Chapter 12: Shelf Life

The fluorescent lights inside Ichigari Grocery hummed their usual dead note. Apricot swiped her ID, slipped behind the counter, and clocked in. Her hands still trembled from the walk. The pop song was gone from her earbuds — she’d yanked them out two blocks back — but the melody still threaded through her skull, thin and wrong, stripped of warmth.

She tucked her bag into a locker and pulled her apron over her head. The fabric smelled like floor cleaner and old cardboard. Familiar. Safe enough.

The store was quiet for midafternoon. A handful of customers drifted between the aisles, their shoes squeaking on linoleum. Scanners beeped at the registers. The ceiling speakers leaked a different song now, something bland and cheerful, and Apricot latched onto it like a rope thrown across dark water.

Normal. This is normal. You’re at work.

She grabbed the cart of cereal boxes from the stockroom and wheeled it to Aisle 3.

Stocking shelves had always been her least favorite chore. The boxes were too colorful, cartoon mascots grinning with manic joy — Choco Flakes, Honey Rings, Neon Crunch. She lined them into rows, aligning each label with the shelf edge. The repetition helped. One box at a time. Something small and controllable.

She was halfway down the aisle, a stack balanced against her hip, when she noticed him.

A man stood at the far end. Motionless. His head was tilted back, eyes fixed on the fluorescent tube above him. His lips moved in a soft, constant whisper.

Apricot paused.

Middle-aged. Coat rumpled. Posture rigid as carved stone — except for the whispering mouth. The angle of his neck and the vacant intensity of his gaze prickled something deep in her chest. A frequency she recognized now, the same wrongness that had preceded every encounter she wished she could forget.

She set the boxes down quietly.

“Sir?” she called. Gentle. Professional. “Can I help you find something?”

Her voice carried through the near-empty aisle.

The man did not react. He did not blink. He kept muttering at the light, as if the buzzing fixture were feeding him some private instruction.

She had seen plenty of strange customers. Drunks ranting at freezer doors, insomniacs arguing with nothing. But that was late-night behavior. This was midafternoon. And this man’s stillness felt less like illness and more like occupation.

She turned back to her cart. If he wasn’t breaking anything, security could handle it. Her hands resumed their work — lift, align, slide — but her ears stayed open, straining against the hum.

“…why are you…”

The words bled through the refrigerator drone.

Apricot’s hand froze halfway to the shelf.

She glanced down the aisle. The man’s head had tilted a few degrees toward her. His eyes still rolled upward at the bulb, but she felt them tracking her. Seeing without looking.

“Sorry, sir. Did you need help?”

His head snapped toward her. The motion was too fast, too sharp — a dry, birdlike crack. His eyes locked onto hers, wide and fever-bright, swimming with terror.

“Why are you staring at me!”

The scream tore the silence open. Apricot jolted, nearly dropping the boxes. The shift from dead stillness to raw hysteria shot through her like current.

“I wasn’t — I’m sorry, I wasn’t staring—”

“Stop looking at me!” His voice shredded through the aisle, ragged and animal. The hair on her arms rose. This wasn’t panic. This felt triggered, like her attention had tripped something inside him.

She snapped her eyes to the floor. “Okay. I’m not looking. Everything’s okay.”

His breathing grew uneven. Even with her gaze lowered, she caught the tremor of him at the edge of her vision. A stumbling step closer. Fists clenched. A guttural drop.

“Don’t. Look. At me…”

Where is everyone?

The aisles that should have held coworkers, drifting managers, stood empty. The only sounds were his labored breaths and the harsh buzz of the lights.

She edged backward. “I’m going to get my manager—”

“WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME?!”

The scream ripped through the aisle so raw it sounded torn from his lungs. Then a wet, stomach-turning gag.

Her eyes snapped up.

He clutched his throat, face twisted. A thick dark fluid splattered across the linoleum. Blood tangled with something heavier, almost tar-like. He convulsed again, spraying more of it in a fine arc.

“Sir—” She stepped forward, hand half raised.

His body began to twist. Bones shifted. His spine arched. Something inside him strained against the architecture of his frame.

Then the hands.

Long skeletal fingers pushed outward from inside his mouth, prying at the corners of his lips. Flesh stretched. The jaw unhinged with a wet, cracking sound. Blood poured down his neck in thick streams as the skin peeled like rotting cloth, pulled from within by something that had grown tired of wearing him.

A bulbous sac of flesh surged through the gaping throat, streaked with bile. An eye rolled beneath the translucent membrane. A sideways gash split across it — a second mouth, ringed with needle teeth. A long tongue unfurled from the inner maw, tasting the air.

The creature was not attacking him.

It had lived inside him.

A scream tore out of Apricot, raw and primal. She stumbled backward into the shelf. Boxes rained down around her — bright mascots, cartoon joy, landing in the spreading pool of blood. But she barely registered them. Her world had narrowed to the thing at the end of the aisle, tearing free of its host.

The creature lurched forward, spidery limbs clicking on linoleum. Jerky, spasmodic — a newborn testing stolen legs. It regarded the soggy remains of the man it had worn, the two halves of him splayed across the floor like discarded wrapping. Then it seized one half in its long fingers and hurled it.

The slab of flesh hit Apricot before she could move. The weight of it knocked her flat. She landed hard on her back, covered in gore — warm, wet, impossibly heavy. She screamed, clawing at the remains, kicking her feet against the blood-slicked floor. Her hands slipped. She fell to her knees, got up, fell again. The linoleum was a red lake.

Screams erupted from the adjoining aisles. Footsteps pounded. Carts clattered and overturned. The creature’s head swiveled, tracking the noise, and it vaulted the shelves like a feral animal, claws catching the metal racks. Entire rows cascaded like dominoes, crashing into one another with a chain of metallic shrieks.

Apricot scrambled to her feet, soaked and shaking. She rounded the endcap into the main aisle and nearly collided with an older man who had stopped to stare, rooted in place by the kind of disbelief that gets people killed.

“Move!” she screamed.

He didn’t. He swung a wine bottle instead. Glass shattered across the creature’s back as it dropped from the toppled shelving. Shards stuck out like spikes. The creature barely flinched. It turned toward him in one fluid motion, grabbed his head in its fleshy fingers, and pulled.

The sound was brief. Final. The body dropped.

Apricot was already running. Past the registers, past the produce section, toward the warehouse doors. A boy stood frozen between the fruit displays — seven, maybe eight, tears streaking his face.

She grabbed his wrist. “Come on.”

The boy ran beside her, sobbing, hitching, but moving.

They crashed through the double doors into the warehouse. A handful of employees and customers had already gathered inside, faces gray, hands clutching whatever they’d grabbed — a mop handle, a box cutter, a length of pipe. The stocky deli worker, still wearing his gore-stained apron, gripped a butcher’s cleaver in a white-knuckled fist. Another coworker had wrenched a metal pole from the shelving and held it like a spear.

Everyone was trembling. Everyone was watching the door.

Apricot pulled the boy behind a tall rack of boxed stock. She clamped a hand gently over his mouth. His breath was hot and fast against her palm. Her own heart hammered so hard she could feel it in her teeth.

The screaming from the store had stopped. Silence pressed against the warehouse walls.

A thunderous bang crashed against the double doors. Dust shook loose from the hinges. A warbling hiss seeped under the frame — wet, wrong, hungry.

Then quiet.

In the stillness, a pressure entered her skull. Not a voice — not quite. A cold directive, wordless and absolute, the way a hand closes around a leash. The Reaper. She didn’t hear language. She felt intent: Now.

Her stomach dropped. No. Not here. Not with people watching.

The pressure tightened. Something stirred in her chest, hot and corrosive, pushing against the inside of her ribs. Pain spidered down her forearms. Her hands began to shake — not from fear this time but from something moving beneath the skin, something that did not belong to her.

No. I don’t want this.

The warehouse door exploded inward.

A metal panel skidded across the concrete. The creature forced itself through the wreckage, ducking beneath the twisted frame, then unfolding to its full height under the fluorescent glare. Up close, under harsh light, it was worse. A spidery ghoul of exposed ribs and jutting bone. Shreds of the man’s face and shirt still clung to its frame like wet rags, tatters of a human life hanging loose. Claws clicked against concrete. That sideways mouth stretched wide.

It spotted the huddled survivors and charged.

The coworker with the pole stepped forward with a roar. He braced himself and drove the metal shaft forward like a spear. The impact landed with a sickening thunk, punching straight through the creature’s chest. For a heartbeat the warehouse froze. The creature convulsed around the rod, skewered and thrashing, dark ichor hissing and bubbling around the shaft.

But it didn’t die. With a guttural snarl it lurched forward along the pole, dragging itself toward the man, inner jaws snapping inches from his face. Then its tongue shot out — pale, worm-like — and coiled around his neck like a fleshy noose, cutting off his roar. He gagged and dropped the pole, clawing at the tightening appendage.

The butcher didn’t hesitate. He charged past Apricot with a wordless bellow and brought the cleaver down in a brutal, sweeping arc. The blade sliced clean through the tongue. The severed stump hit the concrete in a twitching, spurting heap.

Freed, the pole-wielder collapsed backward, hacking and sputtering as he tore the dead coil from his throat. The creature shrieked — an awful, broken sound — and turned its hollow eyes on the butcher.

The loading bay at the far end of the warehouse blew open. Not a crash — a controlled detonation, a sharp concussive pop that rattled the shelving and punched dust from the rafters. Light flooded in, harsh and white, mounted on the barrels of rifles.

Black armor. SDP markings.

They came in formation, four across, visors down, boots striking concrete in lockstep. No shouting. No hesitation. They moved like men who had done this before and expected to do it again.

“Civilians down! Stay down!”

The creature turned from the butcher. Its head swiveled toward the new threat with that awful, mechanical precision. The sideways mouth gaped.

The first volley hit it center mass. Three rounds, four, punching through the exposed ribcage in bright flashes. The creature staggered, dark ichor spraying in arcs. A second burst caught its shoulder, spinning it sideways. It shrieked — metallic, splitting — and dropped to all fours.

For one breathless moment, Apricot thought it was over.

Then it lunged. Faster than before, faster than anything that wounded should move. It closed the distance to the nearest officer in a blur of claws and wet bone. He got his shield up. The impact drove him backward across the concrete, boots scraping trenches in the dust. Another officer fired point-blank into its flank. The creature’s body jerked but didn’t stop. It climbed the shield like a wall, claws puncturing composite plating, that inner tongue whipping toward the officer’s exposed neck.

A third officer drove the stock of his rifle into its skull. The creature twisted, swiping. He went down. Blood hit the floor.

Apricot stood frozen behind the rack. The pain in her arms crested. Light erupted — not from her, she told herself, not from me — and the air split with a sound like tearing metal. She felt heat leave her body, a wrenching, emptying sensation, as though something had reached into her chest and pulled. Her vision whited out. Her knees buckled.

When it cleared, she was on the concrete. Her palms were scorched. The warehouse smelled like ozone and copper.

The creature was gone. Where it had stood, a dark smear fizzled on the floor, embers of static guttering and dying. The metal pole lay on the concrete, half-melted at one end. The deli worker sat against a shelf, clutching his neck where the tongue had seized him, blood seeping between his fingers. One of the SDP officers knelt beside the man who had gone down, pressing gauze to something Apricot couldn’t see. The coworker who had been nearest the door when the creature burst through lay motionless, crumpled against the wall.

The remaining officers swept the room, visors tracking corners, barrels steady. One of them spoke into a comm unit, voice flat and clipped. Hazmat suits streamed in behind them. White. Government-stamped.

Apricot tried to stand. Her legs wouldn’t hold. The concrete was cold against her knees.

Someone was crying. Several someones. The deli worker’s breath came in wet, rasping pulls.

The boy.

She turned her head. The space behind the rack where she’d left him was empty. The fire exit at the back of the warehouse stood ajar, a sliver of daylight cutting through the gloom.

He was gone.

She stared at the open door. Something about his absence felt less like escape and more like departure — deliberate, precise, as if he had seen exactly what he’d come to see.

~

The officials moved with rehearsed efficiency. Chemical spray over the blood. Foil blankets draped over shoulders. Survivors herded through a side exit into the parking lot, where more vehicles waited with their lights pulsing red and blue.

A respirator-muffled voice addressed them: “You’ve been exposed to a hallucinogenic contaminant. You must come with us for decontamination.”

Apricot stood among the others, wrapped in a foil blanket that crinkled with every breath. Her uniform was soaked through with blood — the man’s blood, the creature’s blood, she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Her palms still stung with the memory of heat that should not have come from them.

That was no hallucination.

She said nothing.

A medic checked her pupils, her pulse, asked if she could state her name. She answered each question in a flat, steady voice. She watched the hazmat crew spray the warehouse floor, watched the chemical mist dissolve every trace of black ichor into something that could be mopped up and explained away. She counted the officials. She noted the government stamps on their suits. She clocked the three body bags being loaded through a rear entrance while the survivors were kept facing the other direction.

Three dead.

She filed it away the way she’d file a lede: who, where, when, how many. The habit was the only thing holding her together.

Behind a tall rack of boxed noodles near the warehouse entrance, a shadow lingered where no shadow should have been. Two faint pinpricks of light within it. No one else looked. No one else saw.

The Reaper stood inside the perimeter of a government cleanup operation, invisible and patient, watching her from within the machinery of the cover-up itself.

His masked head tilted. That was all.

No words. No judgment spoken aloud. But the tilt carried weight — the cold, appraising angle of something measuring a return on its investment and finding the margin thin.

Apricot looked away first.

Outside, daylight had gone flat and colorless. She stood in the parking lot with the other survivors, wrapped in foil, splattered in blood, and waited for someone to tell her what to do next. The lie was already spreading — she could hear fragments of it in the officials’ rehearsed phrases, in the way they separated the most vocal witnesses into a different vehicle.

A glint at her feet caught her eye. In a shard of broken glass, she saw her reflection: a wide-eyed girl streaked with gore, hair wild, face drained of color.

For a moment, she did not recognize herself at all.