Katie Burgess
Look, obviously you can’t just go around shooting gas station clerks. Or shooting anyone, for that matter. But Dustin’s my friend, plus I have to wonder how much he was affected by this eclipse that’s going to happen. Nobody knows him like me–it’s been the two of us, Dusty and Dustin, for over thirty-five years now. And the Dustin who did that isn’t the Dustin I know. He’s a softie, always has been. Back when we were kids, he’d insist on playing Duck Hunt in clay pigeon mode because even hurting pixelated ducks made him cry. Yeah, he keeps a gun for protection, but only a little .22 pistol. He’s harmless. Or he was, until something changed.
And I’ll be the first to admit you can’t believe everything on the internet. But I’ve watched all of @abyzz_gazer_69’s videos, including premium subscriber content, and he’s never been wrong. I’m not saying he can’t be wrong, but it hasn’t happened so far. He predicted the last election. He predicted the hurricane. He predicted Clemson winning the Taxslayer Gator Bowl. You can’t explain all of that away as coincidence. And right now he’s predicting that the grid might go down and cause riots. Earth’s magnetic poles could switch and make birds migrate the wrong way. One way or another, this eclipse will change everything. Maybe everything’s already changing. Maybe that’s why Dustin’s sitting around in an ankle monitor right now.
I knew he was bad off after Lacey kicked him out and said their baby wasn’t his, but him and Lacey always have drama, and it always blows over. I thought this would, too.
What’s wild is Baby Pressley looks like him to a T. That’s what I said last time I saw him, the day we were both working a double at the mayonnaise factory. He looked ready to cry, but I didn’t draw attention to that. I knew if I mentioned it he’d get mad and probably have some kind of a mishap. He’s burned himself on the heat exchanger before. Instead I said, “Dustin, that kid looks like you in a tutu. Go get a paternity test and insist on your rights, but forget Lacey. Honestly, you’re better off.”
I asked if he wanted to go bowling later, but he said he’d be busy. “Busy” apparently meant spending three solid days with his Grandma Frances, doing nothing but sit around and drink wine from a can. I guess Rosé My Way is all Miss Frances keeps on hand. Once that ran out, he drove to the Prest-O-Pump to buy a twelve pack of Coors, and when the clerk said she couldn’t sell to anyone who was already inebriated, he pulled out his .22 and shot her in the face.
She’ll be all right, minus one eye. It’s still terrible, of course.
I texted Dustin after Miss Frances bailed him out. I said he and Baby Pressley were welcome to stay with me–the plan was for everyone to shelter at my place after the eclipse anyway, so we’d be getting an early start. But Lacey wanted him back home. Like I said, their drama never lasts. So then I didn’t know what else to do with myself.
That was how I started visiting the Prest-O-Pump. I guess I couldn’t wrap my head around what happened. I needed to see it in person, and so that’s what I did. I came here and saw it. The cold beer case. The security cameras. The little screen that said Smile, you’re on TV and showed the inside of the store and the gas pumps out front. They still had caution tape wrapped around number eight, where Dustin crashed his car. The things an eclipse can make you do. I mean, damn.
I stared for a long time at the register, like I expected to still see blood or eyeball jelly everywhere. Or the clerk herself, clutching her face and moaning while she rang up people’s beef jerky. But of course it was a couple of weeks before she was out of the hospital and all that.
She’s here tonight. She’s worked almost every night shift since she came back.
Her bandaged left eye gives her a sad look. Then again she kind of seems like someone who’s always looked sad. She’s not unattractive, but she has this shuffling, hunched-over walk, even though she probably isn’t that old. The name Grace is sewn on her employee polo shirt. I already knew her name before I saw her, from the online fundraiser: Help With Grace’s Severed Optic Nerve. The real fundraiser, that is–there were a bunch of fakes that popped up right after the news about the shooting came out, but the verified one was for Grace. I donated twenty dollars to it.
Tonight she’s rearranging the CBD gummy display and talking to a younger girl behind the register. I’ve seen the girl around a few times. Her name tag says Stella–her name’s not sewn on like Grace’s. Stella nods every once in a while, but she has earbuds in, so I doubt she’s listening.
“They can 3D print the prosthetic eye, and insurance will pay for it. Or most of it. But there’s no one in Foote County that can do the fitting.”
“Shit,” Stella says, looking at her phone.
“I don’t know when I’ll have time to go all the way to Columbia,” Grace says. “I’m out of sick days.”
I feel bad hearing that. I text Dustin about how maybe we could do something for her, something besides giving money. I add that maybe it would even help his case. I don’t think it’ll actually go to trial, since they haven’t set a date yet, and the eclipse is in three days. By then we may not have courts or laws at all. But with Dustin it helps to point out what’s in it for him. And who knows, maybe society will survive, so we might as well prepare for that freak chance. “Prepare for Freak Chances” is one of Abyzz’s mottos, along with “Ask the Hard Questions.”
I wait a minute, but Dustin doesn’t text back. He’s probably busy.
I poke around the store some more, seeing if they have any supplies I might be missing. Of course everything’s overpriced. I mean, eight dollars for a frozen pizza? They do have solar viewers that look nicer than the ones I got at Hot Prepper’s. So I buy a couple pairs. Then I throw in some CBD gummies, so Grace will feel good about how nice she arranged them. Even though Stella is at the register, Grace walks over and rings me up. If I were in charge, I think I would let Stella go.
“You ready for the eclipse?” I ask.
Grace squints. I’m not sure if she recognizes me from the other nights I’ve been in here. I have sort of a plain face. “I’ll be working,” she says.
I wonder if it’s a faux pas to have asked that, but she can still look at the eclipse with her right eye. And that’s not even the main thing.
“I mean ready for other stuff,” I say. “Like power grid failures, or people going crazy. Convenience stores are major targets in an emergency.” I wait to see how she reacts.
“Have a good one,” she says, putting all my items in a smiley face bag.
“I’m Dusty, by the way.”
She nods, then turns and mutters something to Spacey Stella.
“You take care,” I say. “I mean it.”
It worries me that Grace isn’t taking this seriously. Dustin didn’t, either, when I first brought up the subject. He’s lucky to have me to send him lists of things he and Lacey’ll need, cloth diapers and whatnot, plus make plans for who’ll take care of Miss Frances. She puts up plenty of food from her garden, sure, but what if the riots start and strangers try to break her door down? And they’re all on some special kind of meth that gives them super strength? I guess if there’s a total societal collapse then Dustin’s ankle monitor will stop working, so he’ll be able to get to her. But I’ve reassured him that I’m available as a backup. My best friend’s grandma is basically my grandma, too. I would never leave her alone to fight meth heads over her last okra pickle.
Grace, though, she’s already been through so much, and even if I can make her see the gravity of the situation, she can’t possibly prepare in three days.
We laugh at ancient people for thinking eclipses were the end of the world, but what are you supposed to think when you’re out hunting gazelles or whatever and suddenly the sky goes black and everyone starts screaming? You think the gods are angry, or maybe they’re dead. Maybe your friend looks straight at the sun and goes as blind as poor Grace’s left side. Then it’s over, and you’re like, what the hell?
And anyhow, didn’t their world end? We don’t have gladiators anymore. We don’t have Pharaohs.
Even understanding the science behind it, I’m spooked. I can see why Abyzz says this one is different. Something is making everything different, making us different.
My first job was at the ice cream parlor at the mall. My manager was okay at first, but then she started snapping at folks, accusing us of stealing money and peeing in the shaved ice. Turned out she had a tumor pressing on her brain. She survived her operation but never was normal again. And I read about this guy who got a bacterial infection after falling off a zipline into a lake, and he forgot the whole English language. All he could say was a few words of Spanish he’d learned in school, stuff like Where is the discotheque? And of course Grace and her optic nerve. Anything can mess you up. So why wouldn’t an eclipse, when it can mess up birds and magnetic poles?
No, I trust Abyzz on this. He never falls for bullshit rumors. Like a while back when people were saying if you typed the word “dog” nineteen times into a search and then translated it from Maori you’d get some message that the Doomsday Clock was three minutes at twelve. Abyzz did a deep dive on that one, showing how it was nothing but a weird glitch and didn’t mean anything. Abyzz fact checks like you wouldn’t believe. He’s a critical thinker.
I go home and have a beer and a few of the gummies. Then it’s time to assess the attic. I climb up the ladder and look around.
I’m mostly ready. I’ve got MREs, bottled water. A solar phone charger, paper maps, ammunition. Plastic sheeting and duct tape. I could use more first aid supplies, and I’d like to find one of those radios that you charge with a crank. Miss Frances used to have one she took on our camping trips.
Dustin first invited me camping in fourth grade, not long after we became friends. We were paired up as line buddies because of our names. That made Dustin cry, because he wanted to be line buddies with a different kid. Dustin’s always been a big crier. Whenever a teacher scolded him he’d start wailing, and they’d send him to the guidance counselor instead of giving him a paddling, which is maybe part of the problem. He’s my friend, but I will say I got my share of paddlings growing up, and I’ve never shot anyone in the face. Anyway, I decided I would be such an amazing line buddy that he’d forget all about wanting to be line buddies with anyone else, and then one day he said, “Hey, my grandma wants to know if you want to go camping with us.” I was in.
Miss Frances rented an RV with a regular bathroom so we didn’t have to go in the woods. And it had a portable TV and a fridge full of Lunchables. There were bunk beds up top where I told ghost stories–only after Miss Frances went to sleep, because she said those kind of stories were Satanic. I guess Dustin believed her, because he freaked out and started crying when I told the one about the swamp wife. But then he wanted to hear it again, and he said I could keep going camping with them if I didn’t tell anyone at school and if I knew more scary stories.
The attic is in decent shape. I’ll need to make another run to Hot Prepper’s, for more MREs and water. And I can put up another privacy curtain.
My place will be our base location because it’ll be safest from rioters. I have heavy locks, and I’m up on a hill, so we’ll have a good vantage point. Plus my attic is totally soundproofed, since this is where I record my videos. So we can hide up here and never be found, even if Baby Pressley starts crying real loud. And she does get loud. One thing about Pressley is she started out as a twin, but she absorbed the other one in the womb. It’s called Vanishing Twin Syndrome. I didn’t know how to respond when Dustin first told me. What can you say about little babies eating each other? Then again, maybe that’s the baby of the future, the baby who can face whatever’s coming. Anyway, I think it gave her extra powerful lungs and stuff.
I’ve cleared each of us a little space. And with another curtain, Grace could be up here, too, because I’ve realized that’s how we can help her. At the first sign of danger, I’ll drive straight to the Prest-O and bang on the employee door out back, and she’ll jump in my truck while the meth hordes are too busy looting to notice us.
And if civilization is still around later and Dustin has his trial, then when she gives her victim testimony she’ll also bring up how he saved her life. “Yes,” she’ll say, “he made one mistake during the lowest point in his life, probably because of what happened with the magnetic poles, but I wouldn’t be here without him and his friend.” I text Dustin again: We should invite the clerk too.
I see the three little dots that mean he’s typing. Then they stop. Then they start again. Finally he texts back, What clerk.
Well, some people might say “cashier” instead of “clerk.” Maybe that’s why he’s confused. Is there a difference between a clerk and a cashier? I look it up, and it says that while both work the register in a store, a clerk might do additional things like stocking and pricing. Maybe he only saw her on the register that night, whereas I’ve spent some time there now and know that she also does things like dusting and checking for expired milk. She takes out the trash and recycling at the end of the night shift, before the morning rush. So she definitely is a clerk, not a cashier. Stella’s probably only a cashier, and a piss-poor one at that. I bet that’s why she has a name tag instead of a personalized shirt. But Dustin doesn’t know about the shirts or any of that.
The cashier, I say. At the Prest-O. She should stay with us after the eclipse.
The three little dots appear and disappear, but he doesn’t say anything else.
It’s fine, because I can see the new plan now. I climb back down the ladder and have another beer and then get ready for bed. As I drift off to sleep I can see exactly how it’ll be. All of us safe in the attic. Like we’re going camping.
I dream that my phone rings and it’s Dustin, but he’s larger than real life and his voice has this weird echo.
“You have to promise me,” he says.
I try to ask what I’m promising, but it’s one of those dreams where I can’t talk.
“Tell her good things about me,” he says. “Tell Pressley. So she knows who her father was. You’re my best friend. And you have to be in charge now that I’m in thrall to the celestial spheres.”
Then the dream shifts and it’s nothing but generic teeth-falling-out, forgot-my-pants dreams.
I wake up and think about the Dustin part of my dream and decide it must have been supernatural, because I’m not even sure what all those words mean. I’m supposed to tell Pressley who her dad was. Once he’s in prison, maybe? But I don’t think there’s any way he’ll be locked up. Maybe because he’s going to end up sacrificing his life while saving his family or Grace? Maybe Lacey dies, too, ripped to pieces by the rioters who are too much for Dustin. And Miss Frances starts going senile, so then it’s all up to me to preserve Dustin’s memory. The only Dustin who still exists is inside my own mind. I get out my phone and make a list of good things to tell Pressley about her dad:
- He’s a true friend
- He’s never minded about you being a cannibal
- Most people have never been shot by him
I look at my list and decide that’s a good start, and I lie back in bed. But now that I’m up, I’m up. That’s the way I’ve always been. On those camping trips with Dustin and Miss Frances sometimes I’d wake up because I couldn’t sleep in a strange environment, and once I did I could never get back to sleep. So I’d turn over and look at Dustin in his bunk and think about how we would be best friends forever. And we are, and now we even work together. Or we did, and we will again if the mayonnaise factory lets Dustin come back. And if there’s still a mayonnaise factory left. I guess people will still want condiments after an apocalypse. But if not I’ll get a job wherever Dustin does, the same way I always have.
Since I can’t sleep I go up to the attic again to review Abyzz’s latest upload and work on my reaction video. I’ve been getting a decent amount of subscribers lately. I finally made back the money I spent on the ring light and software and stuff, so it’s all pure profit now.
I mostly go more in depth with Abyzz’s content, like the one he did about telling if a video is real or AI. He proved that the last state of the union was one hundred percent fake. I don’t know if I believe what some people are saying about how the president’s secretly in a coma, but he definitely did not give that speech. You can tell by the way his eyes move in time with his mouth a little too perfectly. I also react to the stupid viral videos out there, like where someone goes around seeing who’ll eat cat food for a thousand dollars. Those are easy because I just look into the camera and say, “What? Why?” Abyzz even knows about me–I met him at a con and told him about my videos, and he seemed happy that I’m spreading awareness of his work. And he signed my Ask the Hard Questions T-shirt.
Maybe him and me will meet up again, once we’re the only ones prepared for the eclipse aftermath. Then it’ll be me, Abyzz, Miss Frances, Pressley, and Grace–and Dustin and Lacey if nothing happens to them, which hopefully nothing does. And Maybe Grace and I will fall in love, and our kid will be best friends with Dustin’s uber-baby, and Abyzz can be their mentor and teach them stuff they would never learn in public schools.
But how will I explain all of this to Grace? Because it hits me, what if I show up to save her but she thinks I’m part of the meth hordes, and she’s been studying self defense ever since that night with Dustin? And she karate chops me before I can tell her I’m there to help? She’s a little thing, but it’s possible she’s been building up those skills fast because she’s motivated by all her trauma.
I finish recording my take. I’ll edit everything together and add music and graphics later. For now it’s clear what I need to do.
It’s still dark when I get in my truck. No one’s on the road. Folks are sleeping in their beds, having no idea what’s happening soon. Thinking they’ll maybe see some crescent moon shadows on the ground and look at the glowing ring through their glasses and go back to their normal lives. Instead the sky stays black. It gets even blacker, and animals, squirrels and deer and bears, start acting nuts. The government has their little prerecorded AI messages telling people to stay calm, but there’s no internet, no electricity, so they can’t broadcast them.
I pull into a spot in back, near the dumpsters. I step out of my truck and stand there, imagining Grace getting attacked. No police come help her, because the security cameras don’t even show this part of the parking lot. They have too much else to deal with, anyway: planes are falling out of the sky, people are shooting at whatever moves, everything’s on fire.
The employee door opens, and Grace shuffles out with the trash. I bet nobody but me appreciates how much she does around this place. I wave and say, “Hey there,” making her jump. “Sorry. We met before–I’m Dusty?”
She squints, then nods and tosses the bags into the dumpster.
I turn back to my truck and act casual, like I’m looking around for something. Grace goes back in. In a second she’ll bring out the recycling. I press the child safety lock button but leave my truck door wide open. I wait until I hear her come back out, and I turn and walk slowly up to her left side. This is my best chance.
“Hey,” I say again. “Excuse me. Do you have the time?”
She looks at her watch and I put one arm around her back and the other behind her knees and sweep her off her feet. She really is tiny, doesn’t weigh hardly a thing. She never has the chance to bust out any karate moves. In fact, she’s so surprised it takes a second before she screams, which doesn’t matter because no one’s around, no one but Spacey Stella inside with her earbuds. We’re in the truck and on our way before you can say, “Three minutes till doomsday.”
I steer with one hand and call Dustin with the other, but he doesn’t answer. So I leave a voicemail. He’ll be glad to hear how the new plan is coming together.
“I know how this seems,” I say, raising my voice over Grace’s screaming. “But I promise you’ll understand, and it’ll all be worth it.”
And it will, and she’ll be so thankful for everything once she’s looking out my attic window, watching the sun disappear.
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Katie Burgess’s work has appeared in McSweeney’s, The Rumpus, Electric Literature, and elsewhere. Read more at katieburgess.fun.