Robert Wilson - The Quiet

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his smooshed pack of cigarettes and opened it to find nothing inside but a pinch of tobacco at the bottom. A sort of rage overcame him. He flung the empty cigarette pack onto the ground like a madman and stomped on it, half yelling, half muttering. He wasn’t angry that he was out of cigarettes. He was sure he would find a way into the store and the signs of various cigarette brands with their prices listed assured him the store carried his favorite and many others. James went around to the back of the car and opened the trunk. He knew his tools were buried inside, somewhere. He pulled out the gas can and set it on the blacktop. Then he started digging through the layers of clothes and papers that had accumulated over the years.

The cool feel of steel shocked the tips of his fingers as he dug several layers deep into the mess. Pushing his hand in with more confidence, he gripped his fingers around the tool and felt its handle’s grainy texture. Ratchet… good enough, he thought. It took some tugging and twisting, but he pulled the ratchet free. Closing the trunk, he took a deep breath, looking at the doors and windows of the store. He put the ratchet in his back pocket and race-walked to the automatic-sliding front doors. Obviously locked, they stood completely still as James approached. He pressed up against the glass and raised up on his toes, looking down so he could try and make out the workings of the lock. It was a small gray dead bolt that matched its surrounding doors. If he busted the glass close enough and made a big enough hole, he might be able to reach in and unlock it. He took a step back, reached around his side, and pulled out the ratchet. He lifted it above his head and aimed for a spot just above the corner of the glass, next to the dead bolt. He took a breath, counted to three in his head, and swung down with all his strength. The ratchet slammed into the glass with a hollow clang, jolting and vibrating his arm while utterly failing to even scratch the glass. He let out a loud yelp from the pain.

“All right, you son of a bitch. You got that one, but this next one is all mine.” He swung the ratchet again, harder this time, and the window bit back equally hard. The glass reflected the furious look on James’s face in untarnished clarity. He bellowed a battle cry, and started slamming the ratchet into the glass over and over, letting it hit wherever it happened to land. The thick glass seemed impenetrable. But James was in a fury now, beating into the glass harder the more it mocked him with its flawless surface. His screaming had risen to a fevered pitch when the blast of a rifle abruptly interrupted him.

James dropped the ratchet and put his hands in the air as the metal tool jittered against the concrete. He slowly turned around, his knees buckling as he went. A large man in worn overalls stood at the far end of the parking lot. In his hands, he clutched a shotgun at an angle, pointing towards the sky. Even at that distance, James could see the smoke floating from the barrel.

“You best get the hell away from that there store, son.” The man’s voice rose in the air and then ricocheted off the wall, behind James. I’m not alone, he thought. He had been longing to find someone for so long, he almost didn’t recognize the man’s intimidating tone.

“I just want some food and water, sir, maybe some cigarettes if it’s not too much to ask. I have to say it’s so nice to see someone else alive.” He could hear his own small voice echo across the lot with a short delay.

The man gave no reply.

James moved forward carefully, being sure to keep his hands up high. The man seemed to stiffen. James froze.

“I’m unarmed. I just want to meet you, sir.”

The man lowered his shotgun in James’s direction.

“You’ll stay right there if you know what’s good for ya.”

James closed his eyes and swallowed. He was about to open them when he heard movement from behind him. Before he could turn to see what it was, two men grabbed him. One was dressed in brown overalls, his dark hair greased back, the other wore a white polo and khaki shorts, the sun gleaming off his bald head. The man with the shotgun was jogging toward them. His shotgun, saddled behind him, shook with the muscular motion of his body as he ran. James could feel the cold, sharp, stinging pressure of handcuffs being slapped onto his wrists.

“We’re not taking any chances, mister. You understand, right?” a young voice asked behind James. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of pulling duct tape. He tried to get away but managed only a squirm as the cool, sticky pressure of the threaded tape enclosed his mouth.

James groaned in reply. The jolt of what was happening severed his only remaining nerve since the shotgun blast. The men pulled him toward the store as the man with the shotgun arrived just in time to open the sliding door.

Now that James could see him closer, the man with the shotgun looked easily well into his 50’s if not just over 60, but he was in better shape than James could ever hope to be. The man’s hair was a shiny silver, greased back in the same style as the other man in overalls. James noticed both men’s noses sat flat and wide on their faces. And both had high foreheads sheltering emerald green eyes. If they weren’t father and son, they were definitely related, he thought.

Once in the store, it was apparent the pair knew their way around the place and the odd man out did not. The eldest went straight to instructing the other two.

“Jimmy, did ya clear out the storage room and set up the camera like I asked ya?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. Take our stranger here and lock ’im up in there, but give ’im some water and some o’ these,” he said, pointing to the beef jerky rack.

“Yes, sir.”

“And Barger, stand watch at the door in the meantime. I’ll go warn the others and get back as soon as I can.”

“Yes, Mr. Flannigan.”

Mr. Flannigan turned to leave and then paused, shuffling back around. “Oh, I almost forgot. Once he’s in the storage room and before ya get ’is food, don’t forget to flip on that camera. We’ll need to keep an eye on ’im a couple o’ days.”

Both of the younger men nodded, dragging James past the canned vegetable aisle. The man with the shotgun ran barefoot through the sliding doors. The smell of something rotten filled James’s nose as they pulled him past the produce. Being carried from behind, he got a good view of the store and the way they were taking him. There was a flapping sound, and then a bump, and a change in the texture of the floor below his scraping heels. Two tall, white, floppy doors with small circular plastic windows seemed to just miss smacking back into him as they dragged him into the stocking area of the store. It was cold and dark compared to the rest of the store. After a few twists and turns around corners and stacked pallets of shrink-wrapped boxes, his captors came to a stop and whispered amongst themselves. He heard metal clicking, a familiar squeal, then they were pulling him into the storage room. James tried to struggle. Grappling onto the doorjamb with the back of his left shoulder, he almost got loose from the men when a burst of sharp, solid pain shot through the right side of his head and then a plunging darkness overcame him.

When he woke, James found himself lying on a cot inside the small storage room, his head sitting against a pile of cotton ball packages. His hands were no longer cuffed, but his head was swimming in misery. In the middle of the floor sat a minifridge, its cable plugged into the wall behind it. James opened it and found several bottles of water and a wrapped up sandwich he couldn’t identify. Pieces of jerky and cheese sticks were scattered on top of the tiny fridge. Looking up, James could see that all the shelves in the room were cleaned out as the younger man had said. And in the corner, above the crudely painted blue door he’d come in through, sat mounted a security camera pointed down at him. Sure they were watching, James gave the camera the bird and opened a bottle of water, taking a long swig. Eager to have something with meat, James tore open the shrink-wrapped sandwich and smelled the distinct aroma of tuna salad. His stomach growled. He began gnawing at the sandwich until there was nothing left and he was left licking the crumbs from his fingers. It had to have been the best damn tuna salad sandwich he ever had. But several minutes afterward, when the pain in his head began to make him nauseous, he thoroughly regretted eating it.