Tom
He wasn’t afraid. Not really. Sure, he was jumpy, but he’d done the night shift more times than any other employee. If anyone could show someone how to make it through the night, it was Tom.
Tom watched as Lucy walked away, a triumphant skip in her step, jet black hair shining bouncing behind her. He liked Lucy, a lot in fact, but this mean streak always gave him pause. It was just so high school.
Kat looked worried. Tom’s normal sense of sullen complacency fell away as he looked at her. He wasn’t usually hand on, more used to the path of least resistance, but that was his entire problem.
Okay, time to be a good co-worker.
By the end of the night, he’d make sure she felt safe.
“Don’t worry about Lucy,” Tom said finally. “She likes to rattle people, but she means well…really.”
Kat looked at the stained linoleum beneath her.
“It’s okay. I get the mean girl act. High school isn’t far away enough yet to forget it.”
Memories of hallways past flooded Tom’s mind, like a muddy stream rolling miserably on. Similarly, he hoped time would make it go away, that the window he viewed that time through would fog up. He wanted to forget too, but expected it was for a very different reason.
“For Lucy, it’s more about this being a separate space. She doesn’t talk about school much, but it must be hard, and she has more control here.”
Kat nodded and looked out the window as Lucy passed in her blue-bug of a deathtrap.
“It’ll get better for her.”
She smiled to Tom.
“Then it’s just the occasional stress dream.”
“You’re not wrong,” Tom said, ruffling his hair. “Mine is: I’m late to a class I’ve never even been to. Happens at least once a week.”
He was lying, of course, but if he were more specific…
She’d never speak to him again.
“Mine are less consistent,” Kat said, shrugging absentmindedly, eyes still on the snaking highway. “They’re just generally themed towards being bad at something repetitive. Last night I was working for a circus or something. They had me cleaning plastic rats in the back and kept telling me to hurry up.”
Tom snorted before quickly covering his mouth.
“Sorry. Sounds pretty rough.”
Kat shook her head and gave Tom a reassuring grin.
“No, no, it’s silly as hell.”
“What do you think the rats represent?”
“Rats, I think?” Kat said with a smirk. “I don’t really stand by dream theory. I think sometimes your brain is just fucking with you.”
Tom covered his mouth and feigned shock.
“Sorry,” Lucy shouted, “messing with you!”
Tom laughed again.
“Don’t worry about swearing, as long as there aren’t any customers around…”
He turned and saw a middle-aged man in khaki waving from behind an aisle. He had fishing lures hooked into his hat and looked as depressed as Tom often felt.
“Don’t mind me. Swear all you like,” he said, as he grabbed a bag of cheesy puffs off the shelf. “Fucking bass weren’t biting today, so I’m not planning on being politically correct either.”
Tom nodded to him, hoping he wouldn’t elaborate.
“We’ll be at the counter when you’re ready.”
He walked over to the counter before realizing this was a teachable moment. Luckily, Kat had followed and was waiting for instruction. She seemed so attentive, very in the moment, kind of studying him…but in a nice way. Less judgmental, and more considerate.
“Okay, have you used a cash register before?”
Kat nodded. Then her pretty amber eyes went a bit wide, as if catching herself.
“But they’re all different, so I’ll pay close attention!”
Tom looked to the register to hide his smile. They were all pretty much the same, but it was nice to be humored.
“All set, Mr. White?”
The grumpy fisherman sauntered up with the day’s catch. A basket full of junk food and a little plastic Doberman, head bobbling as he approached.
“Yeah, another heavy caloric end to a bad day’s forage.”
Tom started ringing in the items. He took his time so Kat could see the sequence play out.
“They’ll bite one of these days.”
Mr. White folded his arms.
“I think I need to find a new spot. There used to be tons of fish in there, but I haven’t seen a keeper all season.”
Tom cocked his head to the side, still mainly paying attention to the checkout.
“Maybe it’s your baits? What kind of baitfish are in the lake? Maybe there is an insect hatch you can take advantage of—”
“It’s not my baits, kid,” Mr. White growled. “I’ve been fishing that lake for years, and that spot for nearly as long. Something’s been dumped in.”
“You think someone poisoned the lake?” Tom asked, swiping the last item. “Cash or credit?”
“No, not poison. I think someone introduced a new species. Something’s eating the bass and it’s… oh, credit. And don’t bother with the paper bag, fucking things always tear anyway.”
Tom nodded and waited for Mr. White to finish the transaction. The greying man looked up.
“Where can I set my basket?”
Tom glanced at the stack of baskets by the door.
“Just leave it here. I’ll put it back for you.”
The fisherman nodded; processed foods wrapped in a tight bear hug. He sauntered towards the door, opening it awkwardly with his foot before stepping out.
“He’s a regular. Not a bad guy, just don’t get talking to him about media, the news, politics…religion. You know, just ask him how his fishing is going, and he’ll fill the air. Same with any of the other woodsy types passing through.”
Kat smiled and turned her gaze towards the ceiling as if making a mental note.
“My dad used to fish. I think I have enough knowledge to wing it with them,” she said, putting a hand on her chin. “Fancy baits are for catching the fisherman, not fish. Ever try a black tube with blue flakes? Are you fishing off a shelf? The predators are always hunting just off a drop-off.”
She was funny and really quick when she wasn’t nervous.
“That will do it,” he paused, considering her barrage of one-liners. “Why blue flakes? Wouldn’t red be better? Blood and all.”
Kat looked at the ceiling again.
“Hmm, I think it’s because blue is the last color you lose as water gets deeper.”
“How deep are we talking? And can bass even see color?”
Kat shrugged.
“Fancy baits are for catching fishermen, not fish.”
Tom nodded knowingly. Even if he knew little about the subject, he trusted she could handle the customers.
“Fair enough,” he said, looking down at the cash register. “I take it you don’t need any more instruction with this thing?”
“Nah, I’m good,” she paused, distracted for a moment by something internal. “What do you think he meant? With the thing in the lake story, I mean.”
Tom scratched his head. He was as hopeless with local gossip as he was with fishing talk.
“Probably just an excuse. I don’t think he often catches dinner for himself.”
“Right.”
That look passed over Kat again – the same worry she had after Lucy’s ghost story.
“Listen, I know you didn’t grow up in the woods like us, and the Island is weird, but it’s safe here.” He moved across the room. “This place is only kept open after hours in case someone has an issue at the pumps. The likelihood of you getting a customer after ten is low… and Daisy is here with you until eleven on Friday and Saturday, when we’re busiest. There are cameras, which are a deterrent in and of themselves, and if someone spooks you, just go in the office and lock the door.”
He pointed to the door beside them, just beyond the rows of cigarettes.
“The door locks from the inside. And you can see the cameras on Bradley’s computer. There’s also fire alarms hooked into the same security system. We keep extinguishers in the back, the office, and one in the cabinet under that damn hotdog spinner… all the emergencies have been considered,” he said, pushing down the urge to reach out and touch her shoulder. “You’re safe as kittens in here.”
Kat’s face brightened up again.
“Okay, I’ll stop worrying about it. All the talk about missing people and ghosts is just hazing.”
“Yeah…” Tom said, looking away.
The truth was that he knew it wasn’t. Everyone he’d ever met had a story. As time went on, for many of them, all that was left was their stories.
The longer you spend on the Island, the more friends you lose. One way or another.
Tom tried to ignore the voice in the back of his head. The one telling him not to make excuses.
They weren’t disappearing. They’re just tired of your bullshit.
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Jacob Marsh 