Creeping
Hemlock Press presents a FearZone.com
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Unto
Dust: Tales of Apocalypse

Volume
I:

Jack's
Magic Beans

by
Brian Keene

The
lettuce started talking to Ben Mahoney halfway through his shift at Save-A-Lot.

He'd shown up for work ten minutes
late. Mr. Brubaker was waiting for him at the time clock.

"You're
late, Mahoney."

Ben sighed.
"Sorry, Mr. Brubaker. I had to stay late after school. I was talking to my
teacher. Been having trouble with calculus."

This
was bullshit. In fact, Ben had hung around to ask Stacy Gerlach if she'd go to
Eleanor Murphy's party with him on Friday night. Eleanor's parents were in New
York for the weekend on one of these bus trips where you got to go shopping and
see a Broadway show. The party was supposed to be off the hook-two kegs and a
DJ playing trance-hop all night long. Sadly, Stacy already had a date. Pissed
off at this news, Ben had blown through two red lights on his way to work. He'd
also blown his sub-woofer because the bass was cranked too high. Ben's bad day
got worse, and his anger was still simmering when he rushed in.

He
did not tell Mr. Brubaker any of this. Instead, he apologized and swore that it
wouldn't happen again.

Scowling,
hands on hips, Brubaker stomped away to holler at somebody else. Ben swiped his
timecard, walked into the break room, pulled his smock out of his locker, and
fished around in his pockets for loose change. He put four quarters into the soda
machine, waited for the can to clunk down, popped the tab, took a sip, and then
started his shift-all while trying to ignore the dull headache building behind
his eyes.

Ben worked part-time
in Save-A-Lot's produce department. He came in during the evenings and spent four
hours rotating the fruit and vegetables-a process that involved pulling all of
the produce out of the bins, placing fresh produce on the bottom, and then putting
the older produce back on top. That way, customers would pick the older stuff
first and it wouldn't go bad. The only problem with this method was that most
of the people who shopped at Save-A-Lot knew about rotation and they invariably
dug through the fruits and vegetables to the bottom of the bin, thus finding the
fresher selections and fucking up all of his hard work.

Old
people were especially bad about doing this, and that was one of the reasons Ben
hated them. He also hated the way they walked and the way they smelled. He hated
it when an old person was in front of him on the road. They didn't know how to
drive. He hated it when they walked in front of him, blocking the aisle. He hated
how they always bothered him with stupid questions when he was busy stocking shelves.
He worked in the produce department. He knew where the apples were. Why, then,
would they ask him where the spaghetti was located? You want to find the pasta?
Try reading the fucking signs.

Ben
was sixteen. He was physically and mentally fit-a teenaged Adonis. He would never
get old. Never lose his hair or his hearing or control of his bladder. His joints
and teeth would never ache. He would never have to worry about running out of
breath from the simplest of tasks. His eyesight would never go bad. Neither would
his internal organs. He would never have to worry about not being able to have
an orgasm-let alone getting a hard-on. He was young and in his prime. These were
the best years of his life and those years did not involve getting old. Old people
filled him with loathing.

So when
he saw the old woman squeezing the peaches, and the lettuce told him to kill her,
Ben agreed. It seemed like a reasonable idea.

His
headache got worse.

"Kill
that old bitch," the heads of lettuce said in unison. They'd each grown a
little mouth, the size of his thumbnail. Their voices were high-pitched, like
a cartoon character. "Knock her over and kick her goddamned face in. Bet
she's wearing dentures. No fucking way those teeth are real."

Ben
dropped the spray bottle that he'd been using to mist the cucumbers. He stared
at the lettuce. After a moment, he smiled, forgetting all about the pain behind
his eyes. The lettuce smiled back at him.

"Go
on, Ben," the lettuce urged. "Make her bleed."

"How
do you know my name?"

"We
are the lettuce. We know everything. It has always been thus and always will be.
The lettuce is wise. Now kill that old bag."

It
was hard to argue with lettuce. Like they'd said-they were wise. Shrugging, Ben
dropped his apron on the floor, rushed across the store and knocked the old woman
to the floor. Her head cracked against the linoleum. It sounded very loud. The
sound made Ben smile. He kicked her in the side of her face. The old woman's dentures
skittered beneath the banana display. The lettuce had been right. They weren't
her real teeth.

The old woman
pawed at his pants leg. Her eyes implored him.

Ben
spit in her face. "You squeezed. The fucking. Peaches."

Somebody
screamed.

Ben giggled.

The
old woman groaned.

Then Ben stomped
her face again, harder this time. Her nose splintered beneath his heel. Ben realized
that he had an erection. Rubbing himself through his jeans, he raised his foot
and stomped a third time. And a fourth. Then he stood on top of her face with
both feet and ground his soles back and forth, pushing down with all his weight.
Something gave way beneath his feet. His shoes grew wet.

The
old woman was the first to die. Ben died seconds later when Roger from the floral
department skewered him through the chest with a broken mop handle. Roger laughed
as he thrust the spear again. He stopped laughing and became the third to die
when a customer ripped his tongue out with her bare hands.

Then
everybody started dying at once.

***

(c) 2007
Brian Keene

Jack's
Magic Beans is available
for pre-order this month only, and will ship sold out in March 2008.
Visit Creeping Hemlock Press
for more info.