Merchandise - A Short Story

by Michael Wright

darkness reigned over all, with a rod of iron shadow. Underneath the glare of fading stars, speckled across innumerable galaxies, Jim walked slowly, the bolt cutters held tightly in his hands, partially hidden by his leg. The gun was in his side pocket, and the knife tucked in his waistband, a towel wrapped around it to keep him from cutting himself.

  His breathing was hard, harder than it had ever been on one of his longest runs, and his mind was filled with fears that contested with the amount of the stars above. He hadn’t been quite so afraid before he had left his house, but the tiny fears, the ones that made up the little cold needles that danced on the skin of your arms, had grouped up when he had seen the dark streets, and the feeling that he was being watched.

  The eyes were everywhere. They were always watching, those tiny little eyes, each one focused on him, peeking through the windows, glowing in the darkness, caught under a spell of their neighbors who were holding the best sale on earth.

  We sell anything.

  Anything.

  Anything.

  Even you. We’ll sell you. Just come on, rack up some debt—we’ll sell you. We sell anything.

  Jim held the bolt cutters tighter. Not that they could really supply him with any assurance, they were only bolt cutters, the gun was in his pocket, and the knife his waistband.

  The eyes watched.

  He came up to the same old driveway for the last time, and glanced behind him at the streets, empty and dark. They were only occupied by the stretching shadows, waking from their rest, ready to fade again. The streetlights glared, tiny dots, little eyes down the street, growing in size, as they got closer.

  The sign: simple, fresh, daring, smart and infuriating—the simple three-word slogan, that terrible phrase that haunted him in the dark corners of his mind. It burned into him, like a lit match pressed against his skin. He thought of Beverly, of what he was about to do. He thought of the little girl—Amy—who had been heartlessly sold to a man that had who knew what in mind for her. A dim fire, the blue blaze of righteous anger burned deep down within. He knew what he was going to do, and come what may, he would make sure it got done, or he would sure enough die trying.

  The gravel, suddenly returned, skittered away from him. He hardly paid it any mind; he was going straight for his target, a little shed tucked just to the side of where the tent was. Just to the far right of all of the tables in the back yard.

  —They keep us in the shed. There are some cots in there for us to sleep, and it’s locked up with a padlock at night. I want to make noise but I’m afraid they’ll hear. They hear everything.

  The fence was wide open, as if they were expecting midnight customers, or—he wanted to cringe at the thought—expecting him.

  The backyard was not illuminated in the least; the only light was what came from the street. He could see the faint reflection, barely discernable, on the plastic bins that were piled high on the tables, holding all of the goods, all except for a particular piece of merchandise.

  He remembered sitting at his kitchen table, what, only a few hours ago? He was counting cash. He was going to buy her, but then it occurred to him—she couldn’t be bought. Beverly was a person, not a thing. You don’t buy a human being—that was just wrong. He had to break her out: that was the only option. That was the only thing he was going to do. He was going to break her out and then call the cops; he wouldn’t leave her in their possession any longer. They could hide the truth, fool the cops, but Beverly would be free, and that was the point. That was the mission.

  He crept down the driveway, stealing a quick peek at the house. The windows were dark, the happy couple probably asleep, exhausted from a day’s labors, dreaming of the next big sales, of how many more people they intended to sell.

  The padlock was on the shed, just as Beverly had said, it shone lightly in the dim illumination. He brought the bolt cutters up a little, and moved in for the lock, looked quickly at the window, saw that it was boarded up.

  He slipped the cutters right on the lock and began to squeeze.

  After a moment, the lock didn’t move—nothing.

  Oh, dear God, please.

  Jim could feel the cutters gaining purchase, digging just a little bit into the metal. He could picture a large dog, one with big teeth, locking down a bone, trying to bite it in half. The metal cutters sunk a little deeper, and the dog began to growl.

  With a light grunt the lock broke. The cutters thudded against the wood of the shed door, and he inhaled sharply, hoping that it wasn’t too loud; not giving him away to the happy couple that was inside.

  He fumbled with the lock, realizing that his hands felt like they had swollen a thousand times usual size and were near impossible to use on the lock. He quickly dropped it to the ground, and fumbled with the latch, managing to pull it open, just barely. A flashlight emerged from his side pocket, a Maglite Solitaire, and the beam cut through the darkness of the shed.

  A cot, empty, something that looked like a nightgown laid across it delicately. He directed the beam across the room. Another cot, and this time there was a girl curled up in the corner, her knees defensively drawn to her chest, shoulders heaving in near-silent, hysterical gasps. A copper canopy was draped over her shoulders; twin blue stars, shining bright stared desperately out at him.

  “Bev,” Jim said. “It’s me.” He shone the light on his face, nearly blinding him for a split second.

  Her face poked out, slender and drawn with worry. She stood so quickly that he wasn’t sure that he’d actually seen her do it. She moved across the floor in a blur, running to him, grabbing him around the neck.

  “I didn’t think you’d come. I thought you’d…”

  “No.” He said. “We’re getting out of here.”

  She let go and he clicked off the light, making it easier for stealth, and led her out the door, her steps were soft and careful with her feet clad only in flip-flops. She tried to keep that telltale flapping down, but it was near impossible, and Jim was convinced, inaudible to the two inside.

  “They hear everything.” She insisted.

  The night swallowed them whole. He suddenly felt the darkness, thankful for it, but still wary, feeling as if he were being watched by it. As if the night itself, while being the only way he could have ever accomplished such a feat, was plotting against him.

  It was about that time when he heard the coarse whisper of a sliding door and the terrible metallic chuckle of a shotgun being chambered.

  The blast of plastic and glass was almost immediate, and it brought him and Beverly both down to the ground immediately. The bin that had taken a majority of the hit had been completely destroyed, shards of it were in every direction, scattered with the cruel relentlessness of twelve-gauge buckshot.

  “Stay down.” He whispered to Beverly.

  The rasp and clatter of an empty shell hitting the ground, followed by another mechanical chuckled of a load being shot into the chamber of the gun. An explosion rocked the backyard again, and the splinters of plastic rained down again.

  Jim reached into his pocket and grabbed the LC9, raising it high, and squeezing off three rounds in quick succession, hoping it would scare the shotgun wielding guard, knowing that it was near impossible for him to aim correctly from the distance and in the dark. He hadn’t fired the gun in a few years, so he was way out of practice.

  Another shotgun blast and more plastic rain, eliciting a thin yelp from Beverly, who ducked low again.

  Jim fired off a one more shot, the fear deep down within him that he was almost out of ammo.

  No extra magazines. He hadn’t brought the extra he owned.

  He reached around for his waistband, where the knife was, but was disappointed—the knife was gone, probably on the ground somewhere when he had dived for the ground.

  “We’re closed!” Bram said, the shotgun chuckled again, “And I’m afraid we don’t make any late night exceptions.”

  Jim squeezed off another round; he heard it h
it the concrete, splintering it, sending bits and pieces in all directions.

  “You’re getting warmer. I’m surprised, Jim, how long has it been since you fired a gun, anyway?”

  “Not recently.” Jim replied, motioning for Beverly to make a dash for it, but she shook her head. “I haven’t had any freaks like you to shoot at. Takes all the fun out of it.”

  A shotgun blast closed the line of discussion.

  Jim took a few more shots, and was quickly disappointed by the terrible squishing click that met his ears, he was out—and there were no more bullets.

  The firefight was over almost as quickly as it had begun, and there was an obvious advantage that Bram had over them. He didn’t fire back, however. What met Jim’s ears instead was laughing, cruel and full laughter. It was like someone had just told the world’s funniest joke, only the joke was on he and Beverly.

  “Looks like you’re up a creek without a paddle there, Jimmy!” He chambered yet another round—the one that had to be his last—and began to walk down the steps in the near pitch-black night.

  Jim turned to Beverly, sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head. “Not over yet.” She whispered.

  Jim glanced down at the empty gun in his hand, and he dropped it to the ground, tossing it so that Bram could see he did not have it any longer, and hopefully keeping him from shooting them too quickly.

  Bram walked towards them. “You two better stand up.” He said, the boots he wore