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to the door leading into the store, which is now ajar. Pete lingers, wheezing again, and muttering.
    â€œThe death came, and it will come again. The death came, and it will come again. The death —”
    â€œShut him up, will you?” Smitty says to me.
    â€œLike he does anything I say.”
    â€œYou found him,” he says. “We’re going in.”
    Gripping the screwdriver firmly, Smitty slowly opens the door. The fluorescent light of the store spills into the small room. He listens for a moment, gives me a thumbs-up, then slips inside.
    I turn to Pete, who glares at me. I sigh.
Fine.
Stay here and wait for the death to come and come again.
    I follow Smitty, creeping behind shelves of chips and cookies and cigarette lighters, making for where we’d seen the man’s head disappear behind the cash register.
    Smitty leaps onto the counter, brandishing the screwdriver.
    â€œSurprise, surprise!” he screams.
    A battle cry sounds from under the counter and the man springs up and swipes at Smitty’s feet with a bat. Who knew they had baseball in Scotland? I step back abruptly and the edge of a shelf bites into my back. Smitty has dodged the first swipe, but here comes the second. He jumps into the air as the man’s bat clatters air fresheners, breath mints, and bottles of motor oil onto the ground.
    â€œStop it!” I know the words are futile before they’ve even left my mouth.
    Smitty hurls himself away from the third swipe of the bat and falls against a cabinet of hot pastries. The man hurdles the counter and brings the bat down. Glass and doughnuts fly everywhere as Smitty ducks and skitters backward on his hands through a slick of motor oil that is fast filling the floor. I see my chance. I fling myself at the back of the man’s knees, forcing him off balance and making him skid in the oil. He falls hard, and there is a smack as his head hits the floor. The bat flies out of his hands. I stretch out an arm and make the catch. Dad would have been so proud.
    â€œI said stop!” I hold up the bat, threatening to swing. “Or I’ll flatten you both.” Spit flies out of my mouth in a really attractive way.
    From behind the shelves, there is laughter. “She’s not kidding.” Pete pokes his head out.
    â€œShut it, Albino!” Smitty shouts.
    â€œYou shut it!” The man on the floor jabs a finger toward Smitty. “Crazy kid attacking me with a knife. You deserve to be locked up!”
    â€œIt was a screwdriver, sir.” I grit my teeth. “And I’m sure he didn’t mean it. He apologizes — don’t you, Smitty?”
    Smitty grimaces.
    â€œDon’t you?” I grip the bat tighter.
    Smitty rolls his eyes and nods.
    â€œThere you go. We’re all friends.” For the first time, I notice a name tag on the man’s shirt, hanging askew, which reads GARETH . I turn to the man, keeping the bat held high just in case. “Gareth? I’m Bobby, this is Smitty, and that’s Pete. We need your help. There are people injured and dying; we don’t know what’s going on and we have to call the police.”
    Gareth sits up and rubs his head. “Psycho teenagers are all I need. But if you’ve come looking for a phone, you’ve come to the wrong place.” He pulls himself up against the counter. “The line’s dead.”
    â€œHe’s lying!” Smitty is up again.
    â€œWhy would I?” Gareth says, not unreasonably. “Think I want to be stuck here, either?” He throws the receiver at Smitty. “Check it yourself. We’re all shafted.” He walks around the counter and sits down on the chair, holding his head in his hands as if checking for cracks.
    I figure I can lower the bat. “Do you know what’s happening to everyone?”
    Gareth smiles nastily. “The phones died. My boss went up to the café to check what was going on. He comes back and