It’s crazy what some people will put up with for a little bit of money in desperate times.
I’m one of those desperate people.
My daughter Danny needed a life-saving treatment the insurance company refused to cover.
After my wife died in a car crash the year before, Danny was all I had left.
I couldn’t lose her too.
I needed almost five thousand dollars fast, and my minimum-wage day job wasn’t going to cut it.
The only solution was a second job on the graveyard shift.
I scoured classifieds and drove around until I found it: Shai’s Nighttime Convenience and Grocery.
A small store about a mile from our house that only opened at 8 p.m.
And closed before morning.
The weird hours should have been a red flag, but I was too desperate to care.
I walked in one evening after my day shift.
The store looked bigger inside than it did from the street.
Aisles of groceries, household supplies, even some clothing racks.
Most of the customers seemed normal at first glance, though a few gave off an unsettling vibe.
One man shot me a murderous glare when I stared a second too long.
I approached the back office and was met by the store manager, Benny — a large man with a forced smile that looked like it hurt his face to hold.
“I’m looking to apply for a job,” I said, gesturing to the “Help Wanted” sign.
Benny’s radio crackled.
After a brief, coded exchange, he grinned wider.
“Congratulations.
There’s an opening right now.
Can you start tonight?”
The pay was $45 an hour.
Full health coverage.
Dental.
I signed the NDA without reading every line.
I needed the money for Danny.
That first night, Benny introduced me to the rules.
As a bagger, I had to ask every customer: “What type of bag would you like?”
Whatever they said went.
No questions about their purchases.
No helping them to their cars.
If anyone insisted, I was to press the yellow button for security.
And then there was Code Black.
“If a customer requests a special bag,” Benny said, “you’ll know it when you hear it.
Press the black button and follow protocol.
These are Mr. Shai’s highest-paying guests.
They must be helped immediately.”
My trainer, an unpleasant older man named Ed, showed me the ropes with zero patience.
“You know bagging, right?”
He grunted.
“Not like this, I’m guessing.”
The customers were… off.
One bought zip ties, medical sedatives, and bags of candy.
Another purchased boxes of ammunition, a Kevlar vest, and fruit.
I learned quickly not to ask questions.
Then came my first Code Black.
A well-dressed man approached the counter with tailoring supplies, a hacksaw, plaster cast, nails, and rivets.
He smiled politely and said, “I’ll need the larger variety tonight.
A body bag, please.”
My hand shook as I pressed the black button.
Security arrived instantly.
Benny appeared, nervous but professional.
“Of course, Mr. Jaspen.
We have a fresh one processed just hours ago.”
I followed them downstairs through keycard-locked doors into a freezing basement.
When the lights came on, I nearly vomited.
Rows upon rows of body bags.
Most of them full.
Some corpses stared out with glassy eyes.
The “processed” man from earlier — the belligerent customer who had harassed me — lay on a stretcher, face dented from the baton strike.
Mr. Jaspen examined the body like a tailor measuring fabric.
“He’ll do nicely.
Good material.”
I stood there, frozen, as they loaded the corpse into a body bag and carried it away like a regular grocery delivery.
That night I quit in my head a dozen times.
But Danny’s treatment loomed.
I needed two more weeks.
The next Code Black came a few nights later.
Another customer eyed me too long.
“I’ll take the new one tonight,” he said, looking straight at me.
Security appeared before I could react.
Benny stepped in.
“We have better options in the back.”
I learned the truth that night.
Shai’s didn’t just sell groceries.
They sold people.
The Code Blacks were buyers.
The “processed” customers were inventory.
I lasted until my final week.
On my last night, a customer named Henry Jaspen returned.
He looked me up and down and smiled.
“You have a nice strong jaw.
Broad shoulders.
Not as much meat, but you’ll do.”
Benny tried to redirect him to other “stock,” but Jaspen insisted.
Security grabbed me.
I fought, but they were too strong.
They dragged me toward the basement stairs.
That’s when I heard the code black alarm for myself.
In the chaos, I broke free and ran.
I didn’t stop until I was out the back door and in my car.
I never went back.
I found another way to scrape together the money for Danny’s treatment.
We moved far away.
I still wake up some nights hearing that radio crackle: “Code Black on number three.”
And sometimes, when the house is too quiet, I swear I hear the hum of a chest freezer that isn’t plugged in… and soft footsteps in the hallway, looking for the new hire who got away.
I work the night shift no more.
But some nights, I still check the locks three times before bed.
Because Mr. Shai knows where I live.
