Belthor Finds The "Food" Store

The city was clean, flat, and easy to navigate with its grid style layout. Each establishment was marked clearly with a large sign. Belthor was able to find a location advertising his desired product before he could even realize Franza was missing, let alone go looking.

Might as well pick up some lunch while I’m here.

He took a step toward the door, but stopped. It was not the missing dog furry that gave him pause, but rather the quotation marks on the sign.

The “Food” Store.

At a glance, he couldn’t see anything wrong with the building. It was tidy and had a large, inviting window. But a quick look down the street confirmed that none of the other signs had similar marks.

The Clothing Store.

The Book Store.

The Garden Store.

The “Food” Store.

The sooner I go in, the sooner I can leave.

Silver bells tinkled in the corner of the doorway as Belthor entered. He was met with an oppressive sense of vacancy. The floor was made of pristine, white tiling. The white walls were lined with white trim. There was a white, wooden counter with a glass dessert case built in, displaying not a single dessert. The polished steel furniture gave off an industrial vibe, but not in a clean and efficient way. The feelings engendered were more akin to an industrial accident; sudden and unforgiving.

There was not a bit of food to be seen, even at the tables that were occupied. The dozen or so other patrons of the store were all so still and silent that Belthor felt more alone than if he were truly by himself.

I wish I had just stayed in Allia.

Facing the Parliamentary alone wouldn’t have been half so terrifying as the moment when the bells sounded again, and the door closed behind him. The room was plunged into an icy silence. No noise filtered in from the busy street outside. No natural light came in. The window didn’t seem to work from this direction.

The pale, nondescript man from behind the counter turned and smiled at Belthor. The expression didn’t meet his lifeless eyes.

The elf approached the nightmarish man warily, hoping to move things along so he didn’t have to be there anymore.

“Hello. What sort of food do you have here?”

“We have all the ‘food’ you could want here.”

Belthor was uncomfortably aware of the fact that he could hear the quotation marks around the word ‘food.’ He glanced around at the other patrons to see their ghostly faces, all looking at him. They seemed to be breathing in unison.

I have to be really specific in how I ask.

“Do you have anything physical here? Or is it all imaginary food?”

“Oh, we’ve got all the ‘real’ ‘food’ you could ‘eat.’”

Is this some kind of cult? Drug front? Nightmare? Am I about to die?

The alarm bells sounding off in Belthor’s mind were somehow the loudest thing in the shop at the moment. He realized he couldn’t smell food any more than he could see it. The store had only the lingering scent of bleach.

He took a step back toward the door, which seemed to trigger a reaction from the clerk. He sped around the counter, maintaining complete rigidity in his every movement. “Come on, back to the back.”

“No, that’s —“

He was interrupted as the man wrapped an arm around his shoulder and continued talking in a tone that didn’t quite match his demeanor. “Right into the back. That’s where all the ‘real’ ‘food’ is. Right back in the back. Into the back you go.”

It was the same steady speech Belthor imagined a butcher might use to calm a lamb before slaughter. The clerk’s white apron helped the situation not at all.

“Uhm…” Belthor was either too stunned or too scared to stealth away, but he knew he had to do something before this stranger could maneuver him to the unmarked, nearly invisible door in the back.

They were there before he thought of anything. The entire width of the shop had been crossed in the blink of an eye.

“Right here in the back,” the clerk nodded toward the door.

Maybe if I open it I can push him in? Or maybe there’s a back exit I can sneak through?

He turned the knob and swung the door in where it was promptly swallowed by a thick curtain of darkness.

“What kind of ‘food’ do you like to ‘eat?’” Asked the clerk, his fingers digging painfully into the elf’s shoulder.

“What sort of ‘food’ do you recommend I, er, ‘eat?’” He asked, desperately trying to stall. Already he was having to lean back to avoid being pushed into the abyss before him.

The clerk died.

It came suddenly, without any warning. One second he was pushing Belthor back toward a horrific fate. The next he was crumpled, lifeless, on the floor, one hand swallowed up by the darkness.

Belthor’s looting instincts proved stronger than his survival instincts. Before he could think better of it, he was kneeling to check the pockets of the corpse. He stood again quickly in acknowledgement of his mistake, but the seconds he had lost had been precious. Already the first voice was addressing him.

“Hey. What are you ‘doing’ in there?”

That started a chorus of other voices, all as monotone and creepy as the first.

“What’s going on?”

“Is it okay?”

“Is he okay?”

“Is the ‘food’ okay?”

“‘Food.’”

“Okay?”

“‘Food.’”

The clamor of voices was upon Belthor as suddenly as death had been upon the clerk. By the time he’d taken a step away from the body and toward the door, the crowd was close and thick, some stragglers still lumbering up to the edge of the scene.

He had gotten just far enough away from the inky void that he could once more focus. A lie came quickly. “He collapsed, and I was just checking his pulse there.”

“Oh no.”

The flat, indifferent tone was still enough to encourage him. “He was just telling me that there was some ‘food’ in the dark room back there. But then he died.”

“Died?”

“Died.”

“Dead?”

“Died.”

“Oh no.”

Then the chorus gained momentum, and seemed to turn against him.

“What are you ‘doing?’”

“What is he ‘doing?’”

“‘Food.’”

“Dead.”

“What about the ‘food?’”

“Is the ‘food’ okay?”

“Died.”

“Who will give us our ‘food?’”

“‘Food.’”

“Where is the ‘food?’”

Belthor tried to take another step away but found his path immediately hindered by more “food” obsessed customers who were already too close for comfort and moving ever closer.

“The ‘food.’”

“‘Food.’”

“Who will ‘feed’ us our ‘food?’”

“‘Feed?’”

“‘Food.’”

A thin hand reached for Belthor and he swatted it away, panicked. With a newfound sense of urgency he pressed into the crowd, which continued to close around the body. He emerged from the throng, just to find a barricade had been made in front of the door.

“He must give us ‘food.’”

“Will you give us ‘food?’”

“Will you ‘feed’ us?”

Please, please don’t let me be the “food.”

When he looked back, there were nearly a hundred gaunt faces watching him expectantly.