by M. R. Holman
looked like hell. There was still dried blood all over his face from tripping when he entered the bank and fresher blood on his lips which he suspected was from his most recent coughing fit. Accompanying the blood was a light layer of dirt and grime glistening with sweat. He had seldom looked or felt worse.
An experimental nudge against the door informed him that it had not locked. Traveler exhaled a brief sigh of relief before remembering that he was far from being safe. Assuming that the lions had indeed mauled their masters, they could still be in the bank.
The match was burning down near the tips of his fingers and he shook it vigorously, making absolutely sure it was extinguished before dropping it on the vault floor and lighting another. With his match-free hand he drew his pistol and pressed the barrel against the vault door, pushing it open. There was nothing or no one visible in the small orb of light cast by the match. He took a cautious step out of the vault. The air was deathly still. He took another step and his foot met something solid. It was the rifle he had dropped and accidentally disassembled in his panic to defend himself. He slipped his pistol back into its holster and reached down to pick up the rifle.
The match he was holding went out when he bent over but he already had the rifle in his hand and was able to sling it over his shoulder in the dark. The rifle was useless without the bolt though, so Traveler struck another match to search for it.
Almost as soon as he struck the match, a glint of metal appeared on the ground several feet from where he stood. He reached down to pick up the bolt, but when he did he discovered something puzzling.
The bolt was wet. It was not water, it was too sticky. It was not gun oil, it was too thick. Traveler raised the bolt to eye level and examined it in the match-light. It was red, splattered with blood. A shudder passed so violently through his body that he dropped the bolt again.
He had suspected that the pride of lions had turned on their masters when he heard the chaotic shift in the tones coming from downstairs before he entered the vault, but he was in no way prepared for actually seeing the damage that had been done. The bolt had landed by what appeared to be a length of rope. Upon closer inspection it turned out to be the end of a whip. It was Circus’ whip. He followed the curling and looping lengths of leather trailing behind where he stood until he saw the handle of the whip, still being held in the lifeless hands of Circus.
The body lay directly to the left of the vault door. Traveler had walked right by it in the dark. Its throat was gone. The glass eye set in Circus’ face stared emotionlessly at Traveler, reflecting the last glint of light from his match as it went out.
He was going to be sick. He tried to control the wheezing and will himself not to throw up or pass out again. His mouth was filling with saliva and his eyes were watering but he somehow staved off the waves of pressure in his gut. Unwilling to light another match and illuminate the grisly scene again, Traveler turned around and slowly made his way toward the dull reflection on the marble floor at the bottom of the stairs. After every step he paused for a moment and listened for movement downstairs, but none came.
Although he had not heard any sounds of movement, he lowered the shotgun from the sling around his shoulder and worked a shell into the chamber as quietly as he could before taking the last step from the stairs to the marble floor. Even though the shotgun had proven itself to be a bit unpredictable earlier, he still thought it would serve him better than the pistol had. Five shots for one lion…
The body of the lion he had shot earlier lay before him where the hall met the rest of the bank. It really was a beautiful creature. It was terrifying, even in death, but beautiful.
Even though he knew it was dead and could no longer hurt him, it still made him very uncomfortable. He leaned over the dead body of the lioness, careful not to touch it, held his breath, and peered around the corner into the main area of the bank. Momentary relief swept over him as he discovered that there were no lions crouching around the corner waiting to pounce on him and there were no insane lion tamers creeping just out of sight.
But where had they gone? Had Circus and the lioness been the only casualties in the battle of the bank?
A dark mass that he spotted lying by the front window suggested otherwise. Cautiously, Traveler approached the body lying on the floor and felt the waves of sickness threatening to overtake him once more. Upon first examining the body, he thought it had been one of the two larger women, decapitated and armless. He certainly could not see a head above the neck of the bullet proof vest, or arms out the side, but he was puzzled as to why there was no blood. He was even more puzzled, and horrified, to see the thick vest rising and falling, implying a working set of lungs were still operating within it.
A knot had grown in his own chest, making it difficult for him to breathe. His eyes had begun to water involuntarily from sadness, fear, stress, confusion, or one of the many other feelings and senses he was experiencing. He walked around the body and looked into the neck opening of the vest.
The knot in his chest loosened. He could breathe again. The frail girl that had been with the group had pulled her head and arms into the vest that was far too large for her. She was unconscious though, Traveler suspected, from being batted around by the lions as she took refuge in her vest. Unless they, or their bodies, were hiding somewhere in the bank, the other two women must have escaped.
Traveler pulled the girl’s vest down to her shoulders. She was quite beautiful, regardless of the purple bruises developing along her cheek and jawbones. He lifted one of her eyelids and her pupil retracted.
Good, he thought.
He wanted her vest. He had been the nice guy long enough and she had been instrumental in the plot to kill him. He was going to take it. The vest had straps up the side which fastened with Velcro. The loud scccrrtch of the Velcro echoed off the stone walls of the bank and the girl’s eyes jerked behind their closed lids. She was bare-chested under the vest.
He dropped the vest back over her chest. He felt ashamed until he reminded himself that she had tried to kill him. This time he picked up the vest and held on to it. There was a backpack lying beside her which he opened to discover two cans of baked beans. He picked up one but left the other. He couldn’t be that cold to her despite what she had done.
“Sorry,” said Traveler in a voice he had long since lost the habit of using.
Rising from her side, he decided to quickly sweep through the bank to see there was anything else he could take. He pressed the shotgun back to his shoulder as he neared the counter. Feeling more courageous than he had when he had first re-entered the main area of the bank, he spared no time before looking around the edge of the waist high counter. There was nobody there. Down a hallway, not visible from the front of the bank, he saw another door standing open. He decided to lock it so that no one or nothing would be able to get in to the girl while she was unconscious.
On his way back from locking the door he stopped at the counter at a work area a bank teller would have occupied years ago. There was a bowl of peppermints and lollipops that he emptied into his backpack. There were also pads of paper and pens that he grabbed, for reasons he was not entirely sure of, and put in his backpack. The writing on the side of the pen, advertising the bank, confirmed that he was indeed in Arkansas. Now it was time to get out of this awful bank.
The sling of his rifle was already beginning to dig into his shoulder. He decided the rifle would be the best defense should he run into the remaining lions or their former masters out in the open. He slung the shotgun over his shoulder and lowered the rifle.
Something was wrong with it though. It didn’t look right. He had never picked the bolt back up again after seeing Circus’ body…
He closed his eyes in frustration. The last thing he wanted to do at that moment was go back up the stairs and look for his bolt around Circus’ mauled body. It was almost like Circus was still trying to take his guns from him beyond the grave.
However, if his vacation were to continue he would n
eed the rifle. He needed the vacation to continue. This event had been a harsh reminder of the life he was trying to escape for a while. He didn’t like this life. He wasn’t suited for it.
The top of the staircase was as dark as ever. He looked down directly at the floor as he struck a match. There it was - the end of the braided leather whip…
He carefully traced the whip with his eyes until he saw the metallic and dark red splattered bolt lying amongst the rope-like curls. A drop of sweat from his forehead extinguished his match. He closed his eyes in frustration once more but it made no difference in the dark.
The matchbook was almost empty but he struck another to save himself from feeling around. He picked up the bolt but before turning to leave he was struck by an idea. Considering how few matches he had left and how fast the money in the vault had caught fire, he decided to put some in his bag so he could conserve his matches the next time he needed to start a fire.
There was something immensely satisfying about shoving handfuls of money into a backpack. It did not even matter that it was technically worthless. Now he could go. He could finally go. He had read in his books that going to the bank was an annoying chore, but this was ridiculous.
He reached the bottom of the
