The Graveyard Shift (Part 2)
Up All Night at the Gas 'N Git
Wait!
If you haven’t read Part 1, go read that first then come back here for the thrilling and uncanny conclusion to The Graveyard Shift!
With the gun securely locked in its drawer, Greg wandered the aisles to see if anything needed re-stocking. There was a lone hot dog on the roller that looked like it could have been there a whole week, so he tossed it and added four new ones. He found a rubber ball in another drawer behind the counter and bounced it against the wall, increasing the angle to widen its trajectory, until his reach extended far enough to make him loose his balance and he fell backwards off his stool.
A pickup entered the parking lot and pulled up to the gas pumps. A thick man wearing a denim shirt with cutoff sleeves got out, spit on the asphalt, and made his way toward the store. Greg stood behind the register to welcome his first customer of the night.
“Gimme twenty on two. And a pack of Camels,” the man grumbled.
Greg rung him up and took his payment. “Have a nice night,” he said cheerily, but the man either didn’t hear him, or he ignored him, and walked out. After pumping his gas, the man drove away and Greg was alone once again. Alone with the buzzing of the refrigeration units, the florescent bulbs overhead, and the occasional June bug, attracted to the lights, smacking themselves into the front windows.
Another half hour passed without any customers before Greg decided he might as well start on his cleaning duties. He put on rubber gloves and got to work on the toilets and sinks. He couldn’t help notice that the bathrooms didn’t have mirrors—one less thing to clean. Then he filled the mop bucket, put out a wet floor sign, and mopped the entire store.
Greg went outside to collect the trash. Looking up, he could see no stars, just the glow of the pale moon through dense clouds. As he replaced the trash liners he looked over to the garage, which had once been an auto shop. He wondered what the old man thought was so dangerous about it. What secrets might be lurking in there? Or was the old man just crazy? As he passed by the garage door on his way to the dumpster, he stopped and peered into the windows through cupped hands, but they had been spray-painted black from the inside and he couldn’t see a damn thing.
He tossed the trash bags into the metal dumpster and came inside through the back door of the storage room. He locked the door behind him and reached into a box full of single-serving pastries. He opened a cinnamon bun with his teeth and thought he heard something over the crinkle of cellophane. He froze.
Greg turned toward the locked door—the one he was never supposed to open. Leaned in. Pushed the stack of boxes back into the corner so he could get closer to the door. Placed his ear to its surface.
The front doors chimed, tearing his attention away from the locked door. He hurried back to the front of the store to greet a group of four slightly inebriated college-aged girls. They stumbled through the aisles for late night snacks and a case of hard cider. One of them had fallen and remained sitting in the middle of the floor, laughing, while another threw caramel popcorn toward her open mouth. Greg would have to clean up after them later, but he didn’t mind in the least. It was the most entertainment he’d had all night. He rang them up, completely forgetting to ask for ID.
“Thank you, Kyle,” one of the girls said flirtatiously. She’d read the name tag on his oversized dirty shirt. He almost corrected her, but didn’t see the point. They staggered back to their SUV and sped away. Greg was alone, once again, wishing he had said something clever or funny, but that’s not something Greg was ever any good at.
As he swept up pieces of caramel popcorn, he thought he heard it again. The old man said he might hear things. It was the wind, the old man had said—just the wind. But this didn’t sound like wind. It sounded more like a moan or a low whimpering. Greg set the broom and dust pan aside and walked toward the back of the store, where he thought the sound was coming from. This time he clearly heard the choking sound of muffled sobs.
“Hello?” Greg called toward the back room, hesitating before committing to walking all the way back there. He heard another moaning sound, more like a sorrowful howl. Definitely not the wind. Greg put his ear to the locked door again and knocked. “Is anybody in there?”
He heard a thud coming from inside the garage. Again. Banging.
“Who are you? What are you doing in there?”
Greg turned the door knob, but the door was securely locked. “It’s locked! I don’t have the keys!” Greg stood back to survey his surroundings. The moans continued from inside the garage. “Hang on! I’m going to call the police!” Greg shouted.
He ran back to the front counter. A loud thunderclap shook him to his core. He hadn’t noticed it had begun to rain. He reached for the phone, but the moment he picked it up, the lights went out and the phone was dead. Greg fumbled around in the dark, falling twice. The banging continued over the sound of pouring rain and thunder. Eventually, he was able to locate a flashlight and shined it over the shelves, the soda fountain, the coolers. He rummaged around in the drawers under the counter for keys, illuminating their contents with the flashlight.
His gaze fell upon the locked drawer under the register—the one with the gun. The back door was just wood. He could shoot the locks and kick it in like they do in the movies. He unlocked the drawer and removed the revolver, heavy in his hand. Greg hurried to the back room where the moaning never ceased.
“Stand back! I’m gonna shoot the door!” Greg shouted. He cradled the flashlight in his neck between his cheek and shoulder and aimed directly at the door knob. He took two steps back, not knowing if the bullet might ricochet. One. Two. He closed his eyes and turned his head. Three! Greg shot the door knob once, twice. The blast rang in his ear. He tried the door again, but it was still secured by the pad lock. He aimed, not at the pad lock, but at the latch that was attached to the door frame. He pulled the trigger, blowing the latch clean off its hinge. His ears were still ringing from the gun shots but he could still hear muffled groans in the distance.
“Where are you?” Greg cried, stepping into the garage, shining the flashlight in every direction. There was an old rusted Pontiac Le Mans parked on cinder blocks in the middle of the garage. The banging sound was coming from the trunk. He tried to open it, but it too was locked. He ran around to the driver’s side and checked the ignition. Pulled down the visor and a set of keys fell into his lap.
Greg fumbled with the keys, trying one and then another. Finally, the trunk popped open and when Greg shined the light into the trunk, he could not believe his own eyes. Greg was staring at himself, gagged, hog tied, and bloody. He took two steps back, unable to comprehend what he was witnessing. Greg’s doppelgänger pleaded with muffled murmurs and fearful eyes.
Odd as it may be, Greg couldn’t leave someone like this, even if that someone was an identical version of him. He quickly removed the gag and got to work on the rope around his wrists and ankles. When his clone was finally free, Greg stood back again, awaiting some kind of explanation.
Alternate Greg slowly, arduously, crawled out of the trunk and toppled to the garage floor with a thud. Greg helped him to his feet. Alternate Greg stood and stretched his back and neck.
“Wha-wha-why do you look like me?” Greg stammered.
Alternate Greg produced a chilling smirk. “We look nothing alike, Kyle.”
“No, I’m not Kyle.” Greg looked down at his name tag. “This isn’t my shirt. I’m Greg.” As he spoke, Greg didn’t recognize his own voice. It was higher and carried a more pronounced Southern draw. “What’s happening here?”
“I’ll tell you what’s happening, Kyle—”
“I’m not Kyle.”
“It’s your turn to get in the trunk,” he said.
Greg shook his head. “No.” He reached for the gun he’d shoved into the back of his pants, but felt nothing.
“Looking for this?” Greg’s alternate pulled the gun from his own pants and pointed it at his face. He must have taken it from him while Greg was helping him to his feet. “Get in the fucking trunk!”
Greg shuffled backwards. He tripped and fell back on his ass. He reached for the bumper of the Pontiac to pull himself up and noticed his reflection in its chrome surface. What he saw stopped him in his tracks. He pawed at his own face and hair as he sat staring at a vision of himself he’d never seen before.
“Go on. Get in the trunk, Kyle!” He pulled the hammer back on the revolver. “I did my time. Now it’s your turn.”
Greg, raising both hands in front of his face, crawled into the back of the trunk. His doppelgänger gagged him and tied his hands and feet together. Greg pleaded through the gag, but his doppelgänger’s stone-faced expression let him know there was no empathy in him. No compassion at all.
“I’m Greg now,” he said, one hand holding the gun, the other reaching for the trunk lid. “Goodnight, Kyle. Forever.”
Stupid Greg! I mean Kyle... I mean... ;)