Horror Business by Ryan Craig Bradford Page B

Every year, there’s a kid who doesn’t graduate high school, and the Top Stop ends up being their college freshman year. His friends will get hooked up with a year’s worth of stolen cigarettes, but the townie life will lose its appeal. The drop-out will leave for the grander world of convenience stores outside Silver Creek.
    I skid my tires dramatically across the smooth concrete; the burnt rubber leaves a dark skid mark. The kid at the register is reading a men’s lifestyle magazine that advertises how to hit a G-spot, and how to perform a head butt. The fluorescents exaggerate the reds and yellows of all the packaged snacks. Everything looks welcoming and warm to the point of oversaturation. My stomach growls.
    The air in Top Stop is clammy like a locker room. I head straight for the hotdog rollers. Dogs and taquitos are the only items left in the case; the skin on the dogs glistens. Their synchronized rolling makes them look reanimated.
    “Can I get two?” I press my finger on the glass case and leave a greasy smudge. “Three, actually.”
    The teenager pinches them with the tongs and places each hot dog in a thick, yellow bun. The meat seems disproportionate and small outside of the rollers and I think, That’s how they get you. He rings me up and sneers at the large bill I hand him. He hands me the change, and I crumple the bills around the coins and shove the whole wad in my pocket. The corners of the bills poke my leg through the fabric.
    I roam the Top Stop, eating my dinner. There’s a rack of discounted DVDs in a corner. I flip through them. It’s all stupid shit: movies about killers who use Rube Goldberg contraptions to torture their victims. No subtlety, no style, no sense of humor. Gore that panders to weirdoes with ponytails and goatees.
    The clerk says “Shit.” The door opens, a chime rings out. Heavy boots clomp on the tile.
    I duck behind a display of fruit pies.
    Colt stumbles in. Everything about him looks yellow under the harsh lights: his skin, his teeth, his eyes. He stomps a foot and dirt explodes away from his boot. The clerk asks if he can help with anything, but Colt waves him out of his peripheral. The dirty bully massages his temple, winces, and stumbles to the side. He uses another food display for balance; a package of cookies and a bag of chips fall to the floor. He picks up the bag of chips and opens it, upside down. He drops a handful of canoe-shaped corn chips into his mouth and chews. Crumbs fall out of his mouth.
    “You have to pay for those!”
    Dirty toilet paper covers Colt’s hand—makeshift first aid from Brock’s attack. Blood has soaked through and become brown at the most saturated areas. A yellow rim surrounds the red. Gore has sealed the paper to Colt’s hand—mummification through infection. One collision with a hard object and I’m sure the bandage will burst open and unleash the vile blood and pus necessary to cause an epidemic of evil, zombie bullies.
    “Hey, asshole,” the clerk says. It’s a squeak, the sound of a mouse fighting off a cobra. Colt’s terrible reputation precedes him, even in the grown-up world.
    Colt empties the bag into his mouth, crumples it up, and drops the trash on the floor. He repeats the word “asshole,” elongates the “hole” until it becomes guttural in his throat, a sick animal roar: “ ass hollle.” He shuffles toward the cash register with his arms outstretched like Frankenstein. Some of the bandages unravel and spool off his arm. Infection drips on the floor.
    Ass hollle. …
    Ass hollle. …
    Colt reaches across the counter and claws the air. The clerk backs up against the wall, looks around for a weapon. There’s a mop sitting in black liquid. He pulls it out and forces the dripping end into Colt’s face. Colt’s head falls back but his arms still reach. The kid gives Colt another wash. The mop’s soggy dreadlocks get caught in Colt’s mouth.
    “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
    Headlights from the