Terminal

by Brian Keene

  Before I could reply, a series of coughs rattled my chest. Bloody phlegm and spittle shot out of my mouth and onto John's shirt, mixing with his own. It looked bright and fresh against his darker, dried stains.

  “Tommy, check his pulse.”

  I looked at the two of them, mother and son. They seemed so sure, so urgent.

  “Please, Mr. Tommy,” Benjy pleaded. “He doesn't have much longer until he goes to see Jesus. The light is coming. It's just a little pinprick right now, but it's getting bigger.”

  Something in Benjy's voice, an honesty that only a child could convey, forced me to calm down. If you have kids, then you know what I'm talking about. I looked into those big, innocent, brown eyes—eyes that should have been home watching cartoons instead of being held hostage in a bank vault, and my heart shattered.

  John's chest wasn't moving beneath my hand. It probably hadn't been for a while. I just hadn't noticed.

  “He's my best friend,” I sobbed. “We grew up together, goddamn it. I've known him since we were little kids. It isn't fair for him to end up like this. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. I always watched his back, kept him out of trouble. And look what I did to him now . . .”

  Using his feet, Benjy pushed away from Sheila and scooted across the floor toward me.

  “He's not dead yet, Mr. Tommy.”

  Hunched over, I pressed my lips to John's cold forehead—and froze. A soft puff of air, so slight that I almost missed it, escaped his lips. Quickly, I put my fingers to his throat.

  “He's breathing. Barely . . . but there's no heartbeat. He's still breathing but I can't find a pulse.”

  I felt a weak flutter beneath my fingertips, then nothing. I checked again for another breath, but all that came out of his gaping mouth was a small trickle of blood.

  “Oh Christ! Come on, John—breathe.” I pounded on his chest in frustration. “Breathe man.”

  “Mr. Tommy, I can help him, but we have to do it now. He's almost to Jesus. He's on his way, now. The light is getting brighter.”

  He's on his way now! Look out! Jesus H. Christ, here he comes! Coming at an alarming rate!

  “Mr. Tommy!”

  I shook my head, trying to clear it.

  “I can't, Benjy. If Sherm comes back in here and finds your hands untied . . .”

  “Then you've got to stall him,” Sheila insisted. “Benjy only needs a minute or two.”

  “She's right, Tommy,” Roy said. “We've all heard what the child can do. I've felt it myself, and I know that you saw it. You believe, whether you want to admit it or not. And even if you don't, isn't your friend's life worth the chance?”

  John's face was completely drained of color. His skin looked like snow.

  Snow . . .

  One winter, when we were about ten years old, school got canceled one day because of a snowstorm the night before. John and I spent the day with some other kids, sledding down the big hill on the outskirts of town, the same hill I'd gone to the afternoon I was diagnosed with cancer. At the bottom of the hill was a short grassy strip, littered with beer bottles and fast-food bags, and beyond that, the road leading from Hanover to Spring Grove. Not a major road, but busy just the same. Truckers used it as a shortcut between towns, rather than taking the highway.

  The storm had dumped about two inches of sleet on top of the snow, so the hill was one big mountain of solid ice. Kids were flying down it at breakneck speeds, turning their sleds at the last moment to avoid going out into the road. All except for John . . .

  He'd done it on a dare. A stupid dare. Richie Wagaman had called him a pussy—told him that he didn't have the balls to ride his sled straight across the road and into the field on the other side without stopping to look for traffic. Rich bet him a House of Pain cassette (remember, we were kids and House of Pain was still the bomb back then). John looked down the hill, glanced up both sides of the road, saw that there was no traffic coming, and took the bet. I pulled him aside and tried talking him out of it, but unlike he usually did, John wouldn't listen to me this time. Instead, he just stared at Richie and his friends, clustered together and calling him a pussy, laughing to each other and any girl within earshot about how chicken shit John was.

  The next thing I knew, John ran to the edge, threw the sled down, jumped onto it (landing on his belly), and rocketed down the hill like a runaway train. Kids were cheering and shouting—and then we all heard it at the same time, the loud blast of a truck horn.

  The Department of Transportation's dump trucks had been out early, covering the roads with salt and cinders, but all that did was make them slicker. There was a hiss of air brakes as the trucker tried to stop, and then the back end of the trailer began to fishtail, taking up both sides of the road. I tried to scream but my breath caught in my throat as John shot across the grass and directly into the path of the jackknifed truck. Time seemed to slow down then, just as it had done on the morning of the robbery. The truck slid toward John, John flashed across the road, and the truck slid on by and crashed into a snowbank, sending brown snow and cinders and dirt flying high into the air. The cloud obscured everything, and there was dead silence from the kids on the top of the hill.

  The cloud settled, and the trucker clambered out of his cab, unhurt but shaking an angry fist. There was still no sign of John . . .

  And then we saw him, clambering off his sled and waving at us from the other side of the road. I'll never forget how my panic dissolved, how grateful I was to see him at that instant. To see him alive—there in the snow.

  Alive . . .

  I knew what I had to do.

  “Benjy, come here.”

  He finished sliding over to me, his eyes alert and urgent.

  “How can you—make him better? What do you need to do?”

  “I need to touch him, Mr. Tommy. I have to put my hands where that other man shot him.”

  The thought of Benjy's little hands touching that bloody mess made my stomach turn. Not to mention the image of what Sherm would do if he came back and caught us.

  “Couldn't you touch him with your head or your foot or something? Maybe rest your forehead on his?”

  “No, Mr. Tommy. It has to be with my hands. I don't know why, but that's the way it always works.”

  I took a deep breath, glanced down at John, and focused on Benjy.

  “Okay. I'm going to take the tape off your wrists. But Benjy, you've got to promise me that you won't try to get away. If you do, I don't know what Sherm might do. He could get very, very angry and we don't want that to happen right now. You were right about him. He might be sick too. I don't want him to hurt your mommy or any of these other people. So you can't run away, okay?”

  “Okay.” He nodded. “I promise, Mr. Tommy. I just want to help. I'm good at helping.”

  “All right,” I agreed. “Hold still. This might hurt a little.”

  I ripped the duct tape from his thin wrists as carefully but as quickly as possible. He gritted his teeth and I could tell that it hurt him, but he didn't make a sound. Just like T. J. would have done. He rubbed his wrists and gave me a reassuring wink. It seemed absurd, this little boy trying to reassure the bank robber who was holding his mother and him captive. But I took comfort in it. Maybe that was part of his power—not just healing people, but also making them feel better in general. Then he knelt over John, placing his palms on the bloody wound.

  “I'll make it all better.”

  “I know,” I whispered. “I believe you.”

  And I did. I actually did. For the first time in my life, I believed in something other than my wife and my son. I'd demanded that God prove himself to me. I'd expected it immediately, but maybe this was more His style.

  While Benjy got started, I crept to the vault doorway and listened. There was silence on the other side. I thought again of that strange, muffled thumping I'd heard earlier and wondered what it had been. It occurred to me that we hadn't heard a peep from Keith or Lucas since Sherm had taken them away. Keith
was right across the hall. Shouldn't we have heard from him? And where was Sherm? I craned my head around the corner, trying to eavesdrop, but the only sound was the blood ringing in my ears. What the hell was going on?

  As if in answer to my question, I heard the faint but unmistakable trickle of piss hitting toilet water, followed seconds later by a long fart. At least I now knew where Sherm had gone and what he was doing. But then it hit me. Sherm had also told me that he locked Lucas inside the bathroom and squirted glue in the lock. So was it Sherm or the delivery driver I heard now? There was no way to be sure. Had Sherm lied, and if so, why?

  I glanced back over my shoulder. Benjy's eyes were closed and he rocked back and forth, still holding his hands over the bullet's entry point. The others craned their heads forward, focusing on him, absolutely transfixed by what they were seeing.

  I don't know what we expected. Maybe we'd seen too many movies or read too many novels. There was no glow, no heat, and no blinding flash of white light. Trumpets didn't sound and no heavenly chorus appeared before us. But one thing did happen. Immediately, John's chest began to rise and fall. His breathing was harsh, ragged—but his lungs were working again and that was all that mattered.

  I'd gotten the proof that I'd demanded. I believed.

  And in that newfound belief, I was both exhilarated and terrified.

  “Jesus . . .” Oscar breathed.

  “This is—I've never seen anything like it,” Kim gasped.

  Down the hall, a toilet flushed. Whoever was in the bathroom, Sherm or Lucas, was finishing his business. I reached down, scooped up the torn duct tape that had bound Benjy's hands, wadded it into a ball, and stuffed it in my pocket.

  “Sharon, there's only the one bathroom in this place, right?”

  She didn't take her eyes off Benjy and John. “Umm, yeah. The one down the hall. It's the fourth door past Keith's office, next to the janitor's closet. That's all.”

  “That's what I thought. Okay, everybody listen to me carefully. Whatever happens, we can't let Sherm find out about this. He'll go ape shit if he sees that I freed Benjy. Even worse, I don't know what he'd do if he figures out about Benjy's—power. If he even believes in it, that is.”

  “You think he'd try using the boy as a bargaining chip, don't you?” Roy asked, still watching the miracle unfolding before our eyes.

  “It's a possibility. Shit, it's more than a possibility. So I'm going to stall Sherm. I've let him bum rush this whole thing and it's time I took it back. Keep an ear out for us and keep quiet for fuck's sake. If I can't keep him in one of the other rooms, I'll start coughing really loud. If you hear that, it's your signal to get back into your positions. Sheila, if that happens, you're going to have to do your best to keep Benjy's hands hidden. Everybody clear?”

  They nodded in unison, all except for Benjy.

  “Benjy, do you understand, buddy?”

  He didn't respond. Instead, he pressed down harder. I caught a glimpse between his fingers and saw something that looked like flesh-colored cheesecloth. It appeared as if John's skin was growing, knitting itself back together over the wound in weblike strands.

  “He can't hear you when he's like this,” Sheila explained. “He goes into a trance or something. But I'll make sure.”

  “Okay.”

  John's breathing was audible by then, and more regulated.

  I wanted to stay and watch, wanted it more than anything in the world, but I couldn't. Instead, I took a deep breath, felt my lungs wheeze in response, and walked out into the hall. I felt helpless and powerless. The desk plaque from Charlie Strauser's office back at the foundry flashed through my head.

  “I have gone out to find myself,” I whispered. “If I should get here before I return, please hold me until I get back.”

  Then, even softer, I added, “Peace out.”

  The door to Keith's office was closed. There was a slim window in the door and I could see that the lights inside the office were off. I knew that Sherm must have turned them off, rather than the cops cutting the power on us, because the lights in the vault and the lobby still worked. I turned and looked back. From this spot, even if Sherm were standing directly in front of the vault, John and Benjy would be hidden from view since they were in the corner.

  I paused, listening. In the bathroom, somebody was washing his hands. Outside, the police called out to one another and their radios crackled with garbled orders and updates. A big part of me wanted to turn left, walk out into the lobby with my hands up in the air, and keep going straight out the door, staring down the barrels of a hundred rifles. Maybe they'd shoot me, and maybe not. What did it matter? I was dead already. I'd seen Benjy's power, and I knew that it worked. But even if Benjy cured me, without Michelle and T. J. in my life, I would be dead inside anyway.

  The bathroom door opened and Sherm walked out, still clutching the .357. He jumped when he saw me, and I caught a glimpse of something behind him, something lying on the floor in the shadowy bathroom. Before I could make out what it was, he raised the pistol and pointed it at me. I shouted in surprise, thrusting my hands out in front of me.

  “Chill, Sherm! Fuck, man, it's just me.”

  “Jesus Christ, Tommy!” He lowered the gun nervously. “I almost shot you, man. What the fuck are you doing?”

  “I wanted to see what was going on and talk over some shit.”

  “I was taking a dump, yo. Don't go in there for a while.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I won't.”

  “Probably those refried beans I had last night—or the tequila.”

  “Where's Lucas?”

  “Who?” He jumped again, trying to hide his surprise.

  “The delivery guy. The driver. You said that you locked him in the bathroom, Sherm. So how'd you get back inside if you just took a shit?”

  “Oh, him. The water dude. Yeah. When I needed to go, I just moved him into the janitor's closet. He's fine, dog. Chill. I didn't hurt him or anything like that.”

  I chose my words carefully.

  “But you said that you'd squirted glue in the lock after you locked him inside. How did you get the door open again?”

  “Must not have been as strong as I thought it was.”

  “Oh.” He was lying, and I knew it. I just wasn't sure why.

  He glided toward me. His feet didn't seem to touch the carpet. He stank. Armpits and stale, sour sweat, and cigarette smoke, along with a faint hint of cordite.

  “So what's up?” I asked.

  “Just finished with the police negotiator again. Same asshole that was on the bullhorn—Ramirez. Why is it that those fucks act so nice, like they're your best buddy in the whole wide world and the only chance you have to survive is by listening to them? They pretend that they're so concerned about your fucking well-being and meanwhile, all they want you to do is let the hostages go so they can storm the place and shoot your ass and make the five o'clock news. God, that shit pisses me off. That's why I was hoping the Quick Response guys would have a negotiator too. Just once, I'd like to fucking deal with a negotiator that was just straight up with me.”

  “What do you mean just once?”

  He winked. “Nothing. I'm just playing. Don't worry about it. Anyway, the cops will be busy for the next hour or so. Couldn't get them to go for backing away from the truck, so instead, I gave them a list of demands like you wouldn't believe. And they still think there are more of us in here than there really are. So while they're fucking around with that, let's have some fun with our guests.”

  “We need to talk first,” I said, positioning myself in front of the vault door. “Without them listening.”

  “Let's go in here, then.” He pointed to Keith's office. Then he raised his voice and hollered at the others. “Listen up! We're gonna be next door for a second. If any of you fuckers try to run out while we're talking, just remember that we're right across the hall. You'll be dead before you take three steps.”

  “Yes, sir,” Roy called. “You're the boss, aft
er all.”

  “That's right, I am. And you better remember it, old man.”

  “We won't try anything,” Sharon assured him.

  There was murmured consent from the rest of them as well.

  “After you.” I tried to grin. It felt false.

  “You all right, yo?”

  “Yeah. Just the cancer eating at my fucking stomach. It hurts, like I drank acid or something. Every time I burp it burns the hell out of my throat.”

  “That must suck.”

  He opened the office door and flicked the light switch. Behind us, hidden from sight in the vault, John coughed.

  “How is he?” Sherm asked, stepping into the office.

  “Still out cold, pretty much. Dugan says that he might not wake up again.”

  In the vault, I suddenly heard John mutter, “W-what's happening? Where's Tommy and Sherm? Who are you?”

  Sherm turned around. “You say something, Tommy?”

  “Not me,” I shook my head. My heart was pounding. “It was probably Martha. She's been rambling the whole time about God and shit. She's a real religious nut.”

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  I followed him into the office and left the door halfway open behind us, just in case any of them really did try to run. The room was small and windowless. There was a coatrack, a potted and anorexic palm tree, and a few pictures of flowers on the wall. A big desk dominated one end of the office, and the leather chair behind it lay on the floor. I could see the silver wheels sticking out from behind the corner of the desk. Another chair sat in front of the desk. There was no sign of Keith, but there was a picture of him on the top of the desk, standing in front of the Washington Monument. His arm was around a smiling woman, and two smiling kids stood in front of them. The .38 Sherm took from Mac Davis rested on the desk beside the picture.

  “So what's up? What'd you need to talk about?”

  “You tell me, Sherm. John's not good at all, man. Any word on the ambulance yet?”

  “Yeah, but it ain't what you want to hear. They won't send one. I asked them, but they wouldn't do it. Fucking cops.”

  “Did you tell them that John was one of us, or that he was a wounded hostage?”