Stuck at the Galleria

Act 4: The Thrill (part 3)

Author's note: Guess who's back from the dead? I'm really, really sorry for the wait. I hit a hell of a wall after part 2 that took me a while to get over; while I've been keeping my creative side happy by producing music and writing a few shorts and some journalistic fare, I felt like it might have been time to try to come back to Stuck to see if I could finally round out things, the way I wanted to since I was a kid.

I won't promise regular updates (those always just ended up being a wash for me anyway), but I won't wait two years to keep the story going again. Thanks for sticking with it, or just reading in the first place. Hopefully I'll be able to keep this flame burning until the story's done.

Tre / Lyle

P.S. Kinzie's name is Lena now. Apologies for any confusion this may cause.

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Wamcy's always struck me as the most corporate-feeling of the big anchor stores. The walls were 90% white and the other 10% were a deep, oceany kind of blue. I never particularly felt welcome here (it always seemed like the kind of store the hipsters and faux haute couture folks shopped at), but it wasn't nearly as bad as the Stratford.

The place gave me a bit of a shiver as I came in through the first floor entrance, and not just because of the unseasonable air conditioning. I pulled my hoodie's zipper up and tightened the strings, throwing the hood over my head in the process.

By all accounts I thought I was alone, but there was an indescribable tension in the store-- danger, maybe, or something like it. Whatever it was, the sooner I found the key and got out, the better.

As quietly as I could, I scurried down the central aisles, my eyes darting left, right, left as the rows of overpriced clothing flew by. I took a hard left at the escalators and kept going until I found myself at the elevator door, at which I groaned.

"Elevator out of service, please use stairs or request assistance?" I read. "Come on!"

Perhaps out of desperation I kicked the door, a decision I immediately came to regret due to 1) the ensuing shock of pain that permeated my left Chuck Taylor, and 2) the vile din that the door let out in response -- a metallic noise that echoed throughout the rest of the store.

I tensed up. My palms started to sweat as I heard a single set of footsteps behind me.

"I didn't think punks were the kind of folks that shopped at Wamcy's," a shrill voice said from down the aisle. "The Trash Bin's three doors down."

Lena let a short laugh out at her own joke. "You shouldn't even be here!" I said, cowering behind a rack of womens' leather jackets. "This isn't your turf!"

"It is now. You're one of them." She placed her right hand inside her knapsack while gnashing her teeth at me. "They broke their word, so this mall is ours."

"I'm not one of anyone," I replied with a gulp. "I'm just Tre."

"That doesn't matter. Nowhere is safe, dear Tre," Lena said. "Besides, I've got a surprise for you!"

She pulled her right arm out of the backpack and with it, a plasticine white rifle with three prominent orange lights situated on the edge. With a snap of her other hand, a pair of three-dimensional shadows manifested behind her and scoped me out with their matching tangerine eye-lights. "I heard you're good with one of these bad boys, but not so much when you're on the other side of one. Mind if I test mine out?"

I pivoted to my right and bolted, leaving a trail of knocked-over clothing items in my wake as I ran for the auxiliary stairwell. Lena's tagger turned a display of graphic tees ahead of me into a pile of ashes, and the sudden sound of darts made me yelp.