Chapter 2: Death at the Smoothie Shop

After a moment’s thought, I set my sights on the smoothie shop on the first floor—a neon-lit beach shack that always smelled like artificial fruit and hope. It used to be the place you’d grab a drink after shoe shopping, but now the cheerful sign glowed like a neon trap.

With the clock ticking, smoothies—which are served quick—seemed like the best bet. Fast service had to mean a better shot at survival. I sure wasn’t risking the jewelry counter or the DMV kiosk. Get in, get out—that was the plan.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who thought so. A tidal wave of people surged toward the shop. It was like a Black Friday stampede. A kid lost his shoe. A woman’s purse swung like a mace as she shoved to the front. The line grew long, fast.

By the time I reached the end, there were already a dozen customers ahead of me. My palms were slick with sweat. Every second felt like a waste. I counted heads—too many, not enough time.

The clerk behind the counter looked like your average high schooler, but her smile was pure Disney princess—if the princess had just crawled out of a Stephen King novel. She set a menu in front of the first customer, her eyelids never blinking.

"What drink would you like?" she asked.

The man hesitated, voice shaky, and finally ordered a strawberry smoothie—like it was a test he might fail. He stammered, almost apologetic, as if afraid of ordering wrong. He had reason to be.

The clerk moved fast—almost too fast. She had the smoothie ready before he finished his sentence. "Here you go," she said, sliding it over.

He took a cautious sip. Nothing seemed off. Then he asked, "Can I have a receipt now?"

Everyone in line leaned forward, desperate for hope.

The clerk clapped her hands, ducked under the counter. Her movements were robotic, like she’d rehearsed this a thousand times.

"Almost forgot, I only gave you the smoothie—not the fruit chunks yet."

The way she said it—cheery, like she was upselling a loyalty card—made my skin crawl.

She raised a pair of iron tongs and held up a glowing red-hot iron ball, heat shimmering off it like a forge.

A wave of scorching air blasted the line. It was like standing next to an open grill in July—except the stakes were so much higher.

The customer was frozen, confusion on his face. "What do you mean—"

He never finished. The clerk yanked open his mouth and shoved the iron ball inside. She moved with inhuman speed. Steam rose from his lips. His eyes rolled back. He collapsed, legs drumming against the tile, sneakers squeaking. The smell of burnt sugar and flesh hit me at the same time. I gagged, bile burning my throat.

Just like that, the first customer died. The rest of us stared, stunned, unable to believe what we’d just seen. Someone behind me dropped their phone. To my left, someone sobbed. I just stared, my mind refusing to process it.

So *that’s* what the "fruit chunks" in a strawberry smoothie meant? It was a sick joke. The phrase echoed in my head, turning my stomach.

A surge of fear rose in my chest. My whole body wanted to run, but my feet were glued to the floor. But I remembered the rule: you couldn’t leave the line after queuing. I was trapped.

We were lined up for our own execution. I tried to breathe through my nose, fighting the urge to scream.

The clerk didn’t wait. She beckoned the next customer—a bald man—forward.

"Order," she said, voice flat, almost bored, like this was just another busy Saturday.

The man swallowed, fingers trembling. "I... iced lemonade."

She smiled, like she was upselling a new seasonal flavor. "Good choice. That’s our best-selling product."

The man relaxed—just a bit. Maybe he thought he’d cracked the code.

But the clerk produced a sharp ice knife, glinting under the lights. She stabbed it straight into his heart. Blood spread across his shirt, soaking the tile. His mouth opened in a silent scream. He slid to the floor. Only faint whimpers remained at the shop entrance. The smell of blood, sharp and metallic, grew stronger.

The clerk’s smile didn’t flicker. "Next."

Every step forward felt like a march toward the gallows. People in line darted their eyes, desperate for hope. Everyone regretted picking the smoothie shop. Tension thickened. The countertop, once sticky with syrup, was now slick with something darker.

No matter what drink you ordered, the clerk turned it into a death sentence. Clever combos—"Dragonfruit Twist," "Green Power Shot"—all met gruesome ends. One woman got her face shoved into a blender. The rules were as twisted as the clerk’s grin.

Nobody could fight back or run. A guy tried to bolt for the door. The second his foot left the line, he dropped, blood pooling from his nose. We were cattle in a chute, each step closer to slaughter.

Although the rules said every store had both risks and chances for survival, it was like a logic puzzle with a human cost. The menu was packed. If only one answer was right, how many would die before someone found it?

I scanned the menu: ten flavors, endless combos, silly names like "Mango Mayhem" and "Pineapple Punch Out." Each choice felt like a coin toss with my life on the line. My hands slipped on my phone. I pressed my palm against my jeans, forcing myself to keep watching.

It wasn’t until the seventh customer stepped forward that something changed. The girl was so nervous, she blurted out "strawberry smoothie" before she could stop herself. Her face went pale.

Everyone expected another iron ball. But this time, the clerk handed her a normal smoothie—and a receipt. "Congratulations, you have completed your purchase."

The girl staggered away, clutching her drink like a life preserver. The crowd gasped.

Why was it deadly for the first person, but safe for her? Could it be that once someone died from a drink, it became safe?

The next customer tried the same thing—"strawberry smoothie"—and was killed by the burning iron ball. The pattern was a mystery, and panic was winning over logic. Every choice was a gamble. Corpses piled up at the entrance. A guy in front of me vomited in the trash. The stench made my eyes water.

With the clerk getting closer, my breathing sped up. I counted the people in front of me: three, then two. My chest felt tight, my mind racing.

Before I could figure it out, the man in front of me stepped up. He looked calm, deliberate. The clerk asked, "You... what smoothie would you like to drink?" He counted on his fingers, then said, "Berry Crunchy Sweet Citrus Cooler."

The clerk smiled and handed him a receipt. "Congratulations, you have completed your purchase."

I watched, stunned. Was he just picking at random? No—he was counting the words.

When it was my turn, I realized the trick. The clerk’s question had six words. I scanned the menu, found a six-word drink, and ordered: "Maplewood Black Tea."

The clerk smiled faintly and handed me a receipt. Relief slammed into me. My legs nearly buckled. I staggered aside, clutching the receipt like a lifeline.

I’d guessed correctly. The answer was in the clerk’s words. If she said six words, order a six-word drink. Any other choice meant death. The man before me had risked everything to drop a clue. I hugged myself, shivering with gratitude and fear.

But I couldn’t reveal the secret to anyone else. The rules were clear: no sharing. I bit my lip, watching a mom with two kids step up. I whispered a silent prayer for them.

When I left, the man—Caleb—was waiting by the Cinnabon, sipping his drink. He nodded at me. "You figured it out, didn’t you?"

I nodded back. "Yes. Thank you."

He smiled, warm and real. "I’m Caleb. Guess we’re teammates now, huh?"

I managed a shaky laugh. "I’ve had weirder first meetings. I’m Natalie."

We shook hands, and for the first time, hope flickered in my chest.

After a quick strategy session, we set our sights on the bookstore on the third floor. It smelled like old paper, coffee, and the faint trace of vanilla from the candle display next door. Compared to the smoothie shop, it was almost peaceful—except for the eight people standing like chess pieces, tension thick in the air.

The clerk, hunched at the front desk, scribbled furiously. She didn’t look up, just recited the rules in a bored tone. "Not easy—finally gathered ten customers. The game can begin. Each table has a book. Step forward and choose one to open. If there’s content, follow it. If you succeed, you get a receipt. If you fail, you die. If you pick the only blank book, you get a receipt immediately. Don’t bother trying to wait at the back; the books reshuffle after each turn. Understand?"

The clerk’s pen scratched across the page, the sound louder than my heartbeat. Ten books. Nine could kill me. I swallowed hard, praying my luck would hold.