Brotherhood of the Box

He speaks above the whir of fans in the darkness where the crispness of the air has a bite that stinks like old yogurt.  "Legend holds that, in time before time, there were but two factions: the perishable and shelf-stable. But as way gives on to way, the division of loyalties grew greater spread yet. Along the wayside of history fell the shelf-stable: archaic relics gathering dust and forever un-rotated. The custies required more from their product. And our founding father, Adam Trask devised a way to ship fresh products from land to land. In Trask we trust. We persevere. We are lords of the cold."
"We are lords of the cold." countless voices repeat in the darkness.
"It is through our might that the custies gain the grace of fresh food. It is our tireless toiling that grants them sustenance. We are the beginning and end of civilization."
"From time immortal man sought freshness," a choir of voices responds.
"There's none fresher than that which we give willingly."
"We are but chill on the frost," the voices chant.
"Today we welcome to our ranks young Stephen. He is being awarded the rank of neophyte. I grant unto him the green hoodie of initiation. The green of his hoodie represents a new life that he is born into," the speaker wears a black hoodie, all but imperceptible against the shadows of the room.
Stephen, shivering, takes the sweatshirt from the outstretched hands and burrows into it.
"We are the frost, we are the hum, we are the-" the voices begin to reply as  the fluorescents come up. Stephen's eyes grow wide. As light bathes the narrow and white-walled room, a door opens with a hiss like an airlock and beyond it stands the figure of a man, smiling.
"Stephen, come on," says the newcomer. "You work in a grocery store." Amidst the man in the black hoodie stand others, shrouded in hoodies. The hem of their cowls almost reaches where the light bounces against the diamond plating of the floor.
"You have no authority here," shouts a shrouded monk. The man at the doorway smirks.
"Nor you. C'mon, Stephen." The gathering of hoods hisses as Stephen rises from his knee and walks towards the door.
"None have ever left the brotherhood of the box and lived to tell the tale," says the man in black. Stephen quickens his pace.
"Of course they haven't," says the man at the door. "They've got better things to do with their lives."
Stephen slams the door behind him as he leaves. Several men in their twenties stand around in hoodies staring at the one in black. Among them, one speaks up, "he had tiny hands. He would have been perfect."
Stacks of yogurt and milk-crates surround the men in hoodies. "You think I don't know that?"
The man in the black hoodie shrugs. He takes his hood down. This is Fred. Fred sighs. "Just restock the eggs and the orange juice and get back to me." Two men in brown hoodies salute him and Fred sits down on a throne made of overturned milk-crates.