Out of Stock

Living in the South means winter is forty degrees on a cold day, with the occasional cold weekend. In recent years its become more common to issue tornado warnings during 70-degree weather in January.

The alert hit my phone in the middle of the afternoon, vibrating against the counter like it was trying to crawl away.

WINTER STORM WARNING.

By then, the numbers had already changed three times. First, it was 18 to 24 inches of snow, enough to make people start buying generators and “getting ahead of it.” Then it was thirty inches, which sent everyone into a chaotic, religious panic usually reserved for hurricanes and the second coming. The forecast kept shifting unpredictably, leaving everyone feeling unprepared and anxious. By the time I grabbed my keys, the forecast had softened to “maybe three inches, but with ice,” which, in this state, is worse but more common.

I told myself I was only going to the store for a few things. Soup. Coffee. Wine. The essentials. I told myself this the same way people tell themselves they won’t make eye contact in a public bathroom.

Milk and bread had been gone for days. Not low—gone. The shelves were stripped so clean they looked embarrassed, little white price tags hanging uselessly where food used to be. One bag of potatoes sat alone on display, pale eyes already growing through their skin, and I paused too long in front of it, contemplating buying them like someone considers adopting the oldest dog in a shelter.

Boxed wine was limited. Beer was limited. A laminated sign taped to the display read TWO PER CUSTOMER, which felt generous, considering the mood. I grabbed two boxes.

The checkout line wasn’t really a line anymore. It had stretched past the registers and lost its purpose, bending into the aisles and swallowing them whole. There was no distinction of where the line started. I counted my breaths without meaning to.

Three people ahead of me had eight gallons of milk and four packages of chicken breast stacked carefully in their cart, as if organization might justify the amount. Behind me, two women shared a look of quiet triumph over a cart overfilled with soda. Not some soda. All soda. I scanned for any edible food and found none.

The lights felt too bright or maybe too loud. I could feel the humming in my veins.

Somewhere overhead, the intercom crackled.

“Hi, everyone,” an employee said, voice stretched thin. “Just a reminder—we’re closing in ten minutes.”

No one looked up. No one moved. The line didn’t shrink.

The air in the store had that trapped feeling—too many bodies, too much breath. Every moment, oxygen was replaced with carbon dioxide. Every cart squeaked, every cough landed like an accusation. I focused on small things the way I always did when I felt overwhelmed: the scuffed tile beneath my shoes, the way the freezer doors hummed in uneven intervals, the sticky residue on my cart handle that I refused to think too hard about.

I tried not to look at the exits.

People weren’t shopping anymore. That was the thing. They were just… standing. Guarding. A woman hugged a loaf of crushed bread to her chest like she’d found it in the rubble. A man blocked the end of an aisle with his cart and pretended to scroll on his phone while watching anyone who came too close to his bottled water. Eyes were on everyone and nothing at the same time.

The intercom crackled again.

“Just a reminder,” the same voice said, a little flatter this time. “We’re closing in ten minutes.”

I checked my phone. No new notifications. No time stamp that meant anything. Ten minutes felt theoretical.

The line lurched forward an inch. I rolled my cart with it and immediately regretted it—the aisle felt narrower than it had before, shelves pressing in on both sides. Someone’s cart bumped my heel and didn’t apologize. I didn’t look back. My pulse quickened.

A child started crying near the dairy section—what was left of it, anyway. The sound cut through the noise like a blade. Too loud. Too raw. My teeth ground together at the noise, Jesus Christ, I pleaded.

“Shh.”

The word wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be. It passed through the air low and firm, and the crying stopped abruptly, like someone had flipped a switch. Thank you, Jesus, I silently prayed. One child crying would be enough to end it for all of us.

We passed an aisle blocked off with a yellow folding sign I hadn’t noticed before. It stood crooked, with rushed, handwritten letters bleeding through the paper taped to it.

THIS SECTION IS OFF-LIMITS

No explanation. No employee nearby. Just carts flowing obediently around it like water around a stone.

I tried to remember what had been down that aisle. Cleaning supplies, maybe. Paper towels. Something boring, but something necessary.

The lights flickered—not enough for anyone to comment, but enough that a few people stiffened, hands tightening on their carts. Someone laughed too loudly, the sound cracking in the middle.

I felt the line move again and followed, careful not to lose my place. I kept my eyes forward. I kept my hands close to the cart.

Behind us, somewhere deeper in the store, another announcement began.

“Hi, y’all—”

The speaker popped, then resumed.

“—we’re closing in ten minutes.”

It sounded closer this time.

How long has it been since the first announcement? I thought to myself as my eyes looked above me as if God himself were announcing it.

Then suddenly the line stopped.

Not gradually. Not with confusion. It stopped the way an animal does when it senses something before the rest of the body catches up. Carts bumped into one another, metal kissing metal, and then there was nowhere to go.

I waited for the usual apology. It didn’t come.

“Hey,” someone said a few people ahead of me. “What’s going on?”

No answer.

The registers at the front went dark all at once, the soft electronic glow snuffing out like candles pinched between fingers. A second later, the overhead lights followed. Not a flicker. Not a warning. Just gone. The store exhaled in a sudden, oppressive silence, leaving everyone feeling helpless and exposed in the darkness.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. The only light came from the wide front windows, pale and bluish, spilling in from the parking lot. It wasn’t enough to see faces clearly—just shapes, outlines, carts frozen like abandoned cars.

Then someone screamed.

The sound cracked the silence wide open. Carts slammed. Someone dropped a case of soda, and the cans rolled, hissing softly as if they were alive. A child wailed, louder this time, unrestrained.

“Stay where you are!” a voice yelled. An employee, maybe. Or someone who liked how authority sounded in the dark.

I gripped the cart handle so hard my fingers ached. My heart was doing something reckless inside my chest, slamming itself against bone like it wanted out.

Outside, beyond the glass, something began to whirl.

At first, I thought it was ash. Or debris kicked up by wind. Then I saw the way it moved—slow, deliberate, falling in clean white lines.

Snow.

Real snow.

It coated the parking lot in minutes, softening the shapes of cars, swallowing painted lines and curbs. It looked beautiful in the way disasters always do when they’re far enough away.

A woman near the window laughed, breathless and sharp. “See?” she said. “I told y’all.”

Another voice cut in immediately, frantic. “The doors—are the doors locked?”

Someone ran toward the entrance. I heard the thud before I saw the shadow slam against the glass.

Nothing opened.

The store filled with noise—pleading, shouting, the scrape of carts being dragged out of the way. In the dim light, people moved in unpredictable bursts, like fish scattering.

And above it all, steady and calm, the intercom came back on.

“Attention, shoppers,” it said, clearer than before.

“We’re closing in ten minutes.”

The screaming didn’t last as long as I expected, and that was the strangest part.

People ran out of breath. They always do. The shouting thinned, then scattered, then faded into a low, constant murmur—like the store had learned how to swallow noise. Someone laughed again, softer this time, embarrassed. Someone else said, “Okay, okay,” as if everyone had just overreacted and needed permission to stop.

Then the emergency lights flickered on in stages, bathing the aisles in a dim yellow glow. Just enough to barely see.

An employee stepped into the aisle near the registers.

“Please remain in line,” she said.

Her voice was calm. Pleasant, even. The kind of tone used for returns and coupon disputes. She stood very still, hands folded in front of her vest.

Up close, something about the employees didn’t sit right. Their faces looked slack. Just drained, like all the urgency had been siphoned out of them and replaced with robotic-like movements. Their eyes slid over people without landing, unfocused but alert, like security cameras.

I caught one of their gazes by accident.

It passed through me, causing chills on the back of my neck.

The line crept forward again. No one questioned it. We moved because moving was better than standing still, and standing still had started to feel dangerous. The carts rolled obediently, wheels clicking over tile like a countdown.

Closer to the front now, I noticed the registers.

They were on but not active. Screens glowed blank blue. Conveyor belts sat motionless, spotless, like they’d never been used at all. No beeping. No scanning. It was eerily quiet; everything was hushed.

A man ahead of me leaned over his cart. “Are y’all reopening the registers?” he asked, trying for casual.

The employee smiled.

“We’re closing in ten minutes.”

She said it too happily, but her face remained stoic.

I looked around. Other employees stood at the ends of aisles, gently guiding people back when they drifted too far. One woman tried to step past a retractable belt near the side exit.

“This section is off-limits,” an employee said softly, already repositioning the barrier.

The woman hesitated. Looked at the sign. Then nodded and turned back without another word, without argument.

Outside, the snow kept falling.

It pressed itself against the windows, thick and soundless, erasing the world in slow, deliberate strokes. The parking lot was gone now—just a white blur where cars and roads had been.

I was three carts away from the register when it hit me.

No one was leaving after paying. We weren’t checking out.

Outside, the snow kept falling, sealing the doors, and staying felt like the only reasonable choice.