The supermarket’s deserted.
The lights are on, the shelves are stacked but there’s nobody home. I walk slowly along the brightly-lit aisles, feeling like the last man in a post-apocalyptic world, albeit one with fresh food and electricity. I normally loathe supermarkets, but I’m surprised at how enjoyable I’m finding this. Maybe it’s not the shop but the shoppers I loathe, with their annoying trolly habits and gluttonous insistence on stockpiling discounted food.
The lights are on, the shelves are stacked but there’s nobody home. I walk slowly along the brightly-lit aisles, feeling like the last man in a post-apocalyptic world, albeit one with fresh food and electricity. I normally loathe supermarkets, but I’m surprised at how enjoyable I’m finding this. Maybe it’s not the shop but the shoppers I loathe, with their annoying trolly habits and gluttonous insistence on stockpiling discounted food.
The rattling hum of the chiller cabinets fades as I walk towards the deli counter, drawn by the mouthwatering selection of fresh produce. It’s normally out of my price range except for special occasions, but not today, I think, as I pick up a whole salami and take a bite.
Let the orgy commence.
Halfway through a tub of anchovy-stuffed olives, I hear a noise. A scratchy, rustling noise.
I turn round, swallowing a mouthful of olives, but can’t see anything.
The rustling gets louder, then a movement near the ground draws my attention.
A packets of crisps sticks its head round the end of an aisle and stares at me.
Wait.
Packets of crisps don’t have heads. Or eyes. And yet I just know it’s sizing me up.
Slowly, as if trying to avoid startling a wild animal, I put the tub of olives on the deli counter and step back.
The packet carries on staring...then starts walking towards me. It makes a sharp, crinkling rustle as it totters along on its bottom corners.
It stops a couple of feet in front of me and looks up like an inquisitive squirrel.
Ready Salted Walkers.
It starts twisting and squashing itself, like it’s doing some strange exercise. I can hear the crunching sound of crisps being broken.
Without warning, the packet rips open as if by invisible hands and vomits its contents with surprising force into my face.
My sluggish reflexes don’t protect me as hundreds of tiny shards of salty crisps fly into my eyes and nose, and embed into the delicate sensory tissues.
I stagger back, gasping at the pain, eyes scrunched so tightly I see exploding circles of light like supernovae, tears and snot streaming down my cheeks, coughing, choking, helpless. It stings, by God, it stings!
It’s like I’m nowhere, completely unaware of my surroundings, where there’s no time and I exist only in my head, stuffed full of pain.
Eventually, I find myself again and open my aching wet eyes.
The light seems unreal.
I’m leaning against a shelf stacked with eggs. A couple of boxes are on the floor, egg white seeping out.
The empty packet of crisps lies a few feet away, twitching feebly.
And...oh God.
Behind it, in row after row, are hundreds more packets. All Ready Salted Walkers, all still, all staring at me.
I’m surrounded.
For a moment, I see the funny side of this surreal situation, and let out a nervous giggle, but it doesn’t sound good in the empty supermarket.
A rustling sound, like wind in the trees. Are they talking to each other?
Come ON! They’re only crisp packets. The first one took me by surprise, that’s all.
I lurch forward and stamp on the nearest packet. There’s a crunch and it opens with a pop. Two more get the same treatment, then something hits the back of my head. No, something’s hanging on to the back of my head!
I reach round and pull off the packet, glancing briefly at it wriggling in my hand before throwing it away. But as soon as it hits the floor, it’s up and running back into the fray.
That seems to be the cue for a mass attack. Packets leap up at me from all directions.
I brush them off violently and stomp around as much as I can, taking grim satisfaction from the crunch underfoot, but the tide is great, and for every packet I stomp, two more jump up at me. How the hell do they hang on?
I let our a roar and lash out like I’m in a drunken mosh pit. Packets go flying.
Then one jumps right into my face
Reeling back, I claw at its smooth exterior, but in an instant my feet go flying as I step into the spilt egg white.
I land with a crunch - more packets destroyed - but they don’t cushion the fall, and I let out a cry as pain shoots across my hip.
As if sensing my weakened state and exposed position, the packets go into a frenzy and renew their assault.
I stand no chance.
My screams fill the empty supermarket, and for a long time after the only sound is the harsh rustling of crisp packets.
This time, it sounds like chewing.
