Band-Aids…ice cream…curling iron—could he use that? Nah.
Hair color…humidifiers…Cheetos…beef jerky—
Come on!
He turned a corner and came to a summer-cookout section. Chairs—no help. Umbrella—no help. Heavy-duty spatula—grabbed it and hefted it. Nice weight, stainless-steel blade, serrated on one edge. Might be able to do a little damage with this. Spotted a grouping of butane matches. Grabbed one. Never hurt to have fire.
Fire…he looked up and saw the sprinkler system. Every store in New York had to have one. A fire would set off the sprinklers, sending an alert to the NYFD.
Do it.
He grabbed a can of lighter fluid and began spraying the shelves. When he’d emptied half of it and the fluid was puddling on the floor, he reached for the butane match—
A shot. A whizzz! past his head. A quick glance down the aisle to where Scarbrow—who had to be the “Jamal” Ecuador had called to—stood ten yards away, leveling his .38 for another go.
“Ay yo, I found him! Over here!”
Jack ducked and ran around a corner as the second bullet sailed past, way wide. Typical of this sort of oxygen waster, he couldn’t shoot. Junk guns like his were good for close-up damage and little else.
With footsteps behind him, Jack paused at the shelf’s endcap and took a quick peek at the neighboring aisle. No one in sight. He dashed across to the next aisle and found himself facing a wall. Ten feet down to his right—a door.
EMPLOYEES ONLY
He pulled it open and stuck his head inside. Empty except for a table and some sandwich wrappers. And no goddamn exit.
Feet pounded his way from behind to the left. He slammed the door hard and ran right. He stopped at the first endcap and dared a peek.
Jamal rounded the bend and slid to a halt before the door, a big grin on his face.
“Gotcha now, asshole.”
In a crouch, gun ready, he yanked open the door. After a few heartbeats he stepped into the room.
Here was Jack’s chance. He squeezed his wrist through the leather thong in the barbecue spatula’s handle, then raised it to vertical in a two-handed samurai grip, serrated edge forward.
Then he moved, gliding in behind Jamal and swinging at his head. Maybe the guy heard something, maybe he saw a shadow, maybe he had a sixth sense. Whatever the reason, he ducked to the side and the chop landed wide. Jamal howled as the edge bit into his meaty shoulder. Jack raised the spatula for a backhand strike, but the big guy proved more agile than he looked. He rolled and raised his pistol.
Jack swung the spatula at it, made contact, but the blade bounced off without knocking the gun free.
Time to go.
He was in motion before Jamal could aim. The first shot splintered the door frame a couple of inches to the left of his head as he dived for the opening. He hit the floor and rolled as the second went high.
Four shots. That left two—unless Jamal had brought extras. Somehow he couldn’t imagine a guy like Jamal thinking that far ahead.
On his way toward the rear, switching aisles at every opportunity, he heard Ecuador shouting from the far side of the store.
“Jamal! You get him? You get him?”
“No. Fucker almost got me! I catch him I’m gonna skin him alive.”
“Ain’t got time for that! The truck be here soon! We gotta get inna the safe! Wilkins! Get back here and start lookin!”
“Who’s gonna watch the front?”
“Fuck the front! We’re locked in, ain’t we?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Find him!”
“A’ight. Guess I’ll have to show you guys how it’s done.”
Jack now had a pretty good idea where Ecuador and Jamal were—too near the barbecue section to risk going back. So he moved ahead. Toward Wilkins. He sensed that if this chain had a weak link, Wilkins was it.
Along the way he scanned the shelves. He still had the spatula, the comb and the butane match but needed something flammable.
Antibiotic ointments…laxatives…marshmallows…
Shit.
He zigged and zagged until he found the hair-care aisle. Possibilities here. Needed a spray can.
What the—?
Every goddamn bottle was pump action. He needed fluorocarbons. Where were the fluorocarbons when you needed them?
He ran down to the deodorant section. Everything here was either a roll-on or a smear-on. Whatever happened to Right Guard?
He spotted a green can on a bottom shelf, half hidden behind a Mitchum’s floor display. Brut. He grabbed it and scanned the label.
DANGER: Contents under pressure…flammable…
Yes!
Then he heard Wilkins ambling along the neighboring aisle, calling in a high, singsong tone.
“Hello, Mr. Silly Man. Where aaaare youuu? Jimmy’s got a present for you.” He giggled. “No, wait. Jimmy’s got six—count em—six presents for you. Come and get em.”
High as the space station.
Jack decided to take him up on his offer.
He removed the Brut cap as he edged to the end of the aisle and flattened against the shelf section separating him from Wilkins. He raised the can and held the tip of the match next to it. As soon as Wilkins’s face came into view, Jack reached forward, pressing the nozzle and triggering the match. A ten-inch jet of flame engulfed Wilkins’s eyes and nose.
He howled and dropped the gun, lurched away, kicking and screaming. His dreads had caught fire.
Jack followed him. He used the spatula to knock off the can’s nozzle. Deodorant sprayed a couple of feet into the air. He shoved the can down the back of Wilkins’s oversize jeans and struck the match. His seat exploded in flame. Jack grabbed the pistol and trotted into an aisle. Screams followed him toward the back.
One down, three to go.
He checked the pistol as he moved. An old .38 revolver with most of its bluing rubbed off. He opened the cylinder. Six hardball rounds. A piece of crap, but at least it was his piece of crap.
The odds had just become a little better.
A couple of pairs of feet started pounding toward the front. As he’d hoped, the screams were drawing a crowd.
He heard cries of “Oh, shit” and “Oh, fuck!” and “What he do to you, bro?”
Wilkins wailed in a glass-breaking pitch. “Pepe! Help me, man! I’m dyin!”
Pepe…now Ecuador had a name.
“Sí,” Pepe said. “You are.”
Wilkins screamed, “No!”
A booming gunshot—had to come from the .357.
“Fuck!” Jamal cried. “I don’t believe you did that!”
A voice called from the back. “What goin on dere, mon? What hoppening?”
“S’okay, Demont!” Pepe called back. “Jus stay where you are!” Then, in a lower voice to Jamal: “Wilkins jus slow us down. Now find that fuck fore he find a phone!”
Jack looked back and saw a plume of white smoke rising toward the ceiling. He waited for the alarm, the sprinklers.
Nothing.
What did he have to do—set a bonfire?
He slowed as he came upon the employee lounge again. Nah. That wasn’t going to work twice. He kept going. He was passing the ice-cream freezer when something boomed to his right and a glass door shattered to his left. Ice-cream sandwiches and cones flew, gallons rolled.
Jack spotted Demont three aisles away, saw him pumping another shell into the chamber. He ducked back as the top of the nearest shelf exploded in a cloud of shredded tampons.
“Back here! I have him!”
Jack hung at the opposite endcap until he heard Demont’s feet crunch on broken glass in the aisle he’d just left. He eased down the neighboring lane, listening, stopping at the feminine-hygiene area as he waited for Demont to come even.
As he raised his pistol and held it two inches from the flimsy metal of the shelving unit’s rear wall, he noticed a “personal” douche-bag box sitting at eye level. Was there a community model?
When he heard Demont arrive opposite him, he fired two shots. He wanted to fire four but the crappy pistol jammed. On the far side Demont grunted. His shotgun went off, punching a hole in the dropped ceiling.
Jack tossed the pistol. Demont would be down but not out. He needed something else. Douche bags had hoses, didn’t they? He opened the box. Yep—red and ribbed. He pulled it out.
Footsteps pounded his way from the far side of the store as he peeked around and spotted Demont clutching his right shoulder. He’d dropped the shotgun but was making for it again.
Jack ran up and kicked it away, then looped the douche hose twice around Demont’s scrawny neck and dragged him back to the ruined ice-cream door. He strung the hose over the top of the metal frame and pulled Demont off his feet. As the little man kicked and gagged, Jack slammed the door, trapping the hose. He tied two quick knots to make sure it didn’t slip, then dived through the empty frame for the shotgun. He pumped out the spent shell, chambered a new one and pulled the trigger just as Jamal and Pepe rounded the corner.
Pepe caught a few pellets, but Jamal, leading the charge, took the brunt of the blast. His shirtfront dissolved as the double-ought did a pulled-pork thing on his overdeveloped pecs. Pepe was gone by the time Jack chambered another shell. Looked back: Demont’s face had gone pruney, his kicks feeble. Ahead: Jamal lay spread-eagle, staring at the ceiling with unblinking eyes.
Now what? Go after Pepe or start that fire?
Fire. Start a big one. Get those red trucks rolling.
But which way to the barbecue section? He was disoriented. He remembered it being somewhere near the middle.
Three aisles later he found it—and Pepe, too, who was looking back over his shoulder as he passed it. Jack raised the shotgun and fired, but Pepe went down just before the double-ought arrived. Not on purpose. He’d slipped in the spilled lighter fluid. The shot went over his head and hit the barbecue supplies. Bags of briquettes and tins of lighter fluid exploded. Punctured cans of Raid whirly-gigged in all directions, fogging the air with bug killer.
Pepe slipped and slid as he tried to regain his feet—would have been funny if he hadn’t been holding a .357. Jack pumped again, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
Clink.
The hammer fell on an empty chamber.
Pepe was on his knees. He smiled as he raised his pistol. Jack ducked back and dived for the floor as one bullet after another slammed through the shelving of the cough and cold products, smashing bottles, drenching him with Robitussin and NyQuil and who knew what else.
He counted six shots. He didn’t know if Pepe had a speed loader and didn’t want to find out. He yanked the butane match from his back pocket and lit her up. He jammed a Sucrets pack into the trigger guard, locking the flame on, then tossed it over the shelf. He heard no whoomp! like gasoline going up, but he did hear Pepe cry out in alarm. The cry turned to screams of pain and terror as the spewing Raid cans caught.
Jack crept back and peeked around the corner.
Pepe was aflame. He had his arms over his eyes, covering them against the flying, flaming pinwheels of Raid as he rolled in the burning puddle, making matters worse. Black smoke roiled toward the ceiling.
And then it happened. Clanging bells and a deluge of cold water.
Yes.
Jack saw the .357 on the floor. He sprinted by, kicking it ahead of him as he raced through the downpour to the pharmacy section. After dancing through an obstacle course of ice pops and gallons of ice cream, he found Loretta and the others cowering behind the counter. He picked up the key ring and tossed it to Patel.
“Out! Get everybody out!”
As the stampede began, he heard Loretta yelling.
“Hey, y’all! This man just saved our lives. You wanna pay him back, you say you never seen him. He don’t exist. You say these gangstas got inna fight and killed each other. Y’hear me? Y’hear?”
She blew Jack a kiss and joined the exodus. Jack was about to follow when a shot smashed a bottle of mouthwash near his head. He ducked back as a second shot narrowly missed. He dived behind the pharmacy counter and peeked over the top.
A scorched, steaming, sodden Pepe shuffled Jack’s way through the rain with a small semiauto clutched in his outstretched hand. Jack hadn’t counted on him having a backup. Hell, he hadn’t counted on him doing anything but burning. The sprinkler system had saved him.
Pepe said nothing as he approached. Didn’t have to. He had murder in his eyes. And he had Jack cornered.
He fired again. The bullet hit the counter six inches to Jack’s right, showering him with splinters as he ducked.
Trapped. Had to find a way to run out Pepe’s magazine. How? A lot of those baby semis held ten shots.
He peeked up again. Pepe’s slow progress had brought him within six feet. Jack was about to duck again when he saw a blur of bright green and yellow flash into view.
Loretta, moving faster than Jack ever would have thought possible, charged with a gallon container of ice cream held high over her head in a two-handed grip. Pepe might have heard her without the hiss and splatter of the sprinklers. But he remained oblivious until she streaked up behind him and smashed the container against the back of his head.
Jack saw his eyes bulge with shock and pain as he pitched toward the floor. Probably felt like he’d been hit with a cinder block. As he landed face-first, Loretta stayed on him—really on him. She jumped, landing knees first on the middle of his back. The air rushed out of him with an agonized groan as his ribs shattered like glass.
But Loretta wasn’t finished. Shouting, she started slamming the rock-hard container against his head and neck, matching the rhythm of her words to the blows.
“NOW you ain’t NEVER gonna point no GUN to my HEAD ever aGAIN!”
Jack moved up beside her and touched her arm.
“I think he’s got the message.”
Loretta looked up at him, then back down at Pepe. His face was flattened against the floor, his head canted at an unnatural angle. He wasn’t breathing.
She nodded. “I do believe you right.”
Jack pulled her to her feet and pushed her toward the front.
“Go!”
But Loretta wasn’t finished. She turned and kicked Pepe in the ribs.
“Told you I was a bitch!”
“Loretta—come on!”
As they hustled toward the front, she said, “We even, Jack?”
“Even Steven.”
“Did I happen to mention my bad mood?”
“Yes, you did, Loretta. But sometimes a bad mood can be a good thing.”
* * * * *
Author Biography
F. Paul Wilson is an award-winning, New York Times bestselling author of more than fifty books and over a hundred short stories spanning horror, adventure, medical thrillers, science fiction and virtually everything in between. More than seven million copies of his books are in print in the United States, and his work has been translated into twenty-four languages. He also has written for the stage, screen and interactive media. Wilson is the creator of the popular Repairman Jack thrillers. Explore online at repairmanjack.com.
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Lock the doors, draw the shades, pull up the covers and be prepared for these stories to keep you up all night.
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ISBN-13: 9781488094576
Interlude At Duane’s
Copyright © 2006 By F. Paul Wilson
First published as part of an anthology of works entitled Thriller in 2006.
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
Interlude at Duane's Page 2
