Shop At Beezles Department Store. (standard:horror, 4796 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 04 2020	Views/Reads: 1199/825	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The super store that was not there.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


"Nothing much, sir.  A bridge out on one of the county roads is all. 
That man ahead of you thought this was the detour.  I had to turn him 
around.  Are you heading for Beezle's?" 

"Yeah, we were trying.  It's not down that other road is it?" 

"No, sir.  Just keep going straight, and watch the fog, sir.  Drive
carefully." 

"Did anyone ever tell you, you look just like John Wayne?"  Pat asked
the officer.  The resemblance was uncanny. 

"Many times." He grinned, sighing. "Watch the fog, pilgrims, ya hear?" 
Laughing.  They swung past the police car and continued along the road. 


"And did you notice his partner, against the police car?  He was a
spitting image of a young Clint Eastwood." Jerry asked, grinning. 

"I didn't notice," Pat told her husband.  She leaned back against the
headrest. 

They hit a bump in the road, the impact swinging Pat forward against her
seatbelt, almost hitting her head on the dashboard.  The front of the 
car seemed to drop suddenly onto a narrow dirt path, much rougher than 
the road.  At the same time, both felt a sort of twisting in their 
stomachs.  Not enough of a feeling to comment on -- only a small 
twinge. 

The short path opened up into a large grass and dirt field, somewhat
like a parking lot or cattle pasture.  There were a number of vehicles 
parked on one side with a few others scattered around.  That included 
both passenger autos and delivery trucks.  Even a fuel truck or two.  A 
few taller semis dotted the landscape, obvious against the night sky. 

The parking lot, if that's what it was, extended into the fog, its
borders unseen.  No stores, lights or traffic lanes were in evidence. 

"What the hell's going on?"  Jerry asked, looking over to his wife, who
was sitting up straight and staring in astonishment. 

"I don't know.  What are they all doing here, and where is this Beezle's
place?"  she asked, looking around. 

Seeing three cars sitting together with lights on, they drove over the
bumpy field to see what was going on.  Pulling up to the first vehicle, 
they saw a family inside, a woman crying in the front seat with 
children in the rear.  They could see three men standing next to a 
Chevy.  There seemed to be some sort of argument going on, with a lot 
of arm waving. 

Jerry stopped and turned off his engine, going over to the men while Pat
sat waiting. 

"I see we got us another sucker," one of the men told the others, all of
them looking in Jerry's direction.  Jerry recognized the Ford from the 
police stop, sitting nearby. 

"What's up?  Where's the store?"  Jerry asked. 

"Doesn't seem to be one," the man told him. "Tom," he continued,
pointing to a heavyset man talking to a fat little guy on the other end 
of the car, "has been here for three days already.  At least he figures 
it's been three days.  The lighting never seems to change a whole lot, 
he said.  All he's seen is more of us coming in.  There isn't any way 
out."  The man gestured with open hands. "Now, before you ask, they've 
tried every way they could think of to get out of here and nothing 
works." 

"What about simply turning around and leaving?"  Jerry realized how
stupid the question must be, even as he asked. 

"Don't do any good.  Something keeps us from leaving, like a blank wall
or something.  See my crumpled fender?  I tried to force my way out the 
way I came in."  He groaned, "it's like a huge cage.  We can get in, 
but not out." 

"Is there any food or water?  What do you, we, eat?"  Jerry asked.  He
couldn't help being a little hungry. 

"There's a bakery truck over there."  The man motioned to the left. 
"They'll sell you something -- if anything is left.  Be prepared, 
though.  The driver charges twenty dollars for a Twinkie. 

"Every once in a while, we get a kind of food rain, little round cakes. 
Don't taste too good, or too bad either.  Guess whatever trapped us 
here doesn't want us to starve.  There's a stream over at one side, so 
we have plenty to drink.  And yes, we did try to get out that way, even 
underwater." 

Listening in, another man held up a cellphone. "These don't work,
either." 

Jerry went back to his car, trying to make some sense out of all he had
heard.  It sounded impossible.  Now that he thought of it, those cops 
did seem odd.  He couldn't put his finger on it, just odd.  With twelve 
years on the job, he ought to know. 

He found Pat talking to the woman in the other car, who had stopped
crying.  She must have told his wife pretty much the same thing, since 
Pat's eyes were bugging out a bit.  Jerry could see several kids 
sleeping in the other back seat.  When he returned to his own car, Pat 
slid in beside him. 

"Oh, my God.  What's going to happen to us?  The kids won't know where
we're at and how are you getting to work in the morning?"  she asked, 
staring wide-eyed at Jerry. 

Her eyes always bugged out when excited, one of the things he loved
about her. 

"Damned if I know, honey.  Guess we'll have to wait until what passes
for morning.  Some of these people must have others looking for them, 
especially the truck drivers.  The ones with GPS.  Someone will think 
to look here, to turn off the highway where we did." 

"And get trapped here with us?  That's what will happen," Pat reminded
him, sitting back and trying to stretch her legs.  Finally, she opened 
the passenger door to sit with her back to him, legs outside on the 
grass. 

*** 

Pat was right.  About dawn, police cars began showing up.  First one
then, at intervals, three more.  They congregated at the entrance, one 
going back to park, lights flashing, where the road changed.  
Apparently, it was to try to warn motorists to slow down or stop at the 
end of the road. 

Police presence was felt as their cars rode along the edges of the
field.  Jerry knew they were trying to find a way out.  Sighing, he 
woke Pat. 

"Guess I better go help," he told his wife before getting out and
straightening his clothing.  He even put his tie back on for the 
occasion, though he didn't really know why.  No need wasting gasoline.  
He walked over to the parked police vehicles. 

"Please return to your car, sir.  We have everything under control," one
driver told him.  He could see another officer inside, pounding on his 
police radio. 

"Fucking radio, can't get a fucking thing on it except static.  Oh,
sorry sir.  Didn't see you standing there."  The guy was embarrassed, 
as though his cursing had  revealed an official defect. 

"Lieutenant Jerry Edwards, Detective Bureau, Chicago," Jerry told them,
showing his identification card and badge. "You know anything I don't, 
which is nothing?" 

"No, sir, lieutenant.  We been getting us reports of missing families. 
We were checking deep ditches and drop-offs around here.  There are 
places off the highway where a car can drive off and not be seen from 
the road." 

"Well, it looks like you found them -- the missing families,"  Jerry
looked around, people were starting to emerge from their cars. "Who's 
in charge here?"  he asked. 

"Looks like you are, sir.  Sergeant Jefferson is around here somewhere,
but you outrank him." 

"I'm only a working peon like you, and out of my jurisdiction.  Call me
Jerry.  I'll find Jefferson, but I want a couple of you to hold off the 
civilians.  Try to reassure them and find out all you can from the 
earlier captives -- which is what we are."  He saw a number of 
civilians starting to form into small groups and wander toward the 
flashing lights of the police cars. "And turn off all but one set of 
lights, will you.  We can't waste gas or battery power.  One set will 
still show them we're here.  It might even comfort them a little." 

About that time, he saw a large man approaching from the road.  The man,
in civilian clothing, must have been over at the other police car, the 
one at the road entrance. 

"Who the hell told you to turn your lights out, and did Henry ever get
through on the radio?"  the man, likely Sergeant Jefferson, spoke out 
loudly. 

Jerry identified himself to the sergeant -- who was also out of his
jurisdiction -- and ordered him to get all the trucks together in one 
place.  Their cargos might be valuable and should be rationed  out.  No 
more twenty-dollar Twinkies.  It looked like, until someone better 
qualified showed up, he was in charge. 

The lieutenant soon found out, from a few of the newer captives coming
in, that the police car at the entrance did no good.  It was an 
obstacle in itself and they pulled it back to park with the rest.  
Nobody could see the dirt lane or field until they passed through the 
portal to wherever they were.  At that point, the flashing lights were 
a distraction to new captives, causing them to swerve off the end of 
the path. 

Eventually, trucks were parked at one end of the lot, with a flashlight
equipped officer directing new drivers to certain areas according to 
plan.  The other vehicles were also made to park in orderly rows.  
Jerry established police authority, even locking up a few recalcitrant 
drunks in the back of an empty van.  In effect, they had their own 
jail.  The onset of authority seemed to reassure the other captives. 

Once vehicles were parked in a strict order, the drivers and passengers
were questioned as to needed skills, such as medical training or 
experience.  A few better educated ladies and gentlemen were 
established as a sort of think tank in an attempt to figure out what 
was going on. 

When they had authority firmly in place all the drivers were questioned
about objects useful to the group, such as weapons.  Alcoholic 
beverages were confiscated for medical use and to discourage 
drunkenness.   In most cases, the owners kept their guns but were 
available for defense if needed. 

Jerry and the other police officers did their best to turn the captives
from an unorganized mob to some sort of small town, built of motor 
vehicles only. 

The field soon accumulated almost forty police officers, most from the
immediate area of small towns, all looking for missing citizens.  The 
captives were rapidly approaching several hundred. 

By four pm that afternoon, according to his watch, large but soft
objects began falling from the sky.  It rained food pellets, gray and 
about five-inches across in waxed envelopes, for about a half hour -- 
then stopped.  People scrambled for the food. 

"Let them eat what they want," Jerry ordered his men and a couple of
female officers, "then have someone pick up the excess.  We might need 
them later,"  he ordered, tasting one.  It had the basic flavor of 
unsalted peanuts.  Although hungry, he found one filled him completely, 
not having any urge for a second.  As the first man had told him, not 
too good in flavor, nor bad either. 

*** 

Police Chief Albert Simmons, known as Al by everyone in the small town
of Lynchville, was worried.  He had lost two cars with four officers 
overnight; even his one female officer.  His night dispatcher had 
received a call from the state police to check the highway for wrecks.  
Since the town was quiet, she had sent both "on duty" cars.  They lost 
radio contact with both vehicles and officers. 

Getting a call from her, Al had come in early.  It was now morning and
they still hadn't found out anything.  It was enough to drive a guy 
crazy. 

"Goddamnit!  Are you damned sure you checked every foot of 'One Oh
One?'"  he asked patrolman Adamoski over the radio. 

He didn't bother with niceties like "over."  Since they now had more
cars than patrolmen, Al had them searching with one officer to a car. 

"Chief,"  Carl Adamoski told him, "I wore out my toothbrush on that
road, nothing." 

"Buy another one and put the fucking cost on my bill."  The Chief leaned
back in a swivel chair and pondered his next move.  Finally picking up 
the land line, he hit the speed dial. 

"State patrol?  This is Simmons getting back to you." He took a deep
breath, letting half out. "I got some bad news on those missing cars." 

He looked out his window, seeing two patrol cars from different towns
pulling up outside. 

After reporting to the state agency, Al Simmons stood, stretching his
long legs.   It looked like it would be a busy day. 

*** 

"I can't handle it, lieutenant ...  Jerry," Motor Patrolman Mabel
Andrews sobbed. "I'll never see my family again.  I know it.  I just 
do.  And little Joey, only six." 

She broke down again, head folded into both hands, those hands lying on
top of a police car. 

Jerry knew he had to calm her down like she had been calming others.  He
couldn't allow civilians to see a police officer cracking up.  It 
wouldn't take much to start a panic.  He leaned the side of his own 
head down onto the warm car top.  Jerry wanted any onlookers to think 
they were only tired. 

"You have to, Mabel.  We're all that's standing between order and chaos
here.  If we fold....  Well, who knows what will happen.  We'll find a 
way out, we have to.  By now the entire state has to be looking for 
us," he reminded her. "Look over there, all those big brains in here 
with us.  One of those highbrows is sure to think of something." 

A little distance away, the brains were baffled. 

"Joe, here, has a portable radiation counter in his truck.  It doesn't
show anything unusual,"  Mike, a professor from a local junior college 
recounted. "The barrier does tingle when you put your hands on it, so 
it has some sort of energy leak.  If it's leaking, it has to be renewed 
by a power source.  We found it stops just short of the ground, by 
roughly three-inches.  Maybe to let air in?  I'll bet there's a hole on 
top to let outside air circulate.  But who knows how high that would 
be?  Maybe we can find a way to get up there?" 

Harry Evens, a geologist on vacation, told them, "I saw ants crawling
through under it, some made it through, while most seemed to die -- 
since they were piled up directly beneath.  But I couldn't dig under 
the barrier.  The surface isn't enclosed.  There is a breeze from 
outside, but the barrier seems to start again an inch below the 
surface, too hard to dig."  He shook his head. "I tried shovels and a 
pick from a maintenance truck.  Have we got anything, anything at all, 
we can blast with?" 

"Not according to our availability lists," another man answered. 

"Wait a minute, I got an idea."  Harry's face brightened a bit. "There's
a farm truck full of nitrate fertilizer in here, and we have plenty of 
diesel fuel.  We can make a bomb." 

"Does anybody know how, though?" Mike asked. "All I have is a vague
idea."  None of them answered.  There was a long pause. 

"We might as well try.  It wouldn't hurt anything,"  Joe answered.  They
set out on their quest, a number of bright individuals attempting to 
make their first homemade bomb. 

With a great deal of effort, fertilizer was piled against a remote
section of the barrier.  Those gifted highly educated people were seen 
mixing diesel fuel into dried enhanced pig shit, up to their knees in 
it. 

"We gotta enclose it with something," one of them suggested, wiping
manure from his brow. "A bomb is composed of several things, a fuel, an 
oxygen supply and a force to set it off in an enclosed area.  Now we 
have nitrate and petroleum for fuel, oxygen in the fertilizer.  We need 
to enclose it tightly and find something to set it off--a sudden 
intense heat or shock should work." 

There was a flurry of activity, two-dozen fifty-five gallon drums of
industrial chemicals were found on a semi.  The contents dumped out, 
they were used as bomb containers.  Then came the search for something 
to set them off. 

"There are several shotguns in here," Mike suggested. "We can use
shotgun shells.  Joe is into electronics.  He can wire them up to go 
off on command." 

It took two hours for Joe to scrounge up what he needed.  A large dump
truck containing loose stones was pulled alongside the drums.  It would 
also act as a shield if and when the bomb went off.  The truck's 
battery was needed to set off the shotgun shells. 

"Hurry up, Joe," Harry said, looking over the other man's shoulder. "You
sure they'll go off?" 

"I know what I'm doing.  I did it before as a kid on the farm,"  Joe was
stripping wires to coil around the primers of the shotgun shells.  When 
connected to the truck battery, they would heat the primers, blowing 
the shells, which would hopefully set off the nitrate charges. 

"Ready in the hole?"  Joe called out when everything was set up, checked
over, and ready.  The police were keeping back a crowd of curious 
citizens.  Joe touched a wire to the battery, producing a large "Wham!" 
and causing the crowd to cover their eyes.  When they were opened it 
was seen that only one drum had gone off, scattering the others and 
blasting Joe back from the truck and onto his hands and knees. 

"Damn.  At least it works," Mike muttered.  But no hole in the barrier. 

"What went wrong?  I thought you knew what you were doing,"  Harry
accused Joe. 

"I forgot something," Joe admitted sheepishly.  "I never did more than
one at a time as a kid.  I should have standardized everything, same 
length wires, same size coils, and touched them off all at once at the 
battery."  The first drum going off, scattered and disconnected the 
others.  Back to the drawing board, and back to scrounging wire. 

They made the second attempt about noon.  The drums went off perfectly,
but did no good.  All it produced was a large hole against the barrier 
and filled the enclosed space with smoke and stink.  In the underground 
part of the hole, the barrier still existed. 

To crown it off, the truck fell to its side, spraying stones for thirty
feet to slightly injure four spectators.  It also helped cause a mental 
depression in the onlookers.  If a bomb couldn't get them out, what 
could? 

*** 

"Did anybody check out Route 666?"  Patrolman Pete Sampson, of the
Vegatown police department, called in to the Lynchville station on his 
car radio.  He was coming up to investigate a missing patrol car from 
his own town.  By then the area was being flooded by police vehicles. 

"What Route 666?  I don't know of any around here, or even in the state.
 Whoever made up the numbers was supposed to leave that designation 
off.  Like with the thirteenth floor of buildings," a dispatcher 
answered him. 

"Well, be advised I found one, between 196 and 198 off 101.  Can you
advise me if it's been checked out?" 

"How can we check it if its not there?  Why don't you wait a few
minutes, I'll direct someone to help." She was in control of all the 
cars in the area, even out of town and state cars.  The dispatcher, 
Helen Janski, directed three cars, two local and one state, to help 
Pete. 

Once they had converged, Pete started down Route 666, the others
following.  Everyone wanted to be in front, but it was his find so Pete 
got the honors.  Of course, they expected a routine search. Also, 
strangely, their radios refused to work after a quarter-mile. 

It wasn't long before they swung around a curve to see a patrol car
already there.  A tall lean patrolman got out to greet them.  Pete 
didn't recognize the man, but he knew damn well there wasn't any town 
by the name of  "Beezletown" anywhere near there.  Why would an out of 
area police department be blocking a local road?  And, the patrolman?  
Something simply didn't seem right about him, vaguely familiar but out 
of place. 

Cautious, Pete snapped open his holster before getting out of the
vehicle, putting his nightstick back in its loop on his belt.  He 
normally kept the stick on the floor, it being uncomfortable when 
seated. 

"Hi there.  Going to Beezle's, sir?"  the patrolman, who looked like,
what's his name?  Yeah, Eastwood, asked. "Just follow the road and you 
can't miss it.  It's foggy, so drive slowly, sir." 

"What are you guys doing here, anyway?"  Carl Adamoski asked.  He was
another one of the dispatched officers. 

"We have a bridge out on one of the roads, sir.  Just keep going
straight to Beezle's." 

"Which road?  Carl asked, becoming suspicious.  "I don't know of any
bridges out."  Now he knew what was wrong.  He was looking at the other 
patrolman, a John Wayne lookalike leaning against the patrol car.  The 
man -- he looked over at Eastwood -- both of them, were wearing what 
looked like .32cal pistols at their sides.  No police department he 
knew of issued such a small-caliber weapon. 

"Just a moment," Carl backed up to the others standing behind him.
"They're not cops." 

Carl drew his own gun -- as did the others.  They didn't know what was
going on, but were trained to back each other up.  Although curious, 
they had to trust Carl's judgment. 

The two strange officers didn't move a muscle.  They stood silently in
place as they were surrounded, hands jerked behind them, and 
handcuffed. 

As they were being led back to the area cars, the situation seemed to
dawn on them -- that the routine wasn't being followed. 

Eastwood looked at Wayne, who smiled evilly at his companion.  The two
policemen seemed to become larger, uniforms ripping as their bodies 
turned a bright red, growing horns on the sides of their foreheads.  
The pair looked like drawings of demons from hell. 

Astonished policemen backed up as the two demons slowly sank into the
surface of the road.  Getting over their initial shock, the police 
fired at them as they diminished. 

A loud shrieking filled the air as the monsters disappeared, causing
several real police officers to drop their guns to hold their ears. 

In a minute it was over. Nothing was left of the strangers except for
the strange patrol car itself and two uniforms, complete with handcuffs 
and pistol-belts, lying on a dusty road. 

It took a while for the officers to compose themselves and continue
driving down the road, slowly, carefully and warily.  Their radios now 
working, they had been assured help was on the way. 

Again, Pete was in the lead.  When Carl saw Pete's car disappear, he
slammed on his own brakes, sliding to a stop with his hood appearing 
cut off a foot in front of its windshield.  The front of the car also 
dipped down a steep angle -- but the vehicle was still running, with 
only half a hood in sight. 

*** 

Pat happened to be almost at the police cars, going over to see her
husband, when she saw another patrol car and a half appear in the road. 
The half-car looked strange, like chopped off with an axe. 

"Hey, look over there."  She pointed at the sight, causing heads to
swing to the road. 

Most of the officers standing around their vehicles rushed over, almost
ignoring a confused Pete, to the front half of the second car.  The one 
intersecting the barrier. 

"Someone see if you can cross over,"  Sergeant Jefferson yelled.  He was
one of those loud sergeants you find in any police department. 

Patrolman Mabel Andrews happened to be in the front of the pack.  She
ran over, stopped, and tentatively thrust her extended arm at the 
barrier next to Carl's car.  It passed through, with the entire Mabel 
being next. 

She was greeted by Carl and the others on their side of the unseen
barrier.  Jerry, seeing her getting out, hurriedly gave orders 
organizing an exodus of captives.  They could make it for the remaining 
width of the road, several persons abreast.  In only twenty minutes, 
the entire group had escaped confinement. 

Nobody dared to go back inside and, an hour or so later, Carl backed up
and regained the front of his vehicle.  As his car withdrew, the trap 
was gone, disappeared.  Only empty corn and wheat fields remained, 
along with a meadow containing the parked vehicles.  The entire length 
of Route 666 had disappeared along with the barrier.   The former 
captives found themselves standing in a field, the nearest farm road a 
hundred and fifty yards away. 

No one ever found an explanation.  The incident never made more than
page three of the national papers, and was believed by few even then.  
The only evidence was a fake patrol car from an unknown town.  That and 
two empty police uniforms. 

The End.


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