in the closing hours of business, employees pell-mell about in preparation for departure. a group of ladies form around a display t.v., taking in with frothy wetness every inch of hancock's footage. they gasp amongst themselves. horus enters the picture, jacket and thermos. he notices the tv - it's like he can't escape the good news.
looking down aisles of merchandise - not a trace of life and not unlike a cemetery. all is dead, with the exception of footsteps - shoes pacing linoleum. it's horus, on duty. his flashlight leads the way.
the clock - 9:45 pm. the store rests in afterhour stillness. horus paces by the side door, his ears pressed to the phone receiver - no answer. he hangs up. checks his watch. goes to the front entrance and peers out at the street - no roheim.
the clock, it reads 1:05 am. horns, his flashlight, they're making their rounds. his routine takes him outside - via an exit door.
horus - on a chair, his face buried in his two hands. he sits alone, concealed in the darkness.
from the depths of defeat - rises, his attention focused on the bac k horus responds. hee roheim? roehim lost his keys.  the back door creeps open. several under stealth. they move through enitrs scarpogand his thugs. horus takes refuge behind the locker, allows them to pass.
scarpo and the thugs are at the front door - looking out at about.  five to ten for armed robbery. they're in hysterics. they observe as horus emerges from the building across, trying to assist the authorities. scarpo recognizes this one security guard.