The supermarket still had its sign.
WELCOME TO FRESHWAY, it said, in bright green letters that flickered on and off like they couldn't quite decide if optimism was still allowed. Half the bulbs were dead. The other half buzzed with a tired sort of determination.
Inside, the world had gone stale.
The automatic doors were frozen open, one panel hanging crooked, the other shattered into a glittering mess that crunched underfoot. Shopping carts were scattered like abandoned skeletons, some fused together by something that had melted and hardened again. The air smelled like rot layered on top of chemicals layered on top of something faintly sweet. Like fruit that had tried to survive and failed.
In aisle three, something moved.
It wasn't fast. It wasn't loud. It was patient. A shape folded into itself, all too many joints and not enough logic, dragging something that might have been a person once. The creature paused, its head—if it was a head—tilting as if listening to a distant sound.
There was a distant sound.
Click.
Clock.
Click.
Clock.
Shoes on tile. Polished leather on linoleum. Arthur pushed a shopping cart. It was slightly bent. One wheel squeaked with every rotation. Arthur frowned at it. "These things never last," he muttered, giving the handle a small, corrective shake. "Planned obsolescence. It's a disgrace."
He guided the cart neatly around a puddle of something that hissed faintly when the overhead lights flickered. The lights themselves were… inconsistent. Some glowed a sickly yellow. Others pulsed like they were breathing. Arthur didn't notice.
He checked his list. "Milk. Eggs. Bread. Birdseed," he read aloud, tapping the paper with a finger. "Simple. Efficient. In and out." Behind him, the thing in aisle three stopped moving. It watched. Arthur turned into produce. Or what used to be produce.
The apples had liquefied into a glossy red sludge that dripped slowly off the shelves. The lettuce had grown. Not in a good way. The leaves had thickened, curling inward like fists, veins pulsing faintly beneath the surface. A carrot twitched as Arthur walked past.
"Hmm," Arthur said, inspecting a tomato that deflated slightly when he picked it up. "Not the freshest stock." He placed it back with a polite nod, as if the tomato might take offense. From somewhere deeper in the store, a low growl rolled through the aisles. It vibrated the shelves. A can fell over. Then another. Arthur paused. He looked up. Then he sighed. "They really should fix the air conditioning," he said. "Everything's spoiling. He moved on.
The creature in aisle three began to follow. It unfolded as it moved, stretching to its full height. Which was wrong. It was too tall. Its limbs dragged behind it like an afterthought, clawing softly against the floor. Its mouth—if that gash counted—opened slightly, releasing a wet, anticipatory hiss. Arthur stopped at dairy.
The refrigerators were still running. Somehow. The glass doors were fogged, smeared from the inside with something that looked like handprints. Or maybe not hands. Arthur wiped a small circle clear with his sleeve. "Ah," he said, pleased. "Milk." He opened the door. Cold air spilled out. Something inside the fridge shifted. Arthur leaned in, reaching past a row of intact cartons to grab one from the back. "Always check the expiration date," he murmured. "Basic due diligence."
Behind him, the creature lunged. It moved fast now. No more patience. No more quiet. Its limbs snapped forward, its body compressing and expanding in a way that made the air ripple. It crossed the aisle in a heartbeat, claws outstretched, mouth wide—
Arthur stepped back from the fridge and closed the door. The creature hit the glass. There was a sound. Not a crash. Not a break. A soft, almost polite thunk. The glass did not shatter. The creature did.
It collapsed inward, its body folding like paper caught in a closing book. Bones—if they were bones—snapped with a series of neat, contained pops. Its form compressed, tighter and tighter, until it was no bigger than a grapefruit-sized knot of something that had once been a threat. Arthur adjusted his grip on the milk. He glanced at the fridge. "Hm," he said. "Door's a bit stiff." He gave it a small push to make sure it was properly closed.
Behind him, his shadow smoothed itself out along the floor. Calm. Patient. Waiting. Arthur placed the milk in his cart. "Eggs next." He turned down aisle five. There were survivors there. Three of them. They were wedged behind a barricade made of canned goods and a toppled shelf. Pale. Quiet. The kind of quiet that came from days of not making a sound because sound meant death.
They had seen the creature. They had seen what happened to it. Now they saw Arthur. "Don't move," whispered the oldest of the three, a man with a beard that had given up halfway through existing. "Don't even breathe." Arthur approached. "Excuse me," he said, cheerful as ever. "Would you happen to know where the eggs are? They seem to have rearranged the store again." No one answered.
Arthur tilted his head. "Ah," he said. "You must be new." The youngest survivor, a girl clutching a can of beans like it was a weapon, let out a small, involuntary squeak. Arthur brightened. "Oh! There you are," he said. "No need to hide. I promise I'm not staff." The bearded man stared at him. At the sweater vest. At the clean shoes. At the complete and total lack of… everything else.
"Sir," he croaked, "you need to leave." Arthur smiled. "Oh, I'll be on my way shortly. Just need a few essentials." He gestured vaguely with his list. "You know how it is." They did not know how it was. Behind Arthur, something stirred in the darkness of aisle seven. Something larger. Heavier. The shelves trembled as it moved, cans rattling like nervous applause.
The survivors saw it. Arthur did not. "Sir," the bearded man said again, louder now, desperation cracking through. "There's something behind you." Arthur glanced over his shoulder. He saw a fallen display of cereal boxes. He frowned. "They really should clean that up," he said. "Someone could trip." The thing in aisle seven rose.
It was wide. Massive. A shape built from muscle and hunger and bad decisions made by reality itself. Its skin—if it had skin—shifted constantly, like oil on water. It opened something like a mouth, revealing rows of teeth that did not agree on direction. It roared. The sound hit the walls and came back wrong. Arthur winced slightly. "Bit loud for a grocery store," he said. The thing charged. The floor cracked under its weight. Shelves toppled. The air itself seemed to bend around it as it closed the distance in seconds—
Arthur adjusted his cart. A shadow stretched. Not from him. Around him. It rose from the floor like a curtain being drawn upward, thick and silent. It met the charging thing halfway. There was no impact. No explosion. Just a sudden absence. The thing stopped existing in the space it had occupied. For a moment, there was nothing. Then the shadow receded.
In the middle of the aisle, something small dropped to the floor. A cube. Neat. Compact. Final. Arthur nudged it aside with his shoe. "Obstruction," he muttered. He turned back to the survivors. "Now," he said, "about those eggs?" The girl pointed. Slowly. Trembling. "Aisle… six," she whispered. Arthur beamed. "Thank you! Much appreciated." He pushed his cart away, whistling softly. The tune echoed faintly through the ruined store, light and out of place. The survivors did not move.
They listened to the squeak of the cart wheel. To the soft click of his shoes. To the absence of everything that had been trying to kill them. After a long moment, the bearded man spoke. "…Did he just… shop?" No one answered. In aisle six, Arthur examined a carton of eggs. "Perfect," he said. They were. Clean. Unbroken. Untouched by whatever had claimed the rest of the store. He placed them carefully in his cart. "Efficiency," he murmured. "That's the key." At the checkout, the register was dead. Arthur waited. Five seconds. Ten. He tapped the counter politely. "Hello?" he called.
Silence. He checked his watch. "Well," he said, "I suppose I'll have to sort that out next time." He took out his wallet anyway. Placed exact change on the counter. Neatly stacked. Then he left. The doors did not move. He stepped through them regardless. Outside, the sky churned. Something screamed in the distance. Arthur opened his umbrella.
"Looks like more rain," he said. He walked down the empty street, grocery bag in hand, shoes clicking in steady rhythm. Behind him, inside the supermarket, the lights flickered once.Then went still.
And for the first time in a long time, nothing moved.