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Ash hated California. He couldn't entirely put his finger on why, but something about the proximity to the ocean combined with the overly-tanned people who kept giving him sidelong looks rubbed him the wrong way. He was fairly sure his former store manager had somehow sensed this weakness and took particular glee in sending him off to Santa Barbara, ostensibly to assist in opening one of S-Mart's new flagship superstores. Unofficially, Ash was certain this was nothing but a ploy to get him out of the boss's hair. Given the amount of chaos he usually attracted, he was probably lucky it wasn't a permanent relocation.
It wasn't like he was actually needed there. The store had been open for a week and so far his duties had consisted mainly of giving people directions, making minuscule adjustments to product displays and, presently, mopping up baby puke while the janitor was on a smoke break. All in all it beat manning the checkout counter, but he had a bad feeling that something was going to go down today.
At least it wasn't winter. He wasn't sure he could stand spending Christmas somewhere where it never snowed.
The small two-way radio attached to his belt crackled to staticky life.
"Um, we might have a potential incident over by the South Entrance."
Yeah. Today was going to be nothing but trouble.
"Shawn, what the hell are you doing?" Gus usually measured the quality of his days by the number of times he had to ask that exact question. Today was currently measuring at around a 3.5 on the Spencer Insanity Scale. A few people were staring at them as they passed by, but some of them, apparently familiar with Shawn's growing reputation, just rolled their eyes and shrugged.
"I'm appreciating the spectacle," Shawn replied from on top of the bench he was standing on. "Look at it, Gus. A veritable treasure trove of quality goods and services, reasonably priced for the average consumer. This is what makes America great, my friend."
"That's funny, all I see is a bunch of cheap junk made by exploited kids in underdeveloped countries. And a couple of security guards headed our way."
"Shh, Gus, you'll offend the Retail Gods." He jumped down, waving to the uniformed rent-a-cops. "Don't listen to him, he knows not what he does." The last sentence seemed to be addressed directly at the ceiling.
"Come on." Gus grabbed a cart and headed toward the store's grocery section. "Since you dragged me all the way down here, I'm at least buying some real food."
"We have real food at the office," Shawn protested, following his partner into the produce aisle.
Gus made a skeptical noise as he examined a bundle of carrots. "You know as well as I do that you'd exist on nothing but sugar, starches and caffeine if I didn't feed you."
"Hey!" This was actually true, assuming that 'feed you' was synonymous with 'let you steal my food without complaining too loudly,' but Shawn wasn't about to admit it. "I drink smoothies."
"That counts as sugar."
"And... that's a bad thing?"
Gus just shook his head.
"Can't we at least split up?"
"You can't be trusted alone around baked goods, Shawn. Have you forgotten the infamous bread puppet incident?"
"Come on, that loaf of sourdough totally looked like it had a face." Shawn picked up a pineapple from its display and sniffed it. "And the ladies loved it. Have you forgotten I got that one girl's number?"
"You never called her!"
He chose to ignore this retort, setting the pineapple back on the pile. A few of its fellows were perched in a slightly different position than they had been just a few seconds before and the leaves of the topmost fruit were waving as if a breeze was blowing them, even though there was no draft in the building capable of moving the stiff fronds.
Huh. Weird.
He didn't have much time to think this over before the sample lady two aisles over caused a rather impressive diversion by suddenly turning into a monster.
There was a loud crash as panicked patrons fled for the exits. The sample lady was joined by what had formerly been the deli clerk, a stockboy and a random blue-haired old lady as the creatures gathered together. Cackling, they began to converge on the front of the store.
"Gus?"
"Hm?" His voice was oddly high-pitched, but that was understandable given the circumstances.
"Do you see Wes Craven anywhere?"
"No."
"Then I think we're in trouble."
"I don't know who you two are, but get the hell out of the way!"
He barely had time to grab Gus by the collar and dive for cover behind the tomato stand before the creatures returned, followed closely by a tall dark-haired man in a blue S-Mart smock who was brandishing a mop like a staff.
"Oh, that is lame," Shawn whispered. "What's his next move, fending off vampires with a Swiffer?"
Gus elbowed him in the ribs. "Shut up, I think it's working."
Indeed, the mysterious mop-wielder seemed to have gained the upper hand, using his improvised weapon to herd the whatever-they-weres toward a refrigerated storeroom. He'd managed to shut the door on three of them but the fourth, the ex-little old lady, was doubling back for a flank attack.
"Shawn!"
He grabbed an armful of tomatoes and, keeping low, rolled them directly into the monster's path. It shrieked as it lost its footing, stumbling and sliding through the gooey mess.
"I told my dad those lawn bowling tournaments weren't a waste of time!"
Turning, the other man speared the monster through the chest, sending thick black blood spraying all over the store's stock of cauliflower. Amazingly, the thing howled even louder, flailing and scrabbling as it was thrown in the cooler with the others, mop and all.
Shawn watched the grisly scene unfold, edible ammunition still in hand. "Wow, that is about a hundred kinds of wrong."
The unknown employee finally seemed to remember their presence. "Did they bite or scratch you anywhere!?"
Shawn's brow furrowed as Gus's face turned an interesting shade of pale. "What?"
"Did. They. Hurt. You?"
"We're fine."
"Speak for yourself," Gus muttered.
The man came closer, eying the fruit still clutched in Shawn's hand. "Nice job."
"Yeah, thanks. If you're done traumatizing my partner, can we go now?"
The older man shook his head, eying the metal doors, which were beginning to rattle. "Not a chance. That door's bolted, but it's not gonna last long."
"And what do you suggest we do about it?" Shawn yelled incredulously, glancing quickly at the man's name tag. "Ash? Your last plan was hand-to-mop combat. And pardon me for saying so, but the 'ask me about our Super Smart Specials' badge doesn't exactly strike fear into my heart."
Wordlessly, Ash picked up a melon with his metal hand and squeezed, shattering the rind with a loud snap and sending seeds and shredded pulp dribbling to the floor.
"Okay, I'm listening."
"Good." He wiped the offending hand on his shirt. "Who are you?"
"Direct, aren't we?" Shawn mused to no one in particular. "Shawn Spencer, psychic at large and charter member of the John Carpenter Fan Club and Synthesizer Orchestra. This is my associate, Chester Q. Butterfield."
Ash raised an eyebrow. Said associate was too busy trying not to throw up to add anything constructive to the conversation. Shawn soldiered on, observing the newcomer's frankly scary collection of facial scars and blinged-out prosthetic...
"I'm sensing this isn't your first encounter with the zombie underworld."
"Give the kid a prize," Ash drawled sarcastically. "They're not really zombies, but yeah, we go way back."
"Really?" Gus's sense of curiosity was overcoming his sense of general queasiness. "What are they?"
"Basically, ancient demons using living people as hosts." He grimaced. "It's a long story."
Gus frowned. "Shouldn't we be worried about some kind of exorcism then?"
"You wanna get close enough to try? And the first people these things took were my sister and my girlfriend, so if you're tryin' to guilt-trip me, don't even bother."
Several awkward silent moments followed.
"So..." Shawn finally ventured. "What do you need us for?"
"First, it's always better to have back-up. And second, you didn't run when everyone else did. This isn't your first rodeo either."
Shawn and Gus exchanged glances. "Not exactly, no."
"Right. Got any weapons?"
Shawn made a show of patting himself down. "Gosh, sorry, it looks like I left my machete in my other pants. Why don't you?"
Ash growled. "It's kinda hard to get a chainsaw past airport security these days."
Gus shot Shawn a bemused look. He just shrugged. "So I guess we keep doing what you were doing."
Ash nodded. "We work with what we've got."
Twenty minutes later Shawn was climbing into a shopping cart, covered from head to toe in protective gear and carrying a pair of garden shears duct-taped to the end of a rake.
"Wow, I haven't ridden in one of these since I was five." He swung an arm over the edge as Gus clambered in behind him, grabbing onto him for balance. "No, wait... there was that time in tenth grade.."
"Shawn," Gus hissed. "Can you please keep your mind on the matter of us possibly dying?"
"We're not going to die, Gus," he replied calmly and automatically. "Really, is this the best we could come up with, weaponry-wise? I feel like I'm about to go jousting."
Ash snorted as Gus elbowed Shawn in the side again.
Shawn peered through the facemask of the football helmet he'd liberated from Sporting Goods at what he'd mentally dubbed the Ravening Horde. "You ready?"
There was an indistinct squeak of assent from behind him. Through the borrowed padding, he felt his friend's grip on his waist tighten.
"Yeah, good idea, man. Keep me anchored, I wouldn't want to fall out of this thing."
Gus found his voice again as he brandished his own weapon, a baseball bat with a length of hacksaw blade attached. "I got your back, buddy."
"Well, you've always done an admirable job covering my rear."
There was a choked sputter from the back of the cart. "Are you two done?"
Shawn rolled his eyes. "Yep. All suited up and ready to go Bowling for Zombies."
Two voices corrected him in unison. "THEY'RE NOT ZOMBIES."
"Whatever. Zombies, possessed people, quit splitting hairs and let's do this."
Ash grinned, which reminded Shawn unnervingly of a guy who'd tried to sell him a time-share in Reno once, and geared himself up for a running start.
"Let's roll."
The battle that followed was not exactly well-strategized. All anyone could say for certain was that it had entailed a lot of bludgeoning, vast amounts of unspeakable splatter and at least three severed limbs. Eventually, Faith and Righteousness and Shameless Misuse of Yardworking Tools had prevailed, and the four demonic creatures were quietly decomposing into puddles of oily sludge.
The three heroes leaned against a freezer case, recovering their breath. Gus looked like might be sick again. Shawn discreetly flicked what appeared to be a piece of someone's eyeball off his finger.
"Chainsaws, huh?"
Ash was busy wiping demon guts off his metal hand with the edge of his sleeve. "Yep."
"That would have made things a lot easier."
Three weeks passed, and things pretty much returned to something resembling normal. The police were baffled by the incident, the remains found at the scene had been analyzed and found to be "unidentified organic material," and the case remained unsolved despite the best efforts of the department's head psychic. Shawn had lamented the blemish on his otherwise exemplary record, and Gus had testily reminded him that they wouldn't be getting paid. (In fact, Shawn had half managed to convince himself that the entire afternoon was nothing but a hallucination brought on by an ill-advised experiment involving a stopwatch and half a jar of habanero peppers. Gus was equally convinced that this wasn't physically possible, but was more than willing to let him rationalize to his heart's content.)
They were already working a new case when the office phone rang. Gus answered with his usual cordial yet businesslike greeting, only to be met by an earful of angry Henry Spencer.
"Dude. It's your dad." He held the phone an inch away from his ear as the tirade continued unabated.
"No kidding." Shawn had recognized his father's 'I'm Serious, Dammit' voice from across the room. "What's he want?"
Gus listened for a minute longer. "Something about some missing power tools."