Brian Keene - Terminal

“Yeah, I got the keys, but I don’t know if we’ll be able to use them or not.”

“How come?”

“There’s five-oh all deep between us and the truck. When they call again, I’ll negotiate—see if I can get them to pull back so that we can get to it.”

“Do you really think the cops are gonna go for that, Sherm?

“They will if we start killing hostages and throwing them out the fucking door.”

Upon hearing this, Oscar’s and Kim’s eyes widened. Sheila shuddered. Roy shifted against the wall. Dugan stroked Sharon’s foot with his own and silently mouthed assurances. Martha prayed under her breath.

Benjy stared at me.

I stared back, and for a split second, an image of Sherm placing his pistol to the back of Benjy’s head flashed through my mind. A crystal-clear flash sparked as Sherm squeezed the trigger, and I heard Sheila screaming. No. There was no way that I was going to let that happen. Enough people had died already. I didn’t want any more deaths on my conscience, especially not that little boy’s.

I tried to keep my voice calm and level.

“Quit playing, dog. It’s not gonna come to that. Right?”

“Sure it could,” Sherm disagreed. “If I don’t start getting some cooperation from those cops, if shit doesn’t start going my way, then I’ve got no problem capping a few of these fuckers to get some attention.”

“You don’t mean that,” Roy replied. “Surely you understand that they’d give you the death penalty for something so heinous.”

“Old man, I’ve already qualified for the death penalty today. The way I see it, a few more bodies ain’t gonna make a whole lot of difference at this point. In fact, it may just hurry the whole thing along.”

“Sherm,” I reasoned with him, “if you start killing hostages and throwing them out the door, the cops will bum rush this place. Soon as they hear the first gunshot, they’ll be in here. They’ll have tear gas and pepper spray and automatic rifles and Kevlar body armor and laser sights; all kinds of other shit. We’ll be outgunned and outnumbered. You kill any more of these people and you might as well be committing suicide for all of us.”

“Signing our death warrants?”

“Fuck yes!”

“Isn’t that better than sitting on death row, Tommy?”

I opened my mouth to protest, but a loud electronic squawk cut me off.

“SHADY! SHADY, THIS IS DETECTIVE RAMIREZ! WE ARE STILL WORKING ON YOUR ORIGINAL DEMANDS. IN FIFTEEN MINUTES, I’M GOING TO CALL YOU AGAIN ON THE BANK’S TELEPHONE AND GIVE YOU AN UPDATE! I CAN’T STRESS ENOUGH HOW IMPERATIVE IT IS THAT YOU PICK UP THAT PHONE WHEN I DO. THERE’S NO NEED TO MAKE THIS ANY WORSE THAN IT ALREADY IS. NOBODY ELSE HAS TO GET HURT, SHADY. IF YOU PICK UP THE PHONE, WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS!”

“Oh look”—Sherm grinned—“the police finally figured out how to make their bullhorn work. The batteries must have been dead before.”

“Is this Ramirez the same guy that you talked to before?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s him. He’s a real weasel. Let me tell you, I’d like to take a shot at him too before this is all over. Fucking police negotiators…”

The voice on the bullhorn continued to bellow.

“Who the hell is Shady?” Roy asked, confused.

“I am,” Sherm said proudly, “I’m the real Slim Shady. So won’t you please shut up. Please shut up. Please shut up. Please shut up.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“Forget it,” I said. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Can one of you tell me who Shady is?” Roy insisted.

I stayed silent.

“Is that Sherm’s nickname or something?”

“No,” Oscar told him, “it’s the nickname of a rapper.”

“Oh. I must admit that I’m not familiar with most rap music.”

“You’re not missing anything,” Sharon said. “A lot of juvenile, thuggish, masochistic dick-swinging, if you ask me.”

“Which we didn’t,” Sherm growled.

“All they rap about,” Sharon countered, “is their drugs, their cars, their guns, their bitches, their bling-bling, and who has done the most jail time.”

“What’s bling-bling?” Roy whispered to Sheila.

“Money. Gold jewelry. Stuff like that. Flashy things.”

“Oh.”

“That’s not all they rap about,” I protested. “They tell stories about the streets. It’s just street life from their perspective. And not all of that is negative either.”

Roy bent his legs, frowning in pain.

“What’s wrong?” Sheila asked him.

“Arthritis is acting up a bit. But my ticker still feels fine.”

He gave Benjy a warm smile and turned to Sharon.

“So you’re saying Tommy, John, and Sherm robbed this bank in part because of the type of music they listen to?”

“I’m saying it’s got to factor in, sure.”

“Sorry, Sharon, but I’ve got to call bullshit on that,” I interrupted. “That’s like blaming the fucking Columbine shootings on The Matrix. I mean, no offense, but I know who the real me is, versus any image I might pick up from a song.”

Sherm slowly turned.

“Let me tell you something, all of you. I don’t know you and you don’t know anything about the real me, other than I’m the son of a bitch who’s holding a gun. That’s all you need to know too. None of you know the real me. And you ain’t gonna either. So stop fucking caring and asking questions.”

“Well,” Roy countered, “maybe we will know you before this is over.”

At first, I didn’t think Sherm was going to respond, but then he did.

“You better hope not.”

What do you guys think happens to us when we die?” Kim asked.

We’d sat in silence for a long time, and I think the question surprised us all. For the last half hour, our only conversation had taken place when Sherm finally took over for me and kept the pressure on John’s wound. I’d planned on using the opportunity to finish emptying the cash drawers in the lobby, but as I inched my way down the hall, I realized the cops would be able to see me behind the counter from outside in the parking lot. It pissed me off. Somehow, Sherm had ended up running things, and when I finally did decide on a course of action, I couldn’t follow through on it.

“Seriously,” Kim insisted. “We could all die in here today. What do you guys think happens to us after we’re gone?”

Oscar flinched. “That’s a pretty morbid question, don’t you think?”

Kim shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess, maybe. All I know is that I can’t stop thinking about it. I miss my mom and dad, and my little brother. I wish I could talk to them one more time, you know? I don’t want to die. I’m too young. I want to get married and have kids and—”

“Nobody is going to die, sweetheart,” Sherm said, “as long as you all follow orders, and as long as those fucking cops out there don’t piss me off.”

Kim pointedly ignored him.

“My family and I used to go to church when I was a little girl, but it’s been a long time since I’ve talked to God. I still believe in Him, I guess. But I wonder if I’d go to heaven if we don’t make it out of here?”

“I don’t think God cares how often you go to church,” Roy commented. “He’s probably more concerned with how you lived your life. That’s what guarantees you a place in Heaven.”

“Ha!” Martha spat on the floor.

“What the hell is your problem, bitch?” Sherm was twitching again, slapping the barrel of the handgun against his leg.

“Hell is not my problem,” she answered. “It is your problem.”

“How many times did you see The Passion, Martha? I bet it was the only movie you’ve seen in the last twenty years.”