Mondo-Mart had announced over the PA system it was closing in an hour. It took ten minutes, which was entirely too long to find sufficient parking, and then, of course, as soon as Curtis stepped out of the truck, the rain started to come down. He ran through the automatic door, straight into bedlam, taken aback as he came to a halt. Lines of shopping carts had blocked the corridor, snaking around the corner to the check-out area while additional carts pooled in front of every aisle, trying to reach any register. Curtis squeezed through the jam, pushing through hordes of consumers who were frantically buying up merchandise as if it were the end of days. He couldn’t believe the panic as he was repeatedly bumped from either side by the inconsiderate as they passed. It was so deafening, the PA announcement was blotted out, which warned, yet again, of the imminent closing and to please finish purchasing items.

The Mondo-Mart Superstore—a New England chain—was a massive all-in-one department store, grocery store, and electronics powerhouse; however, not all Mondo-Marts were superstores. It was very similar to and in direct competition with Target Stores; the main difference was in theme color—Mondo-Mart was forest green. And in addition to its many convenient, self-indulgent offerings, it was also equipped with an in-house coffee chain and express fast-food pizza eatery; because God forbid that you ever left. In particular, this location was two-level, and it gave Curtis anxiety to walk through—not only from the crowd but also knowing there was much more work still needing to be finished. At the moment, he just wanted to find the escalator up to Simmons’ office.

Curtis, subconsciously utilizing his knowledge of Ohm’s Law, managed to locate a path of least resistance; it was down the frozen food aisle along the far left side of the store. He squeezed by one very homely, morbidly obese lady, watching as she wheeled a cart full of gallon ice cream tubs and frozen meals with one hand while dragging behind a screaming, ginger child with the other. People around him were stockpiling cases of water, flashlights, extension cords, batteries of any and all sizes, canned goods, bread, milk, eggs, toilet paper, you name it. Curtis could never comprehend, which drove him mad, why people bought up crazy things like milk, eggs, and other perishable goods, especially ones that required refrigeration. If that power goes, and it certainly will, it’s just a fucking waste.

He couldn’t understand why people would act so naively insane before a storm and foolishly buy up everything in sight, anyway. This wasn’t the first storm grace the city of Norwich. And it wasn’t going to be a repeat of the surprise catastrophic nor’ easter—or “Storm Larry,” it had been coined—that pummeled New England the winter of 1978, where people were grossly unprepared, literally trapped home, some for weeks. That was the epitome of a natural disaster Curtis remembered well. The nation arrived to work one February morning with rain and walked out to four feet of dense snow with wind drifts ten to twenty feet high by the day’s end. Some who managed to leave work early to “beat the weather” ended up trapped in cars on the interstate. It would be days buried in shallow snowy graves before being dug out by cross-country skiers and snowmobilers, the only ones able to reach them, either to be rescued or found having succumbed to asphyxiation.

The coincidental New Moon brought in massive tides resulting in coastal flooding; thousands of homes were destroyed along the shoreline, lassoed to sea by merciless waves. Explosive cyclogenesis crippled the Northeastern seaboard leaving it in a perpetual state of darkness, and in the end, it was looked back on as sheer negligence of an untrusting community from inconsistent, poorly predicted meteorology. Unfortunately, even today, with all of the twentieth century’s technological advancements, New England weather still seems to be a challenge to predict.

Curtis walked behind the Customer Service desk, wedged inside an inlet between Home Goods and Electronics—it too had quite a line—and entered a back room with an empty employee lounge and three small offices, one of which was the general manager’s office. The plaque on the door read: GM - Orlando Simmons; Curtis pushed it open—it was empty. He figured with the store this mobbed that Simmons would likely be out on the floor, putting out patron fires.

Tempted to look for the tool bag and make a clean break, he stepped in, and Simmons emerged from around the corner, beaming from ear to ear. Tall, dark, and lanky, dressed to the nines, Curtis found his outfits impressive, albeit always—ALWAYS profoundly over the top. Deliberately clean-cut, with a black high-top fade, a strategically cropped goatee, and if he wasn’t unique enough, finished with black, square-framed, non-prescription eyeglasses. The blush and rose, paisley bow tie said it all as he sauntered over to Curtis, hands resting on his hips.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Mr. Curtis. You never, never, NEVER leave your tool bag at the Mondo-Mart!” He said with a waving index finger and a smirk.

“Hi, Mr. Simmons,” Curtis, slightly embarrassed, distracted by the shiny, lime green suit.

“Pleee-EASE! How many times do I have to tell you—call me Or-lan-do!” He smiled, enunciating. “And don’t you worry, suga’—I kept them safe under my desk, uh-huh.”

“Oh… Okay. Yeah, sorry, I was in a bit of a rush. Had a family emergency and left them behind. I feel so stupid—I never leave my tool bag anywhere.”

“GASP!” Orlando, touching his chest with over-exaggerated shock. “Well, I hope everything’s alright! You look very tense. Come on in, sit down, we’ll talk about it” He motioned toward the inside of the office as he walked in.

“OH... Um—I really, I uh—I can’t. I should really get back on the road with this storm coming and all, you know?” Curtis, trying to be polite but also honest.

“Oh, I completely understand. It looks like it’s getting bad out there! Well, if you change your mind, my door… is always open.” Orlando patted his shoulder, then lightly squeezed it. “My, my, you are a strong one!” he smiled.

“Uh, thanks, Orlando. I’ll keep that in mind.” He smirked. "Hey, uh, why is everybody going nuts out there, buying up the whole store?" Curtis said rhetorically, trying to move away from this situation.

"Remember the Blizzard of ’78? Oh, what am I talking about—you’re way too young to remember that.” Orlando smirked. “This happens anytime every time it’s projected to rain longer than a day. They’re like scared children out there. That’s why I hide in my cozy, little office with my essential oils and my meditation CDs." He sat down behind his immaculate desk, consisting of only four items. In one corner was a twenty-inch flat-screen computer monitor; in the other, a phone and situated between was a sizeable at-a-glance calendar, which was blank. Centered directly above the calendar was Newton’s Cradle. Sitting on an angle and lounged back, he reached across, lifted a shiny ball bearing, then released it.

“I’m not that young.” Curtis sort of smiled now, focusing on the pendulum. “I actually do remember—I missed school for about two weeks. Had my ninth birthday during that time; we were shut-in.” For reasons unknown, he began to feel a little more at ease.

“Bet that was nice!”

“It wasn’t. I lost my father that week.” Curtis said matter-of-factly. The bearing swung, smacking the stationary ones, mirroring the effect on the opposite end. As he stared at it, the clanking impact of each return seemed to slowly crescendo.

“Curtis, my God, I—am—SO—sorry!” Orlando gasped.

“It’s okay. It was a long time ago. My parents couldn’t get to work, you know. There was a mountain of snow in front of the door. I remember them complaining about lost wages the entire time for days. And we had one TV, and sports and news seemed to always be on. And I remember being so bored, just sitting on the couch. I think my father started to get cabin fever or something, so he forced his way out to begin shoveling, and out there, he had a heart attack. My mother went to go check on him, and he was just face down in the snow.

“Thankfully, by that time, the main roads were somewhat drivable, so we didn’t have to wait long for the ambulance, but it didn’t matter. The EMT said it was pretty instant. He had been dead at least two hours.” Curtis, still staring at the cradle, shook his head as if to release himself from the grips of a trance. He couldn’t believe he had just said all that to Orlando; however, there was something about him that was oddly comforting. Whether just joking or being awkwardly flirtatious, his personality always felt authentic.

“Sorry to hear that,” Orlando, somberly.

“life goes on, right?” Curtis nodded, and being slightly embarrassed, he turned to exit.

“Amen, honey. Hey, do me a favor, suga,’ tell Miguel to call me.” Orlando said, giggling and motioning the telephone sign with his hand up to the side of his head.

“You got it,” Curtis, bewildered as he walked out of the office.

“He is such a trip that one! I don’t know how you get any work done with him around?” Orlando continued.

Yeah, I don’t either…

His tool bag, though expensive, wasn’t anything special—blue canvas, faded, heavily worn at the edges having suffered years of abuse, but its contents—considering the Reynolds’ financial situation—were priceless. The bag also contained a couple of other items he actually did consider priceless. One: his wedding band, which was tucked away, wrapped in cloth in a small zippered pouch inside the bag’s main compartment. He’d never been a fan of wearing it, to begin with, having developed a habit of subconsciously fidgeting with it, inducing a new distraction. He’d take it off while at work to protect it from scratches and for safety reasons; its electrical conductivity made it a dangerous object to wear and also the perfect excuse to be relieved from its constraints. Mostly, it irritated the hell out of him while constantly working with his fingers. His complicated and confusing marital status hindered him from returning it to its proper place each day after work and knowing he wouldn’t return for several weeks, he’d decided to keep it off.

Before moving beyond Simmons’ office, Curtis quickly opened his bag, grabbing the folded cloth inside the pouch. The gold ring gleamed under the lambency of fluorescent lighting; it was as pristine as his wedding day. He slid it on, then reached back inside the pouch. The other irreplaceable item: An Oak Ridge bone handle folding knife, the last Christmas present from his father before entering Webelos Scouts—the highest Cub Scout rank—in the spring. Four inches of stainless steel tucked away into a textured ecru shaded handle with CCR engraved on the side. The blade, slightly tarnished from decades of sporadic use—mostly from his early teen years in the boy scouts—his oldest possession, the only thing preserved from childhood. He pushed it in his back pocket.

CCR, Curtis thought, his initials and the same CCR as in Credence Clearwater Revival, his father’s favorite rock group (though he mostly listened to Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard), now wondering if it was coincidence, though he didn’t believe in them. His memories as a child were sparse at best, but he briefly recalled at either six or seven, a period making weekly dump runs and hearing his father’s eight-track cassette tape fill the cab of his 1970 crimson red, Ford pickup with the swampy bayou sound of country, rhythm & blues; “Bad Moon Rising” was always his favorite.

Curtis quickly moved through the store, which seemed slightly less chaotic than when he first arrived, but the store’s front was as busy as ever. Shoppers in front of him nearing the exit began to slow down, bottlenecking, so he stopped to check his work pager, wondering if Amy tried to reach him. The pager wasn’t even on. With the weather appearing to worsen and a newfound reassessment of the panic-stricken crowd, he began to worry, wondering if she and Wes were safe, knowing he should have stayed even though he’d prepared the house best he could. Stubborn as he was, he questioned his decision to run all the way back, but his anxiety didn’t give him a choice. It rarely did. He felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach, wondering what was now in store for him when he returned. The last true time he felt this way was after his arrest, and he thought for sure he’d be divorced. She didn’t speak to him for an entire month thereafter.

There was a traffic jam of shopping carts pushed by hoards of the intolerant, urgently entering or exiting, but mostly pervading any available sidewalk space outside the front entrance to avoid pounding rainfall. An Emirate family with a heavy, older gentleman yelling at his wife and children in a language Curtis recognized as Arabic nudged past. Others pushed on either side of him as they shoved through the doorway chute like cattle. With his patience increasingly wearing thin, Curtis finally looked to see what the holdup was.

“MOVE!” Snarled the woman next to him.

“Huh?” He mumbled.

Curtis turned, recognizing her as the obese woman with the cart full of ice cream. Her face, inches from his, was covered in massive, hideous, oozing boils and black, pulsating lesions. Her lips were pallid and cracked open with dried, umber scabs crusted over. Her teeth, stained green, tinged with black mucus, dripped from her broken lips down to her tatted cleavage protruding from a torn form-fitting Hello Kitty tank top. Dried blood had caked over her flaky scalp under clumps of black, greasy, matted hair. The face boils were self-lancing, whitish orange viscous puss dribbled from the surface. The most terrifying thing was her eyes, iris frosted over, and bloodshot sclera glaring into his soul.

“MOVE WHILE YOU STILL CAN!” She grumbled in a deep, thundering, raspy tone. Black saliva shot from her mouth, splattering across Curtis’s face.

The color drained from Curtis, and his heart rate shot up; a bitter chill shivered through him. Frantically, he dropped the pager and tool bag, then collapsed gasping for air, trying to assimilate what was before his panicked eyes, which had since gone black after vertigo struck and bright confetti burst across his line of sight.

“Mister, are you alright? Mister?”

Curtis, on all fours, sucked back several deep breaths. And after a few moments, he grabbed his belongings, stood up slowly—still lightheaded, and with a delicate glance, he looked back at the lady.

She looked at him with profound concern. “I was talking to my son. Sorry to startle you, Mister. I said, MOVE IT!” She continued to yell and drag her screaming child behind her. Her face, though adversely becoming, was ordinary. Other than a bulging, hairy mole, her skin was spotless, and her eyes—a blue hue. Her hair, medium brown and straight, sat just above her shoulders. Other than having the appearance of a welfare case, she was seemingly healthy.

Curtis forced his way through the unrelenting crowd, shoving an elderly woman’s shopping cart entirely from his path, knocking it on its side; round, gallon-size water jugs rolled into the parking lot. The wind was gusting, sending the rain showering down at different angles as he ran to his truck, trying to avoid getting drenched, albeit wildly unsuccessful. He jumped into the cab and closed his eyes to catch his breath. Heavy, persisting rain pelted the pickup, the sound resonating as if an entire choir was sitting in the bed performing a snare drum solo. What the fuck is happening to me? That wasn’t real, that wasn’t real, that wasn’t real, that was not fucking real. Jesus Christ, what is this that is happening to me???

Curtis realized in recent weeks, his stress levels had risen dramatically, and in addition to body clock sensitivity, progressive insomnia finally began to affect him adversely. He was reminded of restless days laying in the hotel room after work with the curtains drawn and a bedsheet over him for added hindrance to incite unconsciousness. Mostly, he’d drift along in a seemingly perpetual state of lucidness—a fine line between two distressed worlds, never really knowing if he was asleep. His mind would drift, lost in an endless loop of thought: thinking, overthinking, analyzing, over-analyzing—a course of events that had transpired over the day, the course of probable events to occur over the next day—week—month. Finances. Always the finances. And then Amy… The early part of the relationship: the good times. Then he’d graze over the middle, straight to the shit times.

All of a sudden, he’d be in the middle of a somewhat hyperbolic interpretation of his current, cursed life—at home arguing with Amy, who’d be in tears, cowering in a room, terrified, or stuck inside a Mondo-Mart, inordinately frustrated with a maniacally laughing Miguel in a cloudy, stock room exhaling thick blunt smoke. But the worst was when he would get trapped in a version he most feared; the voices would come—the jumbled incessant cries for help. Begging. Pleading, as he would stand by, paralyzed. Powerless. Fortunately, no matter which vision he faced, it seemed to last only seconds before waking, interrupted by the slightest ambient sound. Even being awake felt like a dream.

But it wasn’t until now, this moment, he became cognizant of his altered perception of reality and the resulting repercussions manifesting from his latent subconscious. He no longer knew if he was grossly under-rested or heavily overworked—physically, mentally. Could he even differentiate between the two? He did know one thing...

It was happening again.

Next Chapter: CH. 13 - AMY