Cody looked around again for more of that confirmation he was now so interested in. He took an abrupt pull off of the soda can he held tightly clenched in his fist. The bump in his throat bobbed up and down as he drank. His tongue no longer dry, he went back to the telling of his story.
'So, Boyd comes up behind that fella and for no reason whatsoever he grabs him see. Grabs him from behind and…' He shook his head in disbelief. 'I know how crazy it sounds, but… he bit him; bit him hard, he did.'
The group all looked at one another and shook their heads as if the boy was just talking crazy. The stranger in the back of the store tisked incredulously.
'I swear!' Cody’s face was pulled tight in its anguish. 'The guy he bit started screaming and trying to bat him off, but Boyd was like a dog on a bone. He just kept huggin’ him and tearin’ into the side of his neck with his teeth.'
