Terminal

by Brian Keene

  I stepped toward them and the boy froze, watching me.

  “Please,” the mother begged, “he's only five. Please don't hurt him.”

  I swallowed. “Just keep him still. Okay?”

  I checked them all one more time. The comic book guy was done pissing himself, and lay facedown on the carpet. The bearded guy and the tellers did the same, but with more bravery. The bearded guy gripped the older teller's shoulder, repeating over and over beneath his breath that it would be okay. The old woman let out another “Oh my” and stroked her cross, praying to God and Jesus and all the Saints to save her. The old bald man lay on his back, looking pale and sweating profusely. His cane lay discarded to the side, his glasses sat crooked, and I noticed he was panting.

  Poor guy, I thought. He must be scared shitless.

  So was I.

  I glanced quickly at the door. The coast was still clear.

  The first drawer, the one the blond teller had been using, hung open. Despite everything that had happened, I've got to admit that I smiled beneath my ski mask when I saw all that cash. Dead presidents smiled back at me. Ignoring the change, I scooped up the stacks of bills and dropped them into my backpack. Then I hit the next drawer and did the same. Already my backpack felt heavier, and I wondered how much cash was inside. An excited thrill shot through me, but then I remembered the guy that Sherm had shot and I felt sick again. I moved on to the third drawer but it was locked.

  I walked back out from behind the counter, checked the door again and nudged the young blonde with my toe.

  “Give me the keys to the drawers.”

  “They're on the counter.”

  “Show me.”

  She rose to all fours and pointed. At the same time, the little boy, Benjy, began crawling toward the old man.

  “Hey! Kid! Get back over there with your mom.”

  “Benjy!” She jumped to her feet, hands held out in submission. “Please, please don't shoot him. Benjy, get back here, now!”

  “But Mommy, that old man's going to die if we don't help him. His heart is sick.”

  “Hey,” I shouted again, and realized that I'd raised the pistol without even thinking about it. I lowered it halfway. “I mean it. Get down now!”

  The mother clawed at her son's arm, but he slipped free and scurried to the old man's side. She was crying now, black mascara running down her face as she pleaded.

  “Please, sir. Please don't shoot my son.”

  I took five or six quick strides and stood over them. The old man's pale skin was turning blotchy, and his eyes were squeezed shut.

  “My . . . heart . . .”

  “Oh shit!” I rubbed my head through the ski mask. He was having a heart attack. Part of me wanted to give him CPR and the other half wanted to finish up and get the fuck out of there.

  “Can't . . . breathe . . . hurts . . .” Sweat ran off of him like rain.

  While I was still trying to decide what to do, Benjy reached out with both hands and touched the old man's chest. That was when we heard the gunshots.

  At first, I thought Sherm killed Keith. Then another gunshot rang out and I realized that they were coming from outside. The customers started screaming again, growing louder and more frenzied, and Sherm ran out from the vault, pushing Keith in front of him as a human shield.

  “What the fuck, Tommy?” The no-names rule had completely gone out the window. I'd slipped and called him by his name when he shot Leather Jacket. Now they knew my name as well.

  “I don't know, man. Somebody's shooting outside.”

  “Five-oh?”

  “Fuck if I know, Sherm. I ain't sticking my head out to see.”

  Another gunshot boomed across the parking lot. Just then, a bloodied and haggard figure stumbled through the front door. Sherm and I raised our pistols at the same time.

  John shrieked.

  “Don't shoot! D-don't shoot, you guys! It's m-me—John!”

  He collapsed to his knees, hands clutching his stomach. Blood seeped between his fingers—dark blood, almost black. It soaked through his sweatshirt and jacket, and little flecks of it decorated his neck, cheeks, and forehead. He'd been gutshot, and I'd seen enough movies to know that wasn't a good thing. Images of Tim Roth in Reservoir Dogs rushed through my head. I started toward him and almost tripped over the old man and the kid.

  “Tommy,” John pleaded, “help me, man! Please? My stomach is hot—it's burning up. It's on fire. Hurts! F-fucking shot me . . .”

  Deciding that the old man and his heart attack would have to wait, I ran to John, catching him as he sank to the floor. Sliding my hands under his armpits, I dragged him farther inside the lobby, away from the door. He whimpered, but whether from fear or pain I don't know. His breath smelled sour and he spoke through clenched teeth, his words harsh and clipped.

  “C-can't believe he fucking s-shot me . . .”

  “Shhh,” I soothed. “It's gonna be okay. You're going to be all right, John.”

  His hand slipped away from his stomach and I caught a glimpse of the wound peeking out at me from beneath the burned fabric. It didn't look good. I sat down, crossed my legs, and cradled his head in my lap, wiping the bloodstains from his face with my shirtsleeve. Tears slid from his eyes, and the panic in his voice increased.

  “Oh, it h-hurts! I'm gonna d-die, Tommy! My stomach feels h-hot. It's hot and it f-feels like somebody p-punched me. I'm dying!”

  “You're not gonna die, John. You hear me? You're not going to fucking die!”

  “I'm scared, T-tommy. I don't w-want to d-die. I don't want to g-go to hell. I'm afraid of hell. Don't l-let me die. Don't let me go to hell!”

  He coughed blood. A lot of blood. Red froth bubbled from his lips and dribbled down his chin in long, ropy strands. I wondered if that was what I looked like when I got sick.

  “There's no such thing as hell, John. You're going to be okay. Just lie still, dog.”

  “I-I don't w-want to die. Don't want to d-die. Please . . . S-scared of hell . . .”

  “Stop it, John!”

  “Can't catch m-my breath. Can't c-catch . . . He shot me, man . . .” His voice was weak now, barely a whisper. “My stomach is g-getting cold now. Maybe I-I ate something b-bad.”

  “Who, John? Who did this to you, man?”

  “Kelvin . . . H-he was st-strung out . . .” Even as he struggled for breath, John was hyperventilating like a fish out of the water.

  Kelvin. I knew the name from somewhere, but I couldn't quite place it. Before I could ask him more, Sherm interrupted.

  “Get the fuck over there with the rest of them, lie down, and keep quiet!” Sherm shoved Keith toward the group, who did as he was told. Keith had a black eye now to go along with his split lip—something Sherm must have given him while they were inside the vault. Sherm crossed the lobby in four quick strides and knelt beside us. He grabbed John by the shoulders and shook him.

  “John, look at me. Kelvin did this?”

  Gasping for breath, John nodded.

  “Hey, S-sherm! Where you been? C-cold—I'm cold. My stomach is c-cold. I can't feel my legs. J-just let me lie here for a little b-bit. N-need to c-catch my b-breath . . .”

  I looked up at Sherm.

  “Kelvin? That's the guy that was with Wallace when we bought the guns?”

  “Gotta be. The one that John called ‘nigga.'”

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” I stripped off my jacket, balled it up, and slid it behind John's back. Then I yanked off my ski mask and placed it over the hole in his front. John screamed, thrashing in my arms as I pressed down on both.

  “Hang on, John. Hang on, man. We've got to stop the bleeding.” I ran my hand across my face, realizing too late that it was covered in John's blood.

  “J-just gonna lie here for a b-bit . . .”

  “What the fuck you doing, Tommy?” Sherm yelled. “Put your mask back on.”

  “Screw that! We've got two dead bodies, Sherm. Two people have died. Two!” I lowered my voice to a w
hisper. “And John probably isn't that far off. We need to get the hell out of here, yo.”

  “What do you mean two? I only shot the one guy.”

  “The old guy,” I pointed, “is having a heart attack. He's probably dead by now.”

  “He's okay, mister.”

  Our heads snapped around at the same time. It was the kid, Benjy. He smiled at us, lying calmly next to his mother again. I looked at the old man and he was okay. In fact, he looked better than okay, better than he had from the moment we'd entered the bank. As if to verify this, he swallowed hard, adjusted his glasses, and spoke.

  “I'm fine. Must have just been my angina acting up. If you boys leave now, why, I don't think any of us saw anything. Right folks?”

  “Shut up and lie back down.” Sherm warned.

  I was too stunned to reply. I'd seen the guy with my own eyes and I knew it wasn't angina. He'd been dying. His heart had quit on him. But now he looked fine. He was back to normal—healthy.

  Before I could mention this to Sherm, the glass in the front door exploded. A split second later, I heard the shot.

  “Drop!” Sherm pulled me down with him.

  “That's your ass, motherfucker.” Kelvin strolled up to the door and calmly raised his pistol. The smile on his face was terrifying. It vanished when he saw us.

  Sherm hollered, “Kelvin, what the fuck?”

  Kelvin paused, staring in confusion at the figure in the black ski mask that somehow knew his name. He was jittery and sweating, and I could tell that he was tweaking. He'd been using whatever drug he was dealing that day, and he was now higher than a kite. Probably crack or crystal meth—whatever it was, he was jacked to an insane level from it.

  “Sherm? That you, dog?”

  “Hell yeah it's me, man. Put that shit down, yo.”

  “Sherm, you crazy goddamned Mick. Check you out, pulling a bank job and shit.” He laughed, shaking his head in stoned disbelief.

  “I-I d-don't w-want t-to d-die . . .” John moaned. “D-don't l-let h-him . . .”

  “What the hell are you doing, Kelvin? What are you on, man?”

  “Careful,” I whispered, “looks like he's mad fucking juiced. Stoned as shit.”

  “I can see that,” Sherm hissed back. “Just watch your ass.”

  We were clustered together around John, and Kelvin sighted on each of us, moving his pistol back and forth. I thought about pulling mine out, but if I did, I'd have to let up the pressure on John's wound. Already the blood had soaked through the ski mask and it was quickly becoming a sticky mess in my hands.

  “Check this shit out,” Kelvin continued, as if we were having a friendly talk in a bar. “I was finishing a transaction and shit in the alley behind the Chinese place. Two kilos and cash, a sweet fucking deal. Did me a little celebrating right before I got here—just enough to get me buzzed. Must have done a little more than I thought, know what I'm saying? And then—the cherry on top of the fucking ice cream. Finished up the deal, then I saw your boy there, sitting in his car like he was waiting for something. Motherfucker looked nervous and he should have. Told him what the fuck would happen if I saw him on the streets. Little punk ass bitch got served. That's all.”

  “For Christ's sake, Kelvin. Wallace told you to drop that shit. John didn't mean anything by it.”

  “Fuck Wallace! That nigga don't know everything. But you do, Sherm. You know how it is. Business is—”

  Sherm fired, rolled, and fired again. The first shot missed, but it was enough to stun Kelvin. He staggered backward in stoned surprise, desperately looking for cover. The second shot caught him right between the legs. Shrieking, Kelvin squeezed off his entire magazine, emptying it into the sidewalk. The bullets slammed into the pavement and ricocheted around us, gouging wood and punching into brick. Blood poured from Kelvin's ruined groin as he slipped into shock.

  Still moving, Sherm leapt to his feet, ran toward him, and shot him in the throat. Kelvin's fluttering hands went from his dick to his neck. A look of surprise registered on his face as he collapsed, twitched, then lay still. Sherm stood over him, placed the barrel against his forehead, and squeezed the trigger one more time. I tore my eyes away at the last second.

  The customers were by then in a complete state of panic, screaming and crying and praying and clawing at the carpet. But I've got to give Sherm credit. He'd been right. Despite the gun battle going on in their midst, they listened to what he'd told them to do. They didn't run, didn't even get up. As planned, we'd come in hard-core, established who was in charge, and they obeyed.

  Then, over their screams and the ringing in our ears, we heard another sound. Sirens. Police sirens. Coming closer.

  “G-getting colder . . .” John moaned. His eyes were shut. “H-help m-me, Tommy. I d-don't want t-to die and g-go . . . t-to hell. I'm so s-s-scared, man . . . P-please d-don't let m-m-me d-die!”

  Sherm looked out across the parking lot.

  “Shit! Get him up, Tommy. We got to bail. Let's go, man!”

  He picked up Kelvin's pistol, released the magazine, saw that it was empty, and threw it down. The shattered remains of the door swung shut behind him, with Kelvin's body wedged between it and the frame.

  I rose, struggling to lift John to his feet. He groaned in agony, shuddered, then passed out. I was thankful for that. His face had grown chalky, and his entire midsection was soaked with blood.

  “Sherm, we've got to get him to a hospital. He's fucking dying . . .”

  “Fuck that. If he can't travel, then we've got to leave him behind, man. We've got to jet.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Not bullshit. You want to wait around and get caught, that's fine by me. I'm getting out. May be hard for you to hear, but that's the way it is, dog. That's just the way it's got to be. He'd agree with me if he was conscious.”

  At that moment, I hated him. He was one of my two best friends, but I hated him all the same.

  Sherm fished through John's pockets for the keys, swore, then checked them again. He gave up finally and slapped his head in frustration.

  “Fuck fuck fuck! I don't believe this shit.”

  “What?”

  The sirens were drawing closer, accompanied by the squeal of tires.

  “We're fucked, that's what. We're fucked in the ass.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? What's wrong, man?”

  “Carpet Dick left the keys in the fucking car.”

  “Oh shit . . .”

  Sherm had told John to keep it running. John had listened, even while shot in the stomach and with Kelvin chasing after him.

  Panting, Sherm ran for the door. Suddenly, he slid to a stop and ran back toward me.

  The blaring sirens were on top of us. Brakes squealed. Tires slid to a stop on the pavement. Car doors swung open and slammed shut.

  “Shit,” he grunted. “No way we can make it to the car now.”

  A radio squawked. Voices called out to one another. Official-sounding voices. Voices that were clearly not fucking around.

  “Boys,” the old man muttered, “I think you just ran out of time.”

  There was something in Sherm's eyes that reminded me of a cornered wild animal, ready to bite. He jumped to his feet.

  “Everybody into the vault. Now!” He fired his last bullet into the ceiling to emphasize his point. Still crying, they did as they were told, stumbling forward. Sherm was their shepherd and he herded them like a flock of frightened, bleating sheep.

  All except for Benjy. He crawled toward John and me over broken glass, his eyes shining and bright—sympathetic.

  “Your friend is hurt, mister. He's hurt bad.”

  “Don't be scared,” I smiled, trying to reassure him. “He'll be okay.”

  “No he won't. He's dying. He has blood coming out of his stomach. If we don't fix him soon, he'll go to see Jesus or maybe the monster people, and then he can't come back. Not ever.”

  “Let's go, Tommy.” Sherm roared.

  Outside, I he
ard the unmistakable electronic squawk of another radio.

  “I can fix him like I fixed Sandy,” Benjy told me.

  “What? Who's Sandy? What are you talking about, kid?”

  “Benjy, come here—now!” His mother froze, caught between the other hostages and her son.

  “Lady, if you don't get your fucking ass in here, you're next. Tommy, if you're coming, then you better come now. Grab that fucking kid or John or shoot them both or whatever, but let's go.”

  Footsteps outside. Right outside the door, just out of sight. Cautious and stealthy, but hurried as well. And more sirens on the way. Lots more, by the sound of it.

  “Your name is Benjy?” I asked him.

  He nodded, his big round eyes frightened and confused, but excited at the same time.

  “Benjy, I'm going to do something that might be a little scary. I need you to cover your ears, okay?”

  “Okay, mister.”

  He placed his small hands over his ears and in that instant, he reminded me so much of T. J. that I almost started crying. Instead, I pulled the pistol, pointed it at the shattered glass on the front door, and fired a warning shot. The gun kicked in my hand, snapping my wrist upward, and the blast was deafening. I could actually feel it push against my eardrum. The remaining glass in the door crashed to the ground, covering Kelvin's sprawled corpse with jagged shards. Immediately, my shot was answered by surprised shouts of “Down! Down!” and “Call for back up!” followed by scrambling, retreating footsteps. I took a deep breath.

  “All right, listen up out there! If we see one fucking cop stick his fucking head through that fucking door, we'll kill him and everybody else inside this goddamned bank. You got that, you motherfuckers?”

  There was no answer, but I was pretty sure that they understood the message.

  I grinned. Hard-core, original gangsta shit. The ringing in my ear was as loud as the gunshot. It felt like it was plugged with a ball of wax.

  Reaching down to ruffle the kid's hair, I saw the blood on my hands and thought better of it. Instead, I winked at him. He winked back and smiled. I began dragging John's unconscious body toward the vault, and Benjy tagged along beside me.