🍾 Bottleneck

by Steven Kay

I step into the commercial tomb of Walton’s supermarket and remove my sodden wax hood, letting the conditioned air warm my rain-soaked skin. This storm feels like the worst yet, with raindrops like bullets and damp that gets in the marrow. Or maybe it’s just that I know Indy is out there somewhere, drenched and shivering in a bush, too scared to come home after what I did.

“Welcome, Jonathan,” says the automated voice from overhead, the artificial melodies of cybernated jazz sinking to accommodate it before returning to normal volume.

Like most days, the store is empty. All matte ceramic and smart glass—it’s a bastard monument—a flawless, lifeless echo of what came before. I squelch past the groceries, the vacuum-packed containers lined up in rows where leaves and shoots used to spill free before the Walton’s acquisition. One of the autonomous stock replenishers whirrs past, a hulking articulated arm tracking along the groove in the ceiling with a stack of food cans on its tray. Next to the cereals and instant noodles, a sign reads Walton’s: From Our Field, To Your Table.

My old colleague Sidney, a septuagenarian, year-round Santa type, once said there are some problems only wine can solve. I clutch this wisdom like a talisman as I pass the cat food, eyes to the floor, tracing the crack between the tiles like one of the robotic replenishers. I can’t even look at the packets without welling up, despite the sanguine, AI composite images of perfect cats looking nothing like Indy. Clearing the corner, I’m ready to submit to wine’s crimson embrace; ready to let the alcohol drown out the heartache of his absence. But instead of rows of bottles and cans, there are only empty shelves.

“Shit.”

“You’re through to Customer Support,” says the wall panel by the entrance.

“The booze needs restocking,” I say, rubbing my eyes.

I shouldn’t be giving money to Walton’s, not that the automated voice knows I used to work here, or cares. It doesn’t know anyone used to work here, that we came here every day, restocking the shelves, chatting to regulars, eating sandwiches in the staffroom while Sidney rubbed his back and regaled us with grandiose tales about nothing. I consider asking the wall panel what it thinks about that, but I doubt it thinks anything at all.

“Alcoholic beverages are on aisle seven,” says the panel.

I sigh. “It’s all gone. Can you get a replenisher to restock it?”

Unaware of my plight, a lone replenisher trundles toward the rear of the store, disappearing through a narrow vertical slot where a sign reads “DANGER: NO HUMAN ENTRY” beneath a pulsing red light.

“Stock Replenishment Arms detect stock shortages and re-supply accordingly,” says the wall panel.

The store falls quiet, the red light above the slot returning to idle green.

“They’re not doing it,” I say. “Maybe there’s a fault?”

“Please hold.”

A young, hooded woman enters the store and disappears down the middle aisle. After a moment, she re-emerges at the self-checkout with a bag of coffee, scanning it, and holding up her wrist to pay. Before she’s even made it to the exit, a replenisher rushes out of the slot, carrying a replacement bag.

“Mr Bates?” says the voice.

“I’m here.”

“A support ticket has been raised. An engineer will be on site within forty-eight hours. Thank you for choosing Walton’s.”

“Forty-eight hours!” I snap, then catch myself, inhaling through my nose. “Can I just speak to a human assistant?”

A moment of silence gives way to the rumble of rain throbbing against the windows outside.

I push the button on the panel. “Hello?”

“Customer Support is currently unavailable.”

“Damn it!”

I storm back to the booze aisle, waving my arms at a passing replenisher. “Hey! Can you bring some wine?”

It continues on its path, unphased by my pleas; I’m not sure they even have cameras, let alone microphones. I slap the empty shelf out of frustration, sending a metallic warble echoing through the aisles. Above the slot, the red light flashes as the replenisher slips through, then returns to green.

I stand beside the slot, tapping my chin. There used to be a Staff Only door here, the painted-over seam of the old frame still visible on each side of the dark, narrow opening. It seems logical to wait until a replenisher exits before making my move, if I can even fit in there; the slot is mere inches wide, like an arrowslit in a medieval castle. Indy would have no trouble; I’ve seen him force himself through gaps that looked too small for mice. That’s what started this whole thing, two nights ago: him diving under the TV stand so forcefully that he tipped the TV over. The screen cracked on impact, sending blue-black circlets of digital damage across its surface, like an ink tag loyally defending the clothing garment which it had been assigned.

“Indy, you idiot!” I yelled, balling my fists.

The stumpy-legged furball jolted at my voice, scuttling out the cat flap. I haven’t seen him since.

I pinch my eyes, wiping tears away with the heel of my hand. I can’t do another night sober, staring into the broken TV after another fruitless street search. I can’t face knowing Indy is alone, maybe even hurt, wondering why I haven’t rescued him. Or worse, that he doesn’t need rescuing at all, that he found a new home where the humans don’t yell.

A few painful minutes pass, the green light glaring back tauntingly. I know there’s wine back there. There has to be. I pace up and down, my eyes flitting to the light every other second.

“Come on!” I stop pacing, arms folded.

Nothing.

I’m off again, past the cookies, chocolate, coffee.

Coffee!

The sight of the impeccably arranged foil bags halts me to the spot. I slide one from the shelf. Hurrying to the booze aisle, I toss the coffee onto one of the empty shelves before circling back to the replenisher slot.

The light flashes red. A replenisher emerges, blurring past, a bag of coffee held aloft. I lunge at the slot, twisting myself into a concrete tunnel so tight it constricts my ribcage like a vice. My breath quickens, my forehead slick with sweat. This isn’t my best decision to date; if the replenisher returns, I’ll be crushed to death by eighty kilograms of unconscious steel. I struggle forward, my shoulders scraping along the side walls. The concrete walls morph into equally tight metal shelving racks on either side, where stock is stacked high under a wash of emergency green. I pass juice, canned food, and cleaning products, as jazz continues to swirl overhead, playing only for the replenishers here. Of course, this would be about where the staffroom was located; a square room spanning an area now occupied by three or four aisles, where old Sidney would perch on his stool, waxing lyrical.

“You know Walton’s has started using AI-generated music in their stores?” he said once.

“Not this again…” someone groaned.

We all laughed.

“Thousands of years of human evolution only to invent computers that think we want to listen to lounge jazz all day!” Sidney let out a hearty laugh, then sighed wistfully, his head lowered. “I wonder what’ll happen to the musicians…”

The group fell silent, until a clunk raised everyone’s gaze to the staffroom window. Indy appeared on the sill, filling the quiet with a loud, expectant meow.

“Here he is!” said Sidney. “The furry explorer!”

The little scamp somehow knew exactly when their break times were, and that Sidney was more than happy to swipe some cat biscuits from the shelf behind the boss’s back.

It was only a few weeks later we found ourselves standing in the store’s backyard, watching wordlessly as contractors threw the staffroom furniture onto a pile to make room for shelving units and replenisher track rails. I haven’t seen Sidney since; I don’t suppose anyone has. We all just took our insulting pay-outs and drifted into obsolescence.

A short buzz sounds, a whoosh of air behind me ripping me from my daydream.

There’s a replenisher coming.

I grab the nearest shelf, forcing myself sideways. Aisle 18. It’s so tight, my nose brushes the boxes as I squeeze further in, barely clearing my shoulder as the replenisher sears past. It zips in and out of the aisles like a hummingbird, topping up its tray before heading back my way. It freezes at the aisle opposite, makes three attempts to access it before aborting and continuing along the rail toward the store. In the thin green light, the stock over the other side lifts out of shadow, sending a shiver prickling up my neck: slim, dark bottles with tall necks, lined up in neat little rows.

“Jackpot!”

I push out into the central corridor, checking it’s clear. Across the way, cases of wine and beer have fallen into the aisle, jamming between the shelves like a game of Tetris gone terribly wrong. That must be why the replenishers haven’t restocked the booze.

Idiots.

A sharp hiss fills my ears. I’m slow to react, catching a glimmer of steel in the corner of my eye. A replenisher comes hurtling down the central track and slams me into the hard corner of the shelves behind. My scream reverberates around the warehouse as the pain bites into my torso, the replenisher redoubling its efforts to pass.

“Stop! Stop!” I cry, my thin words intertwined with the ambient music.

The replenisher finally gives up, falling still, its tray of wares held aloft. I try to pull myself out, push the arm away, twist free. It’s no use; I’m stuck here, a few steps from a bottle of merlot.

The warehouse is calm, the replenishers’ usual operations apparently on hold. The jazz continues, a slow, synthetic clarinet piece lulling me into a dopamine dream. My side feels wet. That’s not good. I try to reach a hand around to investigate, but my arms are pinned.

On the side of the replenisher, a tiny screen lists a series of digits that mean nothing to me: 17 (X), 4, 23. Wincing, I tuck two fingers into the pocket of my jeans, working them around the edge of my phone. I pincer it and pull gently, sliding it up and out. The replenisher slams into me again and I squeal, the phone clattering to the floor. I puff out a few breaths, gritting my teeth. The thought of an engineer finding me like this in forty-eight hours would almost be funny, if it wasn’t for the fear of actually dying before then.

MAN FOUND DEAD AFTER FAILED SHOPLIFTING ATTEMPT.

Oh, to be a cat right now, to impossibly squirm myself free.

I drop my head, resting it on the replenisher. I was stupid to shout at Indy, all because of the TV; a black box that serves only to fill my head with garbage and warn me about storms I can see through my window. I don’t know what’s worse: the thought that he’s trapped somewhere and needs me, or that not even he needs me now; becoming obsolete in all the ways that matter.

As I exhale, I hear his meow; a ghost, echoing through the warehouse. I laugh bitterly, blubbing through snot and tears. I just wanted to drown this shitty feeling in alcohol. Now I’m bleeding, sober, and depressed.

There’s another meow.

My head raised, I squint through the dark. Past the blockade of broken cases in the blackness beyond, two glimmering marbles peer back. My eyes adjust as I wrestle with what I’m seeing: a calico European Shorthair, its leg entangled in the plastic rings from the top of a four pack.

“Indy?”

He meows in reply.

“Indy!” I laugh as tears streak my cheeks. “You came here? Of course you did!”

I push and pull, willing the replenisher to move back an inch so I can slide out, but each movement sends salt-sore threads of pain shooting up my side. The thing is jammed good between me and the boxes and there’s no moving it.

“Oh Indy,” I say. “I really messed up this time.”

There has to be something; an emergency call button, a fire alarm. The possibility that I might actually bleed out washes over me, like the primal shudder of leaning too far over a cliff edge; the first fool to try to enter the realm of the automaton, dead on Aisle 18.

The number purrs with significance. Above the opposite aisle, a sign with 17 on it hangs from the ceiling.

17 (X), 4, 23…

“The numbers are aisles…” I say, my eyes locked on the replenisher’s screen. “Indy, the numbers are aisles! The X probably means inaccessible!”

I twist toward the central corridor, wincing at further stabs of pain. Reaching out with my foot, it’s just short of the blockage. I stretch further, skimming the boxes with my toe.

“Come on!” I say, taking a deep breath. Indy watches curiously, his head tilted.

Pushing hard, biting against the pain, I shove my foot into the boxes, sending them toppling, crashing to the floor. The little X on the replenisher’s screen disappears as it registers the clearance.

“Yes!”

The replenisher releases me and I fold over, clutching my bleeding ribs as the robotic arm lifts a case of wine and zooms away.

I hobble across to Indy’s aisle, stepping over the fallen boxes. He meows as I close in and stretch an arm to scoop him up. I snap the plastic rings, drop them to the floor, and pull Indy into my neck, smelling his warm fur.

“I thought I’d never see you again!” I say. “I’m so sorry.”

We move to the end of the aisle, where the wine bottles glint invitingly. Across the way, boxes of cat biscuits stand lined up along the shelf. Indy sees them too, purring loudly.

“You want those, huh?”

He meows again. I leave the wine and slide a box of treats from the shelf instead, tucking it under my free arm, continuing toward the back of the warehouse where it opens out to a square junction. At the far side, a maintenance door is framed by a row of charging bays, where two idle replenishers sit awaiting orders from the store. Indy hisses at them, licking his lips indignantly.

“We’re taking this!” I yell, holding the box up.

Pushing through the door, Indy and I exit into the store’s puddled rear yard. The rain has stopped, the air heavy and dank.

“How about we see what Sidney’s up to?” I ask. “I don’t think he lives far from here.”

Indy purrs, pushing his head into my neck.

“Yeah, let’s do that.” I lift my gaze to the sky, where the clouds have parted to let a glimmer of evening sun kiss our faces.