@ THE LOCKED DOOR

# By Neale Grant 1994


Rain started to tumble from the ominous grey sky and Oliver switched
on the wipers with a muttered curse.  Then, as if noticing for the
first time how dark it was, he flicked on the headlights as well. 
Thunder grumbled somwhere in the distance, barely audible over the
muted complaints of the old Fiesta's engine.  It was an evil night to
be working, he decided, and thanked whichever gods might have been
paying attention that he didn't have to walk to the supermarket, even
if it was ridiculously short a distance to be taking the car.
  Barely slowing enough to avoid a skid, he took the last, sharp 
right-hander into the almost completely empty car park and swung 
harshly into the nearest available space.  He put the car out of gear,
yanked up the handbrake and killed the engine.  After removing his
glasses and dropping them on the passenger seat, he leaned forward to
turn off the radio before realizing he'd forgotten to put it on in the
first place, and swore loudly at his own stupidity.
  Still cursing at the numerous faults he found with his world, he
left the car, locked it, and walked towards the childishly designed
building of the supermarket.  The unkind flourescent light from inside
was made almost warm by the distorting panes of glass, illumination
battling valiantly before succumbing to the rain and the dark outside.
 It looked like a sanctuary from the early night.  Oliver managed to
twist this into a metaphor for a huge, uncaring company pretending to
be the consumer's friend, and changed the object of his curses to his
place of employment.
  The automatic doors opened fake-politely inwards for him, but not
without their customary hesitation: he had to resist a violent urge to
hurry them up with a kick.  Inside the store it was warm and bright,
providing welcome shelter from the unfriendly weather outside.  It
reminded Oliver of wet December mornings huddled in the comfort of a
school classroom, knowing that the elements couldn't get at him and
his friends.  He felt a sudden longing for Christmas, which should be
just around the corner.
  `Fuck Christmas!' he thought.  `It's Midsummer's fucking Day, the
shortest night of this stupid, shit year!  How can it be so fucking
dark at six o'clock?'
  He couldn't answer his own foul-mouthed question, and tried to 
dismiss from his mind the strange time distortion he had felt.  
Walking to the front desk to sign in, he looked up at the clock: two
minutes to six.  He signed in for 5.55 and hurried to the back of the
store, through the irritatingly flappy "Staff Only" door into the
warehouse area, then down the corridor to the men's cloakroom.
  The other three boys were already there; they had finished changing
and were just hanging around until it was time to start work.  Oliver
avoided their eyes as usual, and their conversation didn't so much as
pause to acknowledge his entry.  He might as well have been invisible
and it was a state he had worked hard to cultivate.
  Grabbing inside his jacket pocket he fished out his car key, clamped
his mouth on the expletive that was forming, and got the locker key on
his second attempt.  He stuck the key in the locker door, then
wrestled his cheap leather jacket over one of the coathangers.  His
workmates' conversation intruded on his thoughts as he hurried to put
on his overall and stupid bow-tie.
  "...fuckin wankers, th'lot a thum.  Ah could huv any a thum, any day
a th'week."
  "Aye, see that twat Peters?  He's such a cumplete poof.  Pit it this
wiy, ah wudnae bend doon tae tie ma shoelaces when he wiz aroond."
  "Aye."
  There was silence for a short while as he finished doing up the 
studs on the front of his overall and transferred the box knife and
cloth from the locker to his pocket.
  "Cummin?"
  "Aye."
  One of them bumped Oliver hard with his elbow on the way past and
said, "Woatch whur yur goin!" to the vast amusement of himself and his
friends.
  "Fuck off," Oliver muttered, and shut his locker door.
  "Whit?" his tormentor, a well built 16-year-old called Duncan Dewar,
asked aggresively.
  Oliver said nothing, avoiding Dewar's eyes and concentrating hard on
transferring the locker key to his pocket.
  "Whit did ye say?"
  Oliver couldn't exactly ignore this direct question, so he decided
to let it go with a simple "Nothing."  Only before this decision could
be relayed to his mouth, his brain's death wish kicked in and decided
it had had enough of being fucked around.  With the support of only a
tiny fraction of Oliver's conscious mind, it took over as the rest of
him watched, waited and cringed.
  He looked Dewar in the eye and enunciated clearly: "I said `Fuck
off'.  Are you deaf?"
  Dewar's first reaction was astonishment.  It was obvious that he
could hardly believe what Oliver had just done, and Oliver had to
admit that his own mind was also struggling to comprehend.  "Ur you
woantin batturd?" he asked, grabbing Oliver by the chin with his right
hand, thumb and fingers on opposite sides of his victim's face.  Faced
with this challenge the daring part of Oliver's brain suddenly lost
all its courage, and with a sheepish grin went into hiding before the
rest of his neurons could tear it apart.  He was now wholly scared,
which was probably for his own good.  Any more silly talk could have
preceded a painful amateur nose-job.
  "Lookit him, Durex!" one of the other boys started to laugh.  
"Lookit his eyes!  He disnae ken whit tae dae!  He's jist aboot 
shittin himsel!"
  "Scairt, ur ye?" Oliver's tormentor asked, then started to laugh so
hard it seemed he would piss himself.  He pushed back hard then let go
of Oliver's face.  "Mibby later," he said through his laughter, slowly
getting himself under control again.  Then he turned his back and
proceeded from the cloakroom.
  Oliver's fingers found themselves in his overall pocket, fingering
the box knife.  He was suddenly scared in a more fundamental way than
he had been a few seconds ago.  Would he really have retaliated with
the knife?  It was quite a formidable weapon, like a Stanley knife but
longer.  Sharp.  Not to be messed with.  It could easily have earned
him a stay in prison, especially with their three words against his.
  He shook his head, left the box knife alone, and muttered a few more
curses at the now-departed enemies to console himself.  The little
confrontation had made him late, so he made his way quickly to the
spacious warehouse area.  Everyone else was already gone.
  "You're late," Steve said, but in a manner that revealed he didn't
really give a shit about losing the company a couple of minutes. 
"You're on paperware tonight, Oliver.  Jist those two carts ower
there, and a wee bit of overstock on that trolley."
  "Right," Oliver said blandly.  Grabbing two plastic bags, he took
one of the stock carts and rolled it out to the shop.  He liked the
paperware aisle - which covered toilet rolls, kitchen rolls, tissues
and nappies - because it was easy.  Considering the bulkiness of the
stock, two carts was very little.  He would then have to go and help
on someone else's aisle but that was better than having help come to
him, which he always found vaguely embarrassing, as if it meant that
he had been working too slowly.  But it didn't seem all that busy at
the back, so there was a good chance they would all be finished early
and get to go home before nine.
  It was a quiet night.  Shelf stacking wasn't interesting at the best
of times, but for some reason Oliver was finding that night 
particularly dull.  It was a Saturday, so there were no customers 
around.  There weren't even any announcements to tell the last few
that the store had now closed and would they please make their way to
the checkouts.  Perhaps it was the bad weather discouraging them from
shopping.
  It was almost unnaturally quiet in the supermarket.  Nobody was 
talking, and without the usual chatter the only sounds were the 
determined patter of the rain outside and the occasional scrape and
thump of cases being shifted around.  By seven the checkout operators
were long gone and the last of the people from the cash office had
departed too, leaving only the shelf-stackers.  Oliver could feel the
time distortion coming upon him once more, as if he were again back in
his old primary school: safe and warm inside as a winter storm raged
in the hills, united with his classmates in defiance of the weather's
attempt to dishearten them.  A feeling of camaradarie tried to creep
up on him, but he knocked it away.
  "Alienated and proud of it," he muttered to himself.
  "Whit was that?" asked Steve.
  Oliver started at this unexpected interruption of his thoughts, and
silently berated himself for saying such a thing out loud.  Steve
seemed not to have heard, though, so he tried to change the subject:
  "Jesus, you gave me a fright!  What are you doing sneaking up on me
like that?"
  "Jist checkin that you're workin hard enough," Steve replied, all
thoughts of Oliver's incomprehensible mutter forgotten.  "Forty cases
an hour, remember."
  "Aye, bollocks," was all Oliver said to that.
  "Quiet th'night, isn't it?" Steve commented in a loud stage whisper.
  "Not even any phone calls for you," agreed Oliver.
  "That's because the phone lines arenae working."
  "Really?  This storm's bloody awful for the middle of summer."
  "Aye, well- Shit, that sounds like the door openin.  I must've 
forgot tae switch them off automatic."  Oliver hadn't heard anything
over the rain, but since the doors were the shift supervisor's
responsibility Steve's ears were probably better attuned to the sound.
  He got on with his work as Steve went off to deal with the doors,
wondering who could be stupid enough to hang around outside in the
evil rain, which was now thumping hard against the glass of the front
windows.  Another pack of toilet rolls: heave it off the cart, rip
open the plastic packaging, stuff the product on the shelf, put the
plastic in the bag for recycling.  And so on.
  "That's the doors locked now," said Steve when he came back.  "God
knows whit set them off anyway.  Must've been the rain fuckin up the
sensors.
  "Anyway, what I came to tell you was once you get all the stuff out
and get the aisle faced off, if you could go round and help Duncan on
the soft drinks.  Cheers."
  Oliver almost swore aloud as Steve walked away, and felt a tendril
of fear advance itself into his heart.  He despised the tendency in
himself to exaggerate his problems, as if Duncan were likely to attack
him when he went to give his assistance.  It would be a slightly
uncomfortable time, certainly, but there would be no physical danger. 
He tried to push his fear away, but the sense of foreboding would not
leave him.
  With a sigh of relief he put out his last box of tissues and started
facing off.  Knowing what he had to do next he didn't work as quickly
as he could have, but the job did not take long anyway.  Paperware
was, after all, the easiest aisle.
  "Sod my fucking bad luck," he muttered, after checking quickly 
around to see that Steve wasn't sneaking up on him this time.
  He took his time making sure that every single bit of cardboard and
plastic was collected up into the plastic bags, then took them to the
back of the store on the stock trolley he'd just finished.  To waste a
little more time, he wet his cloth at the sink while he was round
there and went back to the paperware aisle to clean the fronts of all
the shelves.
  But when that was done he could procrastinate no longer.  Muttering
another quiet curse at his own weakness, he pulled together what
little he possessed of that over-rated virtue called courage and made
his way to the soft drinks aisle at the far end of the store.  He
didn't dare admit to himself that his decision had little basis in
courage, and much to do with his fear of asking Steve to give him a
less unpleasant job.  Admitting his fear to Steve would have been a
far more difficult thing to do.
  "I've been told to help you," Oliver said by way of introduction,
taking the opportunity to make it clear how little choice he had in
the matter.  "What's still to go out?"
  Duncan looked up slowly from his crouched position by the shelves,
about half way down the aisle.  He smirked, realizing exactly how
difficult it must be for Oliver and relishing it.
  "That cart's oavurstock.  The ither three huf tae go oot.  If ye
think ye cun manuge that, ye big pussy."
  Oliver made a point of saying nothing, and got to work.  The most
annoying thing, he soon discovered, was that Duncan didn't actually do
anything to him.  Not so much as a word passed between them.  But
every time he came near Oliver, Duncan would make a sudden movement,
and smirk when Oliver flinched.  And other times he would glare
aggresively at Oliver while Oliver tried desperately to find somewhere
to avert his eyes.
  But Duncan made no mention of it and never made physical contact,
enjoying the way the tension hung in the air.  Oliver couldn't stand
it.  It was almost as if nothing had happened in the locker room, as
if he might be imagining the whole thing.  But he knew he wasn't, knew
that this was just a subtler form of intimidation.  Still, he thought
he could put up with it; it wasn't as bad as actual violence, even if
there was no way he could complain about this sort of bullying to
Steve or to the police.
  Duncan seemed to get bored of it as well.  After a while, he stopped
trying to scare Oliver every time they passed each other on the way to
the stock carts.  His eyes lost their malicious gleam and he just got
on with his work, although Oliver got the impression that action was
merely postponed, not cancelled.
  Suddenly Oliver felt a stinging, searing pain in his left buttock. 
His eyes widened and his mouth stretched open to release a yell, which
to his chagrin quickly scaled an octave to become a girly shriek.
  He turned around to see the grinning face of Duncan Dewar.  Looking
down, he saw in the other's hand a company name badge with the pin
unhooked.  The small but viciously sharp sliver of metal was tinged
red.
  "What the fuck did you do that for?" Oliver demanded, inhibitions
forgotten in his anger.
  Duncan just smirked and wiped the traces of blood off the pin, 
before replacing the badge on his overall.  When he realized that 
Duncan was probably going to get away with what he'd done, Oliver was
incensed.  His right hand, already clenched in a fist because of the
pain, brought itself temptingly to his attention.
  `No,' he told himself sharply.  `Not the right way.  More pain, or
assault charges.  Not worth it.'  But it would be oh so satisfying. 
Landing that one punch on Duncan's silly grinning face.
  Just then Steve appeared at the end of the aisle, and Oliver's fists
quickly uncurled.
  "Whit's going oan?" he asked harshly, all traces of friendliness
gone from his speech.  "Whit was that noise?"
  "That stupid fucker just stabbed me with his badge pin!" Oliver 
blurted.
  Steve looked half shocked, half resigned.  "Is this true?" he asked
Duncan.
  "Nuh.  He jist fell oaf the rail an screamed whin he hit thu floar."
 With an inclination of his head he indicated the ankle-height rail
that ran in front of the bottom shelf to deflect trolleys, but which
was often used by the stackers to reach the top shelf.  "Big poof," he
added as an afterthought.
  "He stuck it right into my arse!" Oliver exclaimed.  "There was 
blood on it for fuck's sake!"
  Steve looked uncertainly from Oliver to Duncan, not sure how to 
proceed.
  "Look, I'll show you it," Oliver offered.  "There must be a fucking
enormous hole in my arse."
  Duncan snorted laughter, and Oliver blushed when he realized what
he'd said.  And what he'd offered to do.  Steve couldn't help smiling,
and Oliver knew his chance had been lost.
  "Ah, fuck it then," he said.  "I'm quitting this stupid fucking 
job."  And he walked off, although not before he heard Duncan comment:
"Like ah sayd, he's uh poof."
  Steve ran after him.  "You defnitly want tae leave?" he asked.
  "Yes," confirmed Oliver, his mind made up.
  "You've got tae give us a week's notice, though."
  "Fucking make me come back!" Oliver laughed, almost happy now that
freedom was in sight.  The situation seemed vaguely comical, 
especially the thought that he might put up with another week of 
torment.
  "Look, we cannae find anyone tae replace you in time for next week."
  "So it's overtime for four people.  No big deal."
  "We've already got everybody daeing overtime," Steve explained.  
"We're short staffed tae bloody much already."
  "Mmm... all right then," Oliver gave in.  After all, it wasn't 
Steve's fault.  "But on the condition that I don't have to work with
Duncan or his two friends."
  "Aye, fair enough," agreed Steve.  "Tell you what, ah'll even let
you start at five past six an finish five minutes early so you dinnae
have tae see them at all."
  "Done."
  "So you'll go an help Sue finish off the soap powders an pet foods?"
  "No problem."
  Steve smiled, pleased that the situation was resolved, and Oliver
headed for the pet foods aisle.
  `No problem indeed, not at all,' Oliver thought to himself.  Sue was
the only female under thirty who stacked shelves in the store, a
pleasant nineteen-year-old Oliver always enjoyed working with.  She
would never win a beauty contest but that in no way stopped Oliver
finding her attractive, although it would have taken threats of
extreme pain to drag an admission from him.  Seeing Sue was one of the
few good things about the job.
  "Hi Sue," he said.
  "Oh, hi Oliver.  Come tae give me a hand, huv ye?"
  "Yes.  What needs to be done?"
  "Jist that trolley you're standing next tae.  Shouldnae take long,
then we can face oaff."
  "That's good."
  Oliver started work for the third time that night, monotonously 
heaving the stock off the trolley, cutting open the packaging and 
sticking it on the shelves.  At least this time he could talk to Sue
to pass the time.
  "You doing anything tonight?" he asked.
  Sue thought for a moment, then enquired: "Wiz that a chat-up line?"
  Oliver could have died of embarrassment.  He hadn't meant it that
way, he honestly hadn't, but he realized that was what it must have
sounded like.  His face burned.  "No, I- I was just wondering, making
small-talk."
  When he finally gained the courage to look in her direction, he saw
to his great relief that Sue was smiling.  "Don't worry," she said,
"ye dinnae have tae be embarrassed.  I wiz only teasing.  "Aye, I'll
be goin out tae the pub wi some friends.  Are you daein anythin?"
  "No.  Nothing interesting, anyway.  I'll probably just read or watch
television or something.  Relax after work, basically."
  "Do ye want tae come out with us?" Sue asked casually, as if it 
weren't the biggest question Oliver had ever had to answer in his 
life.  It wasn't a date, and if it had been he didn't think he'd have
dared to say yes.  This was a less heart-jumping but more fundamental
opportunity presenting itself: the chance to integrate himself into
society, to make friends, to live a normal life.
  It wasn't as straightforward a question to answer as it first 
seemed.  For one thing, it would be a monumentally difficult and 
embarrassing evening, going to the pub with complete strangers.  His
only friend (and he used it in a fairly loose sense) would be Sue, and
she would no doubt want to talk to her friends most of the time,
leaving him effectively alone.  And he was happy with his solitary,
"sad" life; or at least, he had come to terms with it.  He wasn't sure
he was prepared to adapt himself to a new, active lifestyle, one that
he might not enjoy as much.
  But that was exaggerating the offer by a nonsensical degree.  All
she was asking him to was one evening out, and it didn't have to go
any further than that if he didn't want it to.  All he had to fight
now was his natural timidity.
  Before he could come to any conclusion, however, a scream rang out.
  "Whit the hell wiz that?" Sue asked of no one in particular.  
"That's the second time tonight."
  Oliver suddenly wondered what she'd think if he told her that he had
been the first person to break the unnatural quiet.  Then someone else
began to scream and scream and scream, at one point rising in pitch
and volume before being choked into a gurgle.
  Sue and Oliver shared a look.
  "Come oan," she said.  "Let's go an see whit that wiz."
  Oliver shuddered at the thought.  "I know what that was.  Didn't you
hear?  That was the scream of someone dying."  He shivered again,
convulsively.  "Of someone being killed."
  "It cannae have been," Sue insisted.  "Who by, fur Goad's sake?  
Come oan, let's have a look."
  She walked down to the end of the aisle, looking back at Oliver to
see if he was following.  After a moment of internal arguing between
his cowardice on one side and his curiosity, self-respect and libido
on the other, he groaned and went with her.
  `Amazing what you'll do if a bit of skirt asks,' the self-hating
part of his brain mocked.  He wished it would shut up.  Truth was
harsh.  `Not even a particularly pretty bit of skirt.'  Suddenly he
loathed himself even more for taking part in the sexist meat-market.
  "It sounded like it came frae the veg aisle," Sue whispered as they
went.
  Oliver sarcastically but silently congratulated her on her 
supernatural powers of hearing, but had to admit that it had sounded
about that far away.  The veg aisle was not the one directly in front
of you as you entered the store: that was special displays, soups and
- oddly - fruit and vegetables.  Veg was the next one along, and it
consisted of baked beans and similar tinned stuff, pasta, sauces and
ready-to-cook meals.  It was the most unpopular aisle in the store,
fully of fiddly items that seemed to delight in falling off the shelf.
 Sometimes Oliver thought that screaming was the natural reaction to
being put on veg.
  When they got there, they discovered that shelf stacking was not the
worst thing that could happen in the second aisle.
  "Oh my Goad," breathed Sue, after stifling an urge to scream.  "What
is that?  What IS that thing?"
  Oliver tugged her arm gently.  "I don't know," he whispered.  "I
don't really want to.  Come on, let's get away from here before it
notices us."
  "Aye.  I suppose we should."  But she didn't move.  The thing's 
jerky but rhythmic motions fascinated her, and the repulsive, 
squelching-snuffling noises were mesmerising.
  "Come on!" Oliverhissed.  "It's dangerous.  They're both DEAD."
  "It's... it's eating her."
  "I don't care if it's fucking her, let's get out of here."  He put
an arm around her waist and bodily pulled her away from the end of the
aisle, where they would have been horribly exposed had the thing
turned around.  Sue shuddered as if a spell had been broken and she
was half-unwillingly free again.
  Oliver, however, was not free from what he had seen.  The picture
danced in his mind, threatening to become stronger and more real than
the scene in front of his eyes.  It would probably be a horror that
would stay with him for the rest of his life.
  Lying in the veg aisle had been two dead bodies.  Both were 
liberally coated with blood, one from a large red wound at the neck. 
That hole in Donna's throat had been surrounded by ragged, slushy
chunks of her flesh, like a cheap special effect in a zombie film. 
But more horrible still was the look of absolute terror frozen on her
face.
  It was impossible to see how the other woman had died, but easy to
guess.  Draped over her throat and face was a black creature that
vibrated up and down in the middle.  It was clearly in the middle of a
feeding frenzy.  The shape of the creature was difficult to make out:
it was an almost amorphous pancake of black, looking vaguely like a
tail-less, land-going manta ray.  Oliver shook his head violently to
clear his mind of the evil vision.  Sue shrugged uncomfortably, and
despite his reluctance to break the contact he took the hint and
removed his arm from her waist.
  "Whit should we dae?" she asked.
  "Tell Steve," Oliver replied without hesitation.  "He'll let us 
out."
  "Jist run away?"
  "What the fuck would you rather do?  Take it on at hand-to-hand 
combat?"
  "Should we no phone the polis or somethin?" she suggested.
  "The phones are dead.  We have to get out of here or we will be 
too."
  Steve was running towards them along the aisle at the back of the
store which connected all the others at right angles.  He looked with
concern at their shocked faces when he stopped in front of them.
  "Whit's going oan?"
  "There's something- some hoarrible creature in the veg aisle," Sue
told him.  "It's killed Donna an Joan."
  Steve obviously didn't believe her.  His eyes had widened into 
incredulity.
  "It's fucking true!" Oliver shouted in Steve's face, losing all 
regard for social niceties in the extremity of his fear.  "If you 
don't let us out now, we're all going to die."
  "Aye, well, ah'll go an have a look."
  "Dinnae dae that!" Sue hissed.  "It'll kill you!"
  "I'll take my chances," he said firmly.  He started to move again
and they had parted slightly to let him through, when all of a sudden
Oliver heard a fluttering, pattering, flapping noise on the floor
behind him, barely audible over the constant rattle of the rain. 
Steve's eyes had widened again, in disbelief but also in horror.
  Sue began to turn, but Oliver shoved her unceremoniously towards the
meat freezer on their right and himself dived away to the left.  He
came quickly to rest in the cereals aisle, but as he slid along the
floor he looked back the way he had come, ignoring the pain in his
arms and knees.
  Sue had half fallen into the freezer where Oliver had shoved her. 
Her legs were lifting off the floor as her arse dropped over the
thigh-high front and into the chilled compartment.  Like Oliver,
however, she was turning around to see what was happening.
  Steve, caught off guard by the sudden appearance of such an 
impossible being, never had a hope.  He stood still, disbelieving 
until the end, as the black apparition flung itself at him.  From 
Oliver's out-of-the-way position, the start of the creature's jump was
hidden behind a display of Rice Krispies boxes: all he saw was a
straight, angled flight from about waist height beside the boxes to
neck height two feet further along.  The thing obviously had quite a
spring.
  It reminded Oliver incongruously of the scene from "Monty Python and
the Holy Grail" where Arthur's knights are attacked by the vicious
white rabbit.  The black thing's movement through the air had looked
similarly fake.
  However, all thoughts of "great, big, pointy teeth" were forgotten
as the Angel of Death - Oliver suddenly decided that was what he would
call it - landed on Steve's chest and quickly shifted itself up
towards his neck.  Steve at last accepted that the thing was horribly
real, and that his death, also horribly real, was imminent.  Abject
terror replaced surprise on his face, and he tried, far too late, to
rid himself of his assailant by bringing up his hands to rip it off.
  The creature was on his throat.  His eyes widened still further, and
his hands stopped their upwards journey.  He tried to scream, only to
find that an impromptu trachiotomy had diverted all the air from his
mouth.  Death glazed his eyes as he fell to the floor.
  There was a hollow thud when his head hit the tiles, followed by an
eerie few seconds of quiet.  It seemed that the world was catching its
breath in horror at what had been done.  The only sounds were the
squelching sounds from the creature at Steve's throat and the constant
background tapping of the rain as it fell on the roof like a waterfall
of tears.
  Suddenly the tableau came back to life.  Sue started to sob 
hysterically, staring at the pulsating black shape feeding on Steve's
life only inches from her foot.  The Angel of Death was too busy
eating to notice her.
  "Now, Sue!" Oliver shouted.  "Run!  While it's busy!"
  Sue moved her eyes from it to him, but they were blank, 
uncomprehending.
  "You haven't got much time!  Fucking RUN!"
  She just stared at him as if he'd gone mad.  Dismissing the protests
from his limbs, Oliver clambered to his feet and started towards her. 
She must have been coming out of her daze, since she had grabbed the
edge of the freezer and started to pull herself up, but already the
slobbering sounds coming from the creature were slowing.
  Oliver stepped over Steve's body and grabbed Sue's offered hand,
hauling her desperately out of her hole.  He considered planting his
foot firmly into the black Angel but found that he couldn't.  It was
bad enough that he'd left Steve to be killed, sacrificing him for the
sake of their lives, without mangling the poor man's corpse as well. 
Besides, he had no way of knowing how strong the thing was.
  Pulling Sue along by the hand he still held, Oliver ran along the
rear aisle of the store (what he'd always called, with a secret grin,
the "back passage").  It was strewn with half-full and empty stock
carts, making movement at any sort of speed difficult.  But spurring
him on was that unholy flapping noise of rippling "wings" as the Angel
of Death left its food and raced after them.
  Oliver didn't dare turn around to look at it, but he didn't need to
to know that it was gaining on them: the fluttering sounds were
gradually getting closer.  He knew that he couldn't outrun it, and he
felt sure that it wouldn't just give them up, unless... unless he
could find some alternative prey for it.  It was a horrible, cold,
evil plan, but the only one he could think of to save them.  And deep
in some carefully repressed part of his soul there was a voice that
responded with bright, fierce joy to the idea.  It had chosen his
victim already, racing ahead of his conscious mind to supply it with
the perfect sacrifice.  And it wouldn't even look deliberate, wouldn't
look anything other than natural.  They came to the end of the "back
passage", leaving only one place to run: grabbing at a loaded stock
cart to help him corner faster, Oliver swung left into the soft drinks
aisle.

Duncan Dewar had heard many sounds that were not usually abroad in the
supermarket air on a Saturday night.  Screams, shouts, running feet
and another, stranger sound that he had never heard before; they had
awoken a vague curiosity within him, but warring with the desire to
use them as an excuse to skive a bit of work was the clear realization
that if he didn't get a move on with his six (six!) full stock carts,
it would be ages before he got out to the pub.
  However, when the footsteps were clearly running in his direction,
he became sufficiently curious to wander up towards end of the aisle
and see who was making them.  Before he could get right to the end,
though, Oliver and Sue exploded around the corner and started
sprinting straight towards him.  They were quite clearly insane and,
more importantly, about to run into him.  He sidestepped neatly out of
the way and let them go past, turning to watch them as he did so.
  But before they were completely past him, Oliver's left hand shot
out and grabbed his wrist.  For a moment all three of them were linked
hand-to-hand as if in some mad game of chain tig.  Then Oliver yanked
his arm with such desperate and surprising force that Duncan didn't
have time to make a decision, much less actually resist.  He stumbled
away from the shelves into the middle of the aisle, only to be hit in
the back by something that felt like a large and heavy pancake.
  A pain like red-hot needles dug into his backbone, and he screamed
in agony as the creature feasted on his spinal cord.
 "Try the cash office," suggested Sue.  "It's probably locked, but..."
  "Yeah, worth a shot," agreed Oliver.  They were out of the soft 
drinks aisle, now, and had slowed to a relieved walk.  Behind them,
the horrible sounds of Duncan's death had faded to the restless
feeding noises of the black Angel.  Oliver tried not to think about
it, because when he did he shuddered uncontrollably.  The door to the
cash office was right next to them, opposite the end of the crisps and
sweets aisle.  The office itself was hidden behind a square protrusion
of the walls at the corner of the building, isolating it from the
open-plan feel of the rest of the store.  Stretching away along the
front of the supermarket, to Oliver's left as he faced the door, were
the deserted checkouts.
  The cash office was locked.
  "Best not to get stuck in there anyway," commented Oliver, trying to
make the best of the situation.
  "Can we no jist get out?" asked Sue.
  "Steve said he'd locked the doors."
  "Well," began Sue, before she was cut off by Margaret, another of
the shelf-stacking team's middle-aged women, who had left her job on
the crisps to see what was going on.
  "What's all the noise about?" Margaret asked.
  "You wouldn't believe us if we told you," Oliver said, almost 
enjoying his superiority.  "Steve didn't."
  Sue looked at him sharply.  Perhaps to annoy him as punishment for
his tactless remark, she said to Margaret, "Come quietly.  I'll show
you."
  Oliver was almost furious about this insane course of action but he
forced himself to stay silent, and felt honour-bound, as Sue's
self-appointed protector, to follow them as they peaked around the
corner of the aisle.
  Duncan had fallen forwards when the thing had hit him from behind,
so it had been unable to get to his throat.  It was lying over his 
neckanyway but it wasn't feeding with the same fevered excitement as
Oliver had seen before, as if the meal were not as appetizing.
  When Margaret saw the dreadful creature, she could not help letting
out a squeak of mixed horror and disbelief.  Oliver's heart skipped a
beat, then did an extra-strong thump.  His eyes were fixed on the
Angel of Death to see if it would react to the noise.
  It immediately stopped moving.  For a second, or maybe two, it 
remained motionless.  Then a ripple flowed around the edges of its
wide, flappy body, like a Mexican wave of flesh.  When the part of the
creature's body that was nearest them was lifted up, the movement of
the ripple slowed, then carefully returned the way it had come.  The
wave oscillated back and forth, slower each time, until eventually it
stopped... pointing straight towards them.
  Oliver wondered vaguely what form of unholy sense organ it was using
to detect them.  The motion had had a transfixing sinuousness.  Inside
him, even the sensible, terrified part of his being, which had served
him so well until now, was watching fascinated.  It had forgotten to
tell him to run.
  Slowly, smoothly, the creature wriggled until a different part of
its extremity was facing them.  Suddenly Oliver noticed that the thing
had eyes.  Two tiny black spheres were set into its body, marginally
on the upper part of its thickness.  They seemed to measure him up
disdainfully, and decide he was of no worth whatsoever.  Not just
little worth, but none at all.  According to the Angel of Death, he
was completely unimportant, had nothing at all in him that could
challenge its supremacy.
  "Want to fucking try it, then, you arrogant wee bastard?" he 
challenged loudly, stepping out into the centre of the aisle.  It did
nothing for a moment, then accelerated in a deceptively smooth manner
to its top speed.  With snake-like wriggling motions it raced along
the floor towards him, leaving behind Duncan's body slowly leaking
blood onto the floor.
  When the thing began to move, Oliver realized exactly how stupid
he'd been.  Even more monumentally stupid than in the cloakroom
earlier that night, when a similar "Don't fuck me around" impulse had
sprung him into danger.  Sue and Margaret were already turning to run
away: he decided it was time to join them.
  That was when he slipped.  Duncan must have accidentally slit open a
bottle of juice with his box knife whilst trying to get through the
packaging - it was easily done - because there was a wet, slidey patch
on the floor.  Oliver felt his feet shoot out from underneath him, and
he landed heavily on his arse.
  What he really wanted to do was take a little time to recover from
his fall, groan self-pityingly and rub his bruised and aching bones. 
Fear left no time for those indulgences.  Realizing that there wasn't
enough time to get up again, he scrambled backwards on his hands and
feet in a vain attempt to put some distance between himself and the
black monster.
  Reaching out behind him, his left hand struck a rail, missed its
grip, and allowed his left arm collapse awkwardly to the ground as he
tried to put weight on it.  Eyes still fixed on the approaching
horror, he dragged himself back up into a sitting position, then
conceived an irrational, macho desire to die on his feet, if die
backed into a corner he must.  Oliver reached above him for some sort
of hand-hold while he drew his legs up underneath him.  By now the
Angel of Death was only feet away, and as he watched, it began its
spring.  From the corner of his eye, he noticed that Margaret and Sue
had turned to watch him die.  He resolved not to scream, hoping to
impress Sue with his death if he had failed with his life.
  His right hand found its hold.  Clinging desperately to the can of
beer he had grabbed, he wrenched himself upwards, hoping that he could
get his face out of the creature's path in time.  Perhaps he could
pull it off if it only hit his stomach.  But instead of hauling
himself up, he found that he had pulled the four-pack off the shelf. 
His arm swung in a wide arc... right into the flying Angel of Death. 
The weight of the cans knocked it from its path, squashing it against
the shelves to Oliver's left.
  It dropped lifelessly to the ground, pinned upside-down by four cans
of 80 Shilling.
  Oliver heaved himself to his feet, and looked suspiciously down at
the motionless creature.  He prodded it with his right foot.  It
didn't move.
  "D'you think it's deid?" asked Sue, cautiously approaching now the
action was over.
  "Looks like it," Oliver said, studying its slightly lighter 
underside for signs of breathing.
  "Disnae maitter, really.  It's stuck anyway, so let's get outtai
here."
  "Sounds good to me," agreed Oliver, letting out a long breath as he
noticed just how tense he had been.
  "Come oan, we'll get the keys off of Steve."  This time she took his
hand, and led him away from the corner of the supermarket.  Oliver
walked backwards for a few steps, unwilling to take his eyes off the
creature, until it slowly penetrated his mind that Sue was holding his
hand of her own volition.
  `YES!  SCOOORRRRE!' he roared inside his head, grateful for the 
self-protection mechanism that had prevented him shouting it out loud.
 He smiled gently, still bathing in the relief of not being dead, but
also fiercely happy to be alive.  Oliver and Sue walked subtly
hand-in-hand through the store, Margaret following behind in dazed
semi-comprehension.  As they passed one of the sweet racks beside the
checkouts Oliver reached out and grabbed a packet of chewing gum,
manipulating the paper open one-handed to offer a stick to Sue.  She
took one appreciatively, and gave his hand a quick thank-you squeeze.
  At the end of the cereals aisle they were joined by Bet, who came
from teas & coffees to ask Margaret what was going on.  Oliver didn't
think it was possible to walk much slower than he and Sue were, but
the two women managed to fall behind anyway as Margaret tried to fill
her friend in on a story she didn't really know herself.
  They walked up the cereals aisle to where Steve's body was still
lying on the floor.  Oliver didn't know why he felt that it should
have been moved, but it just seemed so wrong for it to lie there like
discarded rubbish.  Fraser, one of Duncan's friends, was standing next
to the body, staring miserably at it.  Oliver reckoned he must have
been doing that for the entire five minutes since Steve's death, since
cereals had been Fraser's aisle tonight.  He noticed a thin pool of
vomit lying off to one side.
  "Right, let's get the keys and get out of here," Oliver said, 
enjoying the seniority his near-death experience had brought him.  All
the same, he hesitated before crouching next to the body and only
reluctantly put his hand into a pocket of the blood-soaked overall.
  Behind him, he suddenly heard a noise that chilled his heart.  A
flapping, fluttery sound.  The sound of wing-like appendages writhing
along a polished floor.  Sue and Margaret turned around simultaneously
to look back the way they had come, almost identical expressions of
terror on their faces.  Bet and Fraser looked up curiously.  Oliver
hastily and clumsily extracted his hand, key-less, from Steve's
overall, and struggled to stand.
  The noise behind him stopped as the thing took to the air again.  He
turned just in time to see Bet knocked backwards, arms windmilling as
she fell on top of Margaret.  Oliver and Sue both took an involuntary
step backwards; Fraser, already leaning against the meat freezer,
pushed himself back against it as far as he could.  But when Oliver's
foot came down, he realized with disgust and horror that it had fallen
on Steve's body.  His leg convulsed and he nearly fell over. 
Reflexively, he looked down for a place to put his foot.  By the time
he looked up again, Bet was already dead and Margaret was screaming
her terror as she struggled to free herself from Bet's dead weight
across her legs.
  "Help her!" Sue screamed at Oliver.  "She'll die!"
  It was too late.  The Angel of Death left its feeding for later and
turned its attention to the flailing Margaret.  In a short, controlled
spring it reached her face and smothered her cries before cutting them
off completely.
  Sue stepped back again until she was standing with the two boys 
against the freezer.  Oliver looked around him for some weapon he 
could use to defend Sue and himself, but saw nothing.  Then, cursing
his forgetfulness, he reached into his overall pocket and drew out his
box knife.  He extended it to its maximum length and tried to wave it
menacingly in front of him.  The creature paid him no attention and
continued feeding.
  "Store room?" Sue asked in a whisper.
  "Good idea," said Oliver. Led by Fraser, they shuffled to the left,
never taking their eyes from the black Angel of Death.  When they were
out of its line of sight, Fraser and Sue turned to run towards the
single staff door between the end of the meat freezer and the
butcher's counter.  Oliver let Sue go past him, then followed the
other two, jogging backwards so he could cover the rear with his
knife.  He wished he had something longer than the inch-and-a-half
blade of the box knife, but he didn't want to stop off at the
butcher's area to look for one.  They pushed through the flappy door
one after another, still hearing no sounds of pursuit.  The warehouse
area had been cleared of most of its shark-cage-like stock carts,
although there were several of the long trolleys standing empty in a
line by the shelves.  The shelves themselves were almost full, despite
the fact that they reached all the way to the very high ceiling.
  Oliver felt safe enough to face forwards again and flick the blade
of his knife back in.  The storage area, although it offered no more
hiding places than the front of the shop, felt almost like a
sanctuary.  At least it had never been touched by that hideous
hell-spawn.
  He knew their safety wouldn't last, though.  Even if the thing 
couldn't get through the light, double-hinged doors, they still had to
get out of the supermarket somehow.  A night stuck in there with
Fraser was so unbearable to contemplate that Oliver thought he might
rather take his chances with the Angel of Death.
  "What now?" he asked Sue, unthinkingly deferring to her leadership. 
Subconsciously he must have noticed that all the ideas had come from
her so far.  He suddenly smiled at his own prejudices and
ego-boosting: somehow he had always cast himself in the
decision-making role.
  "Well, it's obvi-" she began, but was rudely cut off by the double
doors, at the other end of the wall-lining shelves from the door they
had just used, flapping open.  All three of them tensed involuntarily,
and almost before he had time to choose the action, Oliver found he
had flicked the box knife to full extension.
  What had entered so abruptly was, however, a lesser threat than the
Angel of Death, although to Oliver's mind it was far more unpleasant. 
Colin Skinner wasn't as brash as Duncan Dewar but he was, if anything,
more sure of himself.  He deferred to Duncan in public, but it was
clear he merely tolerated this situation, not bothering to alter it
because it amused him in some unfathomable way.
  He swaggered into the warehouse space as if he couldn't care less
about the answer to what he asked, in a loud voice: "Whi' thu fuck's
goin oan in this shi'-hole?"
  Oliver shook his head in a tiny, almost unnoticeable expression of
disgust and contempt.
  Sue provided him with a short, sharp reply, irritated by his 
interruption: "A small, black... thing has killed evribody in the 
store but us."
  He nodded, carefully taking in this information.  It was a habit he
had cultivated to hide his slow mind behind an illusion of
thoughtfulness.
  "We're thu oanly fowur left?" he said, pretending that he was 
commenting instead of checking.
  "Yes," said Sue, exasperated.  This wasn't a normal situation.  It
was so completely outrageous as to be almost unreal.  Yet it appeared
to make little difference to Colin Skinner.  He didn't notice how
subdued the usually boisterous Fraser was; he failed to perceive the
subtle shift in heirarchy that had made Oliver and Sue the do-ers of
the group.
  "Give ees a feel uv yur tits, then."
  Oliver simply could not believe what Colin had just said.  Here they
were, last four survivors of a terrible tragedy, desperately trying to
find a way to stay alive, and all Colin could think of was quick
sexual gratification now there were no representatives of authority
around.  It was inconceivable.  It could not possibly have happened. 
Yet it had.  He didn't even seem to be joking.
  Sue gave him a look of the most pure, distilled contempt that Oliver
had ever seen.  "Not if you wir th'last man oan the planet an had the
boady of a Chippendale.  I'd kill masel furst."
  "Stoap ees, thun," he challenged and took a step forward, right hand
reaching out for Sue's chest.
  Oliver stepped between them, box knife raised convincingly.  He had
been tempted just to slash the bastard's wrist, but still nursed a
small hope of ending the incident without violence.  Colin stopped and
considered the new situation.
  "Pit thut awiy oar yur deid," he threatened.
  Oliver laughed.  "If anything's going to kill me tonight it isn't
going to be you."
  "Oh aye," Colin said, giving himself a little more time to think,
"an who's goin tae stoap ees thun?"  He drew his own knife and grasped
it firmly in front of him, managing to look much more at home in this
position than Oliver did.  Sue and Fraser had backed away as the
exchange had escalated, and Oliver took some comfort from the fact
that Fraser hadn't offered any support to Colin yet.  He could usually
be counted on to back up Duncan or Colin in anything they did. 
Perhaps if Oliver won this fight Fraser would defect to his and Sue's
side completely.
  Oliver and Colin eyed each other warily, neither yet ready to make
the first move.  Oliver found himself fighting down the urge to yell:
"I killed Duncan, you fucker.  I killed your leader.  How d'you
fucking like THAT?"  He tried to dismiss the thought and concentrate
on keeping his knife arm loose and relaxed, ready to respond
instantaneously to anyth-
  Colin flicked his hand up in a quick stab towards Oliver's face, but
didn't get himself in a position to follow it through: Oliver pulled
his head back and to the side to avoid the blow, before resuming his
waiting stance.
  They stood apart for a while again.  Although they were both tall -
almost exactly the same height - Oliver felt quite a bit smaller than
his opponent.  He began to wonder about the wisdom of taking on Colin
with knives.  Then he remembered why he'd done it, remembered the
revolting advances Colin had made towards Sue, and found his resolve
again.  Resolve and anger.
  This time it was Oliver who made the lunge, straight towards Colin's
stomach and his waiting knife.  Colin, surprised by both the attack
and its target, merely twisted his knife slightly and waited for
Oliver to cut his hand open on the razor-sharp blade.  But Oliver was
expecting this, and turned his stroke away to the side at the last
moment to make a vicious slash at Colin's left arm.  Before Colin
could react to this move and punish him for leaving himself wide open,
he fell back into his combat-ready stance.
  He discovered that he was almost enjoying himself.  The fear, the
adrenaline, the genuine danger and, above all, the satisfaction of
actually hurting the bastard made quite a cocktail.
  His hit hadn't done much harm, though.  The supermarket made their
corporate overalls tough, and he had only just penetrated to the flesh
beneath.  Still, the shining metal of his blade was now coated with
blood, and there were some red spots on the fluorescent orange handle
as well.  He looked into Colin's eyes and grinned with satisfaction. 
Colin was angry and sore, but the sight of his blood on Oliver's knife
seemed to be giving him second thoughts about pressing on for revenge.
  Taking advantage of Colin's hesitation, Oliver feinted towards his
opponent's knife-arm.  When Colin responded with a lunge of his own,
getting his arm out the way in the process, Oliver jumped to the side
and brought his knife up to Colin's face.
  Colin froze, the bloodied blade too close for his eyes to focus on
it.  His face was pure white.
  Oliver stepped away again, and met Colin's gaze.  At first Colin
didn't seem to understand why Oliver hadn't slashed open his eyeballs.
 Then it occured to him that Oliver had won the last two manoeuvres
easily, whereas he hadn't even come close to scoring a hit.  There was
an obvious pattern there.
  Oliver's stare made it clear that there would be no air between the
knife and his eyes next time.  Colin lowered his knife, rattling the
blade back into its cover as he did so.  Oliver followed suit, turning
to Sue and Fraser as he did so.
  "Well, that's that little prob-"
  Sue's eyes widened and she started to gasp.  From behind him came
the harsh sound of a box knife being extended.
  He wasn't surprised.
  Whirling and unsheathing his own knife, he stepped to the side and
lashed out with hand and foot simultaneously.  Colin's clumsy charge
turned into a dive when Oliver's kick knocked one foot into the other.
 Oliver's knife slashed up Colin's arm, this time connecting just
above the knuckles, where there was no overall sleeve to protect him. 
A deep, red gash appeared as if by magic on Colin's wrist.
  Oliver followed him to the floor, kneeling on his back as he crashed
face-down to the tiles.  Colin's knife jumped out of his hand and slid
along the floor, until Sue stopped it with her foot.
  "Difficult lesson, fucker?" Oliver asked.  "A bit slow to learn? 
Well, we'll have to see about some sort of punishment for this
fuckwit."
  "Cum oan, then," taunted Colin, straining his head off the floor to
give his mouth space to work.  "Fuckin kill ees.  You've no goat thu
guts."
  "And you've not got the imagination.  Do you really think killing's
the worst thing I could do to you in this situation?  You know,
tendons are meant to be really tough little bastards, but this knife's
very, very sharp, and I'm sure if I sawed away at one of them for long
enough I'd be able to get through it.  Let's see now... how about one
of these ones behind the knees?"
  It was then that he noticed how Sue was looking at him.  If 
anything, there was even more disgust on her face now than there had
been when she saw the Angel of Death's handiwork.  Suddenly, Oliver
realized what he was saying.
  "No, perhaps I won't.  I don't think I've got enough time anyway."
  As if on cue, something small but heavy punched the single door 
open.  The thing skidded to a stop at the end of the line of trolleys
and sat still, staring at them.
  For a second nobody moved.  Then Sue and Fraser ran towards Oliver
and past him, heading for the corner of the store furthest from the
black creature.  Oliver bent over and whispered into Colin's ear:
"This isn't actually worse than death, because it is death.  But think
of it as a development of the theme."  Then he jumped to his feet,
yanked the bigger boy up after him, and shoved him towards the Angel
of Death before Colin could regain his balance.
  The unearthly creature was already rippling across the floor after
Sue and Fraser.  When the new target presented himself, it simply
sprang a bit earlier than it had planned.  Colin's head vanished under
a black drape; it sounded like he was screaming through a blanket.
  Oliver sprinted across to join Fraser and Sue at the back.  They
were frantically shoving empty stock carts about and heaving away
polythene bags full of packaging waiting to be recycled.
  "Come on," gasped Sue.  "The fire exit."
  Of course!  He should have thought of it earlier: there wasn't just
one way out of the store, even if there was only one that could be
used in normal circumstances.  Unfortunately, some idiot had stacked
masses of rubbish in front of the fire door.
  Then Fraser turned away from the bags and said: "Ah've goat an 
idea."  He grabbed the nearest empty stock cart and started trundling
it towards the Angel of Death.  Oliver saw his plan immediately, and
was surprised to find that it was a good one.  If Fraser could topple
the stock cart over the creature and find some way to cover the hole
at the top, the thing would be trapped.  A stock trolley would do; one
of them could be trundled in to stop the gap.
  However, Fraser had reckoned without the contrariness of the cage. 
If it is impossible to get all four wheels of a supermarket pointing
in the same direction, that applies tenfold to stock carts.  When the
first heavy load of stock is loaded onto one, the wheel housings warp
and buckle, making the things impossible to steer.  That's when
they're being pulled.  One of the first things a shelf-stacker finds
out about the job is: don't bother trying to push a stock cart.
  The Angel of Death had, upon hearing the rattling metal of the stock
cart, abandoned its meal of raw Colin Skinner.  It waited patiently,
observing Fraser's approach.  Then, when the stock cart took it into
its tin brain to execute a ninety degree right turn, it sprang.
  "Oh God," moaned Oliver, averting his eyes.  "Not another."
  "Shit, jist the two of us now?" asked Sue.
  "I'm afraid so."  Oliver paused, listening to the soft, yielding
sound of the bags of polythene being manhandled.  "Maybe we should
just give up?"
  "What, NOW?" asked Sue, incredulous.  She stopped throwing bags 
around and craned her neck over her shoulder to stare at him.  
 "Are you serious?  We're almost out."
  "We'll never make it."  Oliver stared at the black shape on the 
floor not ten feet away from him.  It stared back emotionlessly.  "And
even if we do get out, it'll get through after us before we can close
the door."
  "I never knew you were such a fucking quitter," Sue muttered in 
disgust, returning to her job.
  The thing was still staring at him.  `That was luck,' it was saying
with its eyes.  `When you got me before, that was luck.'  Oliver knew
he couldn't dispute that fact.  `You may have been more of a problem
than I thought,' it seemed to continue, `but I'll get you this time. 
You saw what happened to Fraser, and he had a huge stock cart for
protection.  All you have is a tiny knife.  I'll suck every last drop
of blood from your body.'  Oliver thought it was probably right.
  However, it was hanging back.  The knife seemed to give it a reason
to wait for a better opportunity.  Perhaps it wasn't so dangerous
after all.
  It sprang.
  Oliver saw the mouth set in the middle of its underside, with the
red and white needles of its blood-soaked teeth wiggling in 
anticipation of the bite.  He slashed with his knife: too early, far
too early.  So early that he had time to bring it back almost to the
right place.  With the force of its own momentum, a chunk was sliced
out of the creature's wing.
  It dropped to the floor but sprang again immediately, blood spraying
freely from its wound.  This time it tried to come up under the knife.
 Oliver, caught by surprise, jumped back and jabbed downwards at the
same time.  It fell back from this attack with a long, deep cut across
its upper surface.  However, Oliver also fell back: he tripped on one
of the plastic bags Sue had thrown out behind her and dropped over it
heavily, landing painfully on his arse.
  The Angel of Death landed on his right foot.  Reflexively, 
desperately, he kicked out.  It flew awkwardly through the air, 
landing a bit further away.  Far enough to let Oliver get back to his
feet.
  He didn't like where he was being pushed.  The thing had forced him
back into the narrow area right at the very back left corner of the
supermarket building.  If it changed its target and went for Sue, he
would have to jump out and scramble to the right to get to her, where
she was standing by the fire exit.  On top of that, there wasn't a lot
of space between the walls to swing his knife.
  The creature lay still on the floor for a second or two.  Oliver
realized he must have wounded it more seriously than he had thought.
  "Is it deid this time?" Sue asked.
  "I wouldn't like to put money on it," said Oliver.  "Not after last
time."
  "Come oan, the door's clear.  Let's get away frae here."
  "Sounds good to me," agreed Oliver, cautiously edging forwards.  He
kept his eyes fixed on the prone form of the beast.  "Sounds 
wonderful.  Tell you what, if we make it out of here, I'll buy you a
drink."
  "If we make it out ai here, you can have a six-pack oan me," replied
Sue, laughing.
  Then the Angel of Death exploded back into life.  Oliver could see
it coming straight towards his face.  He flailed desperately with the
knife, swinging his arm in a wide back-hander from left to right.
  The knife missed it by a long way.  His elbow got it instead.
  It was knocked sideways by the force of the swing until it hit the
upright circle of the cardboard compactor lid, and fell in.
  A moment passed before the scene penetrated to Oliver's brain.  It
had fallen into the cylindrical container.  He reacted as quickly as
he could, grabbing the lid and slamming it down on the hole before the
Angel of Death could jump out again.
  "Quick," he shouted to Sue, "how do you work this thing?"
  She came running - as best she could over the scattered bags - to
help him.
  "Umm... oh Goad, it's no part ai ma joab... ah've seen it done, 
like... aye!  Goat it!  Clamp thay things oan there, an press th'big
red button."
  Oliver did as she said, and the machine whined into life.  The black
lid slowly worked its way down into the orange cylinder as the
hydraulics did their work.  With loud hisses and squeals, the lid was
pushed down in two-inch jumps.
  Then it was finished, and the top rose up again.
  "Do you want to have a look?" Oliver asked.
  "Aye, go oan."
  Oliver held his knife at the ready, just in case.  He didn't think
anything could possibly have survived that pressure, but he wasn't
about to take any chances.  They undid the safety catches and pulled
the lid up on its hinges, like a macabre toilet seat.  Dripping from
the black circle, and collecting in the bottom of the compactor, was a
thick, red goo.
  They turned away quickly.
  "I think I want tae be sick," commented Sue.
  "I could do with a skinful myself," Oliver replied, unable to resist
turning it into a joke.
  "The drinks are oan me, then," Sue insisted as they pushed open the
fire door and let the light rush out into the darkness.  They stepped
out into the cool, wet night, watching the raindrops sparkle into
existence as they fell into the pool of radiance.  Sue put her hands
on her hips, tilted her face to the sky and opened her mouth.
  "You sticking to water tonight?" Oliver teased.  She ignored him,
letting the rain wash down her throat.
  "It's good tae be alive," she said eventually.
  "It is, isn't it?  It feels... sharp, keen, vital."
  "Mmm, somethin like that."  Sue took his hand and pulled him in the
direction of the car park.  They walked in silence for a while,
letting the rain shower them fresh again.
  "Shouldn't we have signed out?" asked Oliver.
  "Aye," laughed Sue.  "That's important, that is."
  More silence.  More rain.
  "Goad, I feel exhoasted aftir that."
  "Tiring, wasn't it?  I'm not sure if I've got the energy to go out
tonight now."
  "Aye, excuses!  Dinnae be sae boaring."
  "No, I was thinking more of just staying in with Irn Bru and a 
bottle of vodka, just you and me..."  Oliver let the sentence trail
off into the darkness.
  "You're smooth talker, so y'are.  How could any girl resist the 
temptation of vodka an Irn Bru?"
  "So do you want to?"
  "Aye, why no.  D'you want tae go back in an get something frae the
shop?"
  "No, there'll be enough at home."
  "Well stocked, your hoose."
  "Indeed."
  They walked a bit more.  The rain seemed to be lessening.  Oliver
thought the car park looked like a post-industrial wasteland, a flat
expanse of tarmac adorned with only the empty shells of five cars.
  "Do you think we should go to the police or something?"
  "We proabably should.  Phone them tomorrow, mibbe."
  "You're right.  Not tonight.  It doesn't seem right after that."
  "Let's no talk about it."
  "Yes, let's try to forget."
  "Wi a drink."
  "Or ten."
  "Aye, I'll drink tae that."