Brian Keene - Terminal

“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 heard 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.

“It’s going to be okay,” I told him.

“I know. I’m not scared too much anymore.”

“Well, that’s good.”

As we talked, I noticed my eardrum vibrating. I had to strain just to hear him and each time I spoke, it vibrated some more.

“What’s your name, mister?”

“My name?”

I paused, readjusting John’s weight. Blood flowed from the wound, leaving a trail behind us.

“My name is Tommy. Come on, we have to hurry up and lay my friend down again.”

“How did you know my name was Benjy, Mr. Tommy?”

“I heard your mother call you that.”

“Oh.” He considered this and looked back up at me.

“Mr. Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“I can help your friend. I’m going to be a doctor when I grow up. I’m going to fix people so they’re better.”