Brian Keene - Terminal

Dugan complied, but now he didn’t look like the brave vet. He looked like a scared old man. Squatting, Sherm placed the gun against the back of his head. Sharon begged Sherm not to hurt him. Oscar closed his eyes, joining Martha in prayer.

“Tommy”—Sherm was still looking down at Dugan—“how the fuck did he get your gun?”

His voice was nothing more than a cold whisper. John licked his lips and shot me a nervous glance.

“I don’t know, man. I guess I must have forgotten it when we were in the office…”

“Why weren’t his hands tied? I told you to fucking tie them.”

“They were, Sherm.”

“The hell they were.”

“He must have gotten loose.”

Standing, he prodded Dugan with his foot.

“Get up, asshole. And if you so much as fucking flinch, John is gonna do your girlfriend right here, gutshot or not. Cover her, Carpet Dick.”

Hesitating, John pointed the pistol at Sharon.

“John,” Roy breathed, “you don’t have to listen to him, son. Neither of you do. You’ve seen what comes after this. You’ve been given another chance. Don’t waste it or make a mockery out of it.”

“What the fuck is he going on about?” Sherm shoved Dugan forward. I stuck the .38 in my waistband and held my hands out in front of me. “He’s scared. That’s all. We all are. Just chill out, Sherm.”

“Fuck that. They’re scared. You’re scared. I’ll fucking give all of you something to be scared about. Move it, tough guy!”

He pushed Dugan again, and the older man stumbled. For a second, I thought Sherm might shoot him where he stood. I could see him fighting with the rage building up inside of him. It shone on his face, reflected in his eyes. Sherm was on the verge of snapping. Monsters in his head… That was what Benjy said. Sherm had monsters inside his head.

“Tommy, take Dugan into Keith’s office. And so help me God, if he fucking gets loose, I’m capping your ass first. Carpet Dick, you stay here and guard the rest of them—”

Up to this point, Sherm had been distracted by Dugan’s revolt, but now he froze, staring at John. He’d finally realized that John was more than just awake, more than just alert. He was healed.

“W-what?” John stammered. “What’s up, Sherm? Why you looking at me like that?”

“You were gutshot…” Sherm’s voice was one of shocked disbelief. “You were dying, John.”

“Ummm…”

“What the hell happened to you, Carpet Dick? What is this shit?”

“I-I g-got better. I guess it wasn’t as bad as it looked, Sherm. Honest.”

“Wasn’t as bad as it looked? Kelvin shot you in the fucking stomach, John. You’ve got blood all over your shirt and all over your arms and face. Where the hell is the bullet hole?”

“Um…”

“You’re fucking sitting up and smiling now. What the fuck is this shit?”

Terrified, John looked to me for help.

“Tommy?”

Sherm’s head whipped back to me. The business end of the .357 came with it.

“What the fuck is going on, Tommy? Where’s the bullet wound in John’s belly? How can he be better? I thought he’d just regained consciousness—not his fucking health.”

“I don’t know, man. I honestly don’t—”

“Don’t bullshit me, goddamn it! I want to know what the hell happened here. Gunshot wounds just don’t magically disappear. What the fuck is going on?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“Excuse me,” Roy interrupted quietly, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but if I overheard correctly, you gave the police a fifteen-minute ultimatum. I’d just like to point out that the time has passed. Perhaps you should call them?”

Sheila was holding her breath, staring at me with wide, frightened eyes. The others were silent too. Then, in that horrible stillness, I heard something that stopped me cold—the sound of broken glass crunching underfoot in the lobby. A tentative, stealthy footstep. Oscar twitched and I thought that maybe he’d heard it too. A second later I heard another. Before Sherm could notice, Martha spoke.

“Ye are of your father the devil, and the works of your father ye will do.” She tottered to her feet, weak but determined.

“What the hell is your problem now, bitch?”

“Saint John, chapter eight, verse forty-four. You are legion and your time has come. Your father awaits you. You will know hell for all eternity.”

“Legion, huh?”

“Yes.”

Sherm moved slowly, spoke calmly—then the darkness inside of him finally erupted. The monsters broke free.

“Fuck this.”

He pulled the trigger, and the top of Martha’s head disappeared from the nose up, splattering wetly onto the wall behind her. And onto the ceiling. And onto the floor. And onto Roy. She rocked back and forth on her feet. Her lips moved, with nothing but red above them.

“Oh my…”

She swayed one more time, then crumpled to the floor.

The screams and confusion were instantaneous. Sharon and Kim and Oscar shrieked at the top of their lungs. Roy cried out that he was blind, not comprehending that it was the inside of Martha’s head that covered his eyes. Benjy cringed against his mother, screaming for it to be over, crying that he couldn’t help the old lady; that she’d already gone to meet Jesus. John yelled too—but I couldn’t understand what he said. My ears were focused on the sounds from the lobby. There were more of them. Coming closer. Coming fast. Coming hard. The sound of booted feet and harsh, barking voices. There was more breaking glass, too, as windows were shattered by tear gas grenades.

Smoke still pouring from his barrel, Sherm spun around again and pointed the gun at me.

“Fuck all of this,” he growled. “Fuck it all.”

I aimed with the .38, but before I could squeeze the trigger, Dugan brushed past me. Sherm shot him in the chest. Dugan hunched over, his eyes squinted shut in pain, but he refused to drop. Stumbling forward, he slammed into Sherm just as Sherm fired again. The explosion was muffled at point-blank range. The back of his shirt turned red. Shuddering, Dugan cried out. He pressed forward, and managed to knock Sherm to the ground, pinning him beneath his wounded and bleeding body.

Tear gas began to flood the vault. My eyes felt like they were on fire, and the acrid smell stopped my lungs when I breathed it in.

“Go,” Dugan roared at us. “Sharon, get the hell out of here. Roy, get them out.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Sharon cried, but the others were heeding his words. Kim and Oscar sprinted past me while I stood gasping, trying to catch my breath. Screaming, they ran out the door.

“Wait,” I shouted, then broke into a coughing fit. Between the tear gas and the cancer, I couldn’t breathe.

“Tommy, they’re getting away.” His eyes tearing, John started after them in confusion, then took a step back toward Sherm, who struggled to free himself from Dugan’s crushing weight. Dugan clutched his wrist, slamming it again and again onto the floor, attempting to knock the pistol from his grip.

In the hall, stern voices shouted “Police officers! Down! Get down!”

“Tommy,” John hollered again, his voice frantic.

I couldn’t answer him. The cough I’d been battling to contain rattled my chest. My lungs and throat exploded, filled with raw, red, unbearable pain. I sank to my knees, praying for it to end. Deep inside me, something moved, dislodging itself from my body. As it tore free, long ropy strands of bloody saliva dripped from my lips. The loose piece pushed upward, then stopped. Gasping for breath, I found that I couldn’t breathe. I was choking on a piece of myself. Half-blind from the tear gas, John ran past me, intent on chasing down Kim and Oscar. He still had my pistol in his hand. I tried to cry out, tried to warn him not to go outside, that the police were there, but I just choked. My ears started to ring, and my heart and head were pounding—craving oxygen and threatening to burst. Dropping my pistol, I waved an arm at him but he never saw me.