Brian Keene - Terminal

“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, after 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?”

“A hostage, dog. But they still wouldn’t budge.”

“Why?” I sputtered. I knew it didn’t matter, knew that John was getting better at that very moment. But I still had to distract Sherm and it was still aggravating. He shrugged, not answering.

“Come on, Sherm. What reason did they give you?”

He shrugged a second time, his eyes flickered, and I knew then that he was lying again. He hadn’t even mentioned it to the cops.

“Sherm—”

“What the fuck you doing, Tommy?”

I pushed past him, rounding the corner of the desk and reached for the phone. He grabbed my arm and tried to yank me back. The phone slipped from my hands and I shoved him, grappling for it.

And I found Keith.

Strips of duct tape covered his nose and mouth. His face was purple and his eyes bulged in their sockets, frozen in death. The tiny veins inside of them had ruptured, and the whites turned blood red. His feet had left black scuff marks on the wall and desk, where he’d kicked at them in what must have been his death throes. I remembered that muffled thumping sound, and I gaped at Sherm in horror.

“Little fucker tried to holler out to the cops while I had him on the phone,” he explained. “I put him on to verify what I was telling them and instead, he started talking smack. Almost told them there was only the three of us and that John was wounded. So I slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth, just to keep him quiet. But he still wouldn’t shut up. So I put one over his nose too. Figured I’d just teach him a lesson—let him suffocate for a minute or two, then take it off. Fucking asshole went and died on me before I could do that, though. Heh. You should have seen him, yo. Kicking and straining and shit. His head looked like it was gonna explode.”

“So you killed him?”

“It was the only way, Tommy. I couldn’t shoot the fucker. Like you said earlier, if the cops heard another gunshot, they’d have been on us like white on rice.”

“Motherfucker… this is some bad shit, Sherm.”

“Yo, it’s not my fault, Tommy. Neither of them were my fault.”

“Neither of them? What are you talking about? Who? Do you mean Lucas?”

“Yeah, Lucas, the delivery driver. Dude wanted to try and make a dash out the back door when we were checking on his truck. Tried to slip out of my grasp, even though I had the gun pointed at the back of his head. Couldn’t let that happen, but I couldn’t shoot him either.”

“You said he was locked in the bathroom, Sherm. You said he wouldn’t be a problem anymore. Are you telling me you lied about that too? You killed him and didn’t tell me?”