It wasn’t exactly a festive Saturday evening for Ben and Ellen Garner. He needed to pick up medicine for his wife, who was suffering from a nasty cough, fever, and runny nose. Ben wasn’t feeling so hot either. The couple, originally from sticky, humid South Florida, recently moved to the cool, rural confines of Wakefield, North Carolina, an hour’s drive east of Asheville. Apparently all that fresh mountain air wasn’t agreeing with them.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” said Ellen, her cough approaching sea lion-esque proportions. She looked at the clock – 1:17AM to be exact. “Ugh.”

Ben slipped on his worn blue jeans and Miami Heat long sleeved t-shirt. “Don’t be silly. Besides, it’ll give me a chance to sample those new chocolate-peanut butter Pop-Tarts; they look tantalizing.”

“Don’t you dare,” replied his wife, lying miserably in their queen-sized bed. “You keep whining about your love handles – it’s time to start eating like an adult.” Ben had introduced their six-year-old daughter Sophia to the rectangular pastries and she loved them, especially the cinnamon frosted. Like father, like daughter.

“Bah humbug,” he said. “Besides, I’ve been doing my sit ups regularly, see?” Ben pulled up his shirt showing off his partially svelte frame. “No too bad.”

Ellen fluffed her pillow and sat up. “Do you know what medicine to get?”

“Alka Seltzer, right?” answered Ben.

Ellen’s bleary eyes were itchy and irritated; her nose tomato red from all the excessive blowing. “Get Nyquil, and make sure it’s the nighttime stuff; I need to sleep”

Ben finished tying his sneakers. “Anything else?”

“Chamomile tea would be nice, the one with the bear zonked out on the recliner.”

“Got it.”

They were two months new to the area, enjoying the refreshing change of climate, but one thing that immediately took getting use to was driving far and away to the nearest anything. Before, trips to the doctor’s office, grocery store, or gas station were always within a mile or two, and in every direction. Now, the Garners practically needed a GPS to go anywhere. The alternative would be moving back to the Sunshine State, but they’d had their fill of the stifling heat, hurricanes, not to mention the robberies, three to be precise. No, a little driving would be fine. Having the convertible top down on their gecko green VW Beetle in the Carolina mountain air was all right with the Garners.

“How do I get to Walmart again?” asked Ben, who was a terrific driver – no accidents ever, but had an incredible knack for getting lost.

“Go left out of the driveway, drive about five miles then make a left at the blinking light. Make another left at Baskerville Road, then a right on Mockingbird Lane; you can’t miss it,” said Ellen as she applied more Vapor Rub to her upper chest and a touch just under her nose. Ben jotted everything down on the back of the local free newspaper.

“You know I’ve never been there this late,” said Ben, who’d been told by fellow coworkers at his new job with the community college that things got creepy at night, especially after the witching hour. He was introduced to the People of Walmart website and had to admit it was ‘interesting’, but at the same time there was something a bit off kilter about this particular store. He couldn’t explain it.

“Wish me luck, honey.”

“You have your cell?”

“Uh, I do now,” Ben replied, picking it up off his dresser. “Seal you soon.”

“Very funny,” barked Ellen. “Oh, would you mind picking up some canned sardines for me too? The ones packed in olive oil; I need something salty.”

Ben grimaced. He despised the smell. “Then I get to buy my Pop-Tarts.”

“Your choice, Mr. Lipid.”

“Everyone loves a good fat cell joke.” Ben replied with a grin. He donned his Miami Marlins baseball cap to conceal his springy black curly hair. “I’m off!”

Their new home was spacious: two stories, three bedrooms, a fireplace, and a towering oak tree in the front yard big enough for a tire swing, a specific request by Sophia.

Their former home in Miami was a quaint two bedroom, one bath bungalow. The corner property was a mini tropical paradise, native Florida plants and citrus trees soaking up the sun in every crevice of the yard. But the third and final robbery was the last straw. On one splendid late Sunday afternoon, Ben planned to grill skirt steak and Argentine chorizos on their newish stainless steel gas grill. He went outside only to discover it had mysteriously disappeared. They ended up dining on tasteless frozen pizzas and pink lemonade.

Their new neighborhood was one part trendy, one part Mayberry, a quaint parcel of town distinguished by its friendliness, cool historic downtown and a barbeque joint named Smoky Bones that served up the best pulled pork sandwich Ben had ever tasted. Ellen had relatives in nearby Carrboro, which made relocating to the Tar Heel State a less harrowing task to manage.

Ben drove down the gravel strewn driveway and made a left onto the meandering five-mile stretch of road, forest trees encroaching on both sides. He loved the dips and turns of the roads, but at night it could be harrowing. Following the directions to the tee, Ben pulled into the half lit Walmart parking lot twenty minutes later, most of it surrounded by soaring loblolly pine trees, some reaching ninety feet tall. It was a cozy location even for a mega store the size of a football field.

The first thing Ben noticed was he could count the amount of cars in the parking lot on one hand. In fact, there were only two, and his was one of them. Prior to moving, their local Miami Walmart was always packed to the gills no matter what time it was. He’d seen his share of oddballs there too: extremely overweight women spilling out of their tiny spandex garments, men drinking beer inside the store, stupefied employees, you name it. Having spent most of his adult life in weird and wonderful South Florida, Ben mused the only thing that would ever surprise him would be a guy with two heads.

As he got out of his car, Ben spotted two employees, a pair of twentysomethings for sure, pushing shopping carts towards the entrance of the store. The two were moving at a snails’ pace. It was almost as if they were battling to see who could move the slowest.

“Good evening gentlemen,” said Ben as he walked by. The two employees barely raised their heads, mouths agape, with a pair of blank stares. “Ah, millennials.”

People of Walmart indeed thought Ben as he entered the store. At least it wasn’t one of those cavernous megastores like the one he use to frequent; this one was a third of the size, almost intimate if that was possible for such a mega store chain.

The shopping carts were in complete disarray, blocking most of the inside entrance. Ben zigzagged around them like an obstacle course before spotting a lone cart up ahead. He grabbed the handle only to find it sticky.

“I’ve been here a total of five seconds and I’m already grossed out.” He quickly doused his hands with hand sanitizer stationed at the returns desk.

Ben took a deep breath and rolled forward, passing multiple displays of sodas, cereals, and snack foods precariously stacked like skyscrapers. Next, he eyed the produce section where the fruit and vegetables appeared way past their prime. Ben was taken aback; usually Wal-Mart’s produce departments were exceptionally good -- this one not so much. His mind was so preoccupied that he accidently bumped into a wall of a man with a stone-faced expression.

“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry sir,” said Ben, feeling like a complete idiot.

The man glared down at Ben, who must have been at least ten inches taller than the English professor. The human monolith had trouble speaking but managed to utter the word Help, minus the H. It came out more like a grunt than an actual word.

“Uh, yeah,” replied Ben, being polite. “Could you please tell me where the pharmacy is?”

The tall man stared at Ben for a moment, trying to process the question. “E-l-p.” The man did an about face, turning in slow motion before pointing in the other direction. He followed the sloth-like man before speeding ahead, yearning to return home at some point, preferably before sunrise.

Ben couldn’t believe how sluggish the man was moving. In fact, as he scanned the rest of the store, he noticed all the employees moving at a turtle-like velocity.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, spotting the pharmacy section. “Nyquil, Nyquil, where art thou Nyquil?” He browsed the endless shelves, finally locating the cold and cough medicines. After picking up a bottle, Ben strolled around the corner shelf and snagged a carton of cherry lozenges for his minor sore throat. He then made a beeline for the chamomile tea then waltzed over to the cereal aisle. Like all Wal-Mart’s, the Pop-Tarts were located just past the assortment of pseudo nutrition bars.

“Let’s see, cinnamon frosted, strawberry, cherry, chocolate chip, berry blast – good flavor, ah there you are, chocolate-peanut butter. Yum!”

Ben looked around slightly embarrassed. A thirty-eight year old man shouldn’t get that excited about a crummy pastry, but he was. Last stop, sardines. How NOT exciting, he thought.

As Ben rounded the corner, he heard a peculiar groan. It was getting louder, now sounding more like multiple people. There was a sudden scream then silence. Ben hid behind a leaning tower of pasta display. He parted a couple of boxes of rigatoni to get a peak. “What the hell?"

He stood frozen, unable to move a muscle as a trail of blood flowed down the linoleum floor. Ben placed his hand over his mouth to keep from screaming. He watched a pair of employees chomping down on the hapless shopper, a middle aged man, short and doughy, built like a Weeble toy.

“Oh no, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” yelled a voice. The man stormed over and threw down his clipboard. The two men lowered their blood stained faces, behaving almost like young children being scolded by a parent.

The man was very upset, shouting, as he looked up at the ceiling in disgust. “After all the training, how could you do this? You never, ever eat the customers! That’s rule one!” He picked up his clipboard off the floor, trying to regain his composure.

“You know what this means? The two employees appeared in full shame mode, one almost weeping. “This is absolutely, positively gonna kill my promotion!” He stormed over to a metal column and picked up the phone.

There was a screech of feedback before the man’s voice boomed over the loud speaker. “I need a cleanup in aisle thirteen. I repeat, clean up in aisle thirteen.”

He shook his head, placing his hand on his chin before calling again. “And bring the big mop.”

“You two, go get cleaned up now, and try to move quickly.”

Ben spaced the pasta boxes farther apart to get a better look when they came tumbling down. He stared at the employees and offered up a harmless wave. He almost wet his pants.

“Don’t move,” said the man, a no-nonsense Ross Perot looking type, short with a subpar crew cut, possibly a former military man.

“I’m not moving,” replied Ben, still staring at the two killers, the tubby lifeless body lying on the floor like a beached walrus.

The cleanup crew finally showed up; it was the two dolts from outside the store. One of the men wrapped the dead person in a plastic body bag; the other brandished a damp mop and began wiping up the blood. Ben regained his composure, the blood starting to flow again in his veins.

“What the hell is going on here?”

The man walked towards him, sidestepping the stream of blood. “It’s a tad complicated sir.”

“I’ve got time. Now tell me what’s happening here.” Ben was ready to call the cops when the man asked him politely for a chance to explain.

The man took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and slipped them back on. “Do you know why Walmart is able to offer people best prices, anywhere?”

“Everything’s made in China?” replied Ben.

The man smirked. “No, that’s a fallacy, only partially true. By the way, my name’s Al Kintner, overnight manager. And yours?”

The man extended his hand out. The English teacher, still in disbelief, shook it. “Uh, Ben . . . Ben Garner. My wife and I are new to the area.”

“Well Ben, we’ve developed a unique evening workforce that doesn’t require monetary fulfillment. They’re dedicated, hardworking, and best of all we only have to feed ‘em expired deli meats. They like Boar’s Head a lot.”

“Hold on,” Ben interrupted. “I must be missing something here. You mean you feed your employees meat instead of paying them?”

“Yep. You see our nighttime employees are kinda of the non-living persuasion.”

“I’m confused,” said Ben, trying to put two and two together, but coming up with five instead of four.

“It’s a unique program we’ve instituted at select Walmart stores across the country. You see, our nightshift employees are all . . . expired as they say.” The guy was coming off like a used car salesman.

“We’re not talking . . .” asked Ben, stopping himself. The man nodded in a YES motion. Ben shook his head in an implausible NO motion. The night was turning into full bloom weirdness. He glared at Mr. Kintner, who sported a false smile that would viral a politician’s. The proverbial light bulb was finally beginning to shine above Ben’s head.

“They don’t call it the dead shift for nothing,” said the overnight manager, offering up a mild stab at humor. Ben corrected him – night shift, not dead shift.

“Hold on . . . Zombies? You’ve hired zombies to work at night?”

“It’s a pilot program developed over the last three years, mostly at our rural locations; also where we find a large congregation of weirdies. By the way, where’d you move from?”

“Miami,” answered Ben, feeling like he’d stepped straight into a George A. Romero parody film.

“Holy crap! That was ground zero for the ‘Z’ program. Corporate thought it would less conspicuous, especially in south Florida. Betcha didn’t even notice ‘em where you shopped. Lots of oddballs there – but I guess you already know that.”

All those times Ben went night shopping at the Mart -- as he and his wife dubbed it, and he didn’t even notice. He thought of himself as a fairly observant guy, but apparently not.

“This is extremely bizarre. I mean undead workers? And what about . . . this?” Ben pointed at the victim on the floor. “This is murder plain and simple.”

“Mishap Ben, we call them mishaps. I must admit it can get a bit tricky dealing with the dead shoppers. We usually try to make it look like a traffic accident somewhere on the outskirts of any town USA. Bottom line is Walmart will always do what it can to give you the best price – that’s our pledge to you.”

“How noble.”

“You’re welcome.”

“That was sarcasm,” said Ben. “A guy is dead and you say it’s a mishap? That’s a bit frigid on your part.”

“Look, I feel bad for the guy, but it IS extremely atypical,” replied the manager. “In fact, I can’t remember the last time we had a death. We spend weeks training ‘em. Our ‘Z’ staff does a good job; the only real issue – besides the very, very rare occasion when they dine on a customer is their speed. These guys are slow as molasses.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble Al, but they can barely talk,” said Ben. “And they’re not very helpful.”

“And the day time employees are any better?” joked the manager, blurting out in full laughter. Ben shrugged in agreement offering up a slight smile. “But seriously.”

The manager placed his arm around Ben’s shoulder. “Did you know we even have a speech therapist working with ‘em? Trust me; they’re getting the hang of it.”

Ben looked down at his watch. “Is it safe for me to leave? I gotta get back home to my wife, she needs her medicine.”

“You seem like a decent guy Ben, and I know you won’t say anything about tonight’s mishap, or murder if that makes you happy. Besides, the whole story is so whacked no one’s gonna believe you anyways. Tell you what; your shopping is on us this evening.” The store manager patted Ben on the back. “Oh, watch the blood – looks like the night crew missed a spot.”

“Guess they need some more training,” said Ben, dryly.

Ben thanked the manager then proceeded to skip over the red puddle. As he walked out the store, Ben noticed a few employees following him, waving their stiff upper limbs, trying to wave good-bye. Ben jogged over to his car, hopped in and sped out of the parking lot, not looking back. When he got home, his wife was thankfully snoozing.

The next morning, husband and wife sat at the kitchen table sipping tea. Their daughter was still asleep.

“Thanks for getting the medicine honey,” said Ellen, still sniffling, but her cough subsiding. The morning television news was on in the kitchen.

“No problem dear,” said Ben, taking a hefty crescent shaped bite from the chocolate peanut-butter Pop-Tart. “By the way, do you know why Walmart is able to keep their prices so low?”

Ellen lifted her stuffy head, annoyed by the brazen car commercial, “Everything’s made in China.”

“Not everything,” said Ben. They actually keep their prices low by hiring zombies to work the night shift. They pay ‘em in deli scraps.”

“You have a warped sense of humor, you know that?”

“Every joke has a half truth,” replied Ben before polishing off the rest of the sugary pastry. “Man these are good.”

“How sad,” said Ellen.

“What’s that?” asked Ben, getting up to retrieve the orange juice from the refrigerator. He picked up the remote and kicked up the volume.

“A man identified as Carl Gottlieb, age fifty-seven, died late last night on Baskerville Road apparently hitting a large deer. The victim then plowed into a tree, dying instantly.” The news reporter added. “Police however are investigating the strange bite wounds located on the man’s neck and arms.”

Ben got chills, almost dropping his juice glass onto the tile floor. “Bite marks? Could of been from a bear or a mountain lion. I read that . . .”

“Or maybe there are man-eating deer lurking in the dark woods.” replied Ellen. “How’s that for warped?”

Ben plopped another Pop-Tart into the toaster. “Not even close, dear.”