by Jeff Strand
He could hear the storekeeper cursing in Arabic, like a camel clearing phlegm from its throat. The guy sounded pissed, like this wasn’t the first time his store had been held up, but by Allah, it would be the last. Then came the unmistakable shick-shuck of a pump shotgun being racked. Donnie darted back from the open trap.
That’s why there wasn’t any alarm.
The guy planned to take care of business himself.
Donnie looked despairingly at his .38. He never worked with a loaded gun. If the threat of being shot wasn’t enough, then the job wasn’t worth it. Better to walk away, find some other place to stick up. Ideally with an owner who had enough sense to do what they were told when you stuck a gun in their face.
Until now, he’d thought he was being smart.
Shoving the useless fucking gun back in his coat, Donnie scuttled down the aisles towards the STAFF ONLY door at the back of the store. If it was locked, he was screwed. He’d have to take his licks and beg the storekeeper not to kill him. He was almost at the door when he heard the jangle of keys on the other side.
Donnie dove into Aisle 1 and crouched low behind the shelves, cloaking himself in the shadows as the door clattered open. The storekeeper emerged from the back room, clutching a shotgun bigger than he was. He paused to yank the door shut behind him, locking it from a key hoop clipped to his belt.
There was something funny-looking about him. In the gloom, it was hard to tell exactly what. Then the storekeeper turned his head, and Donnie thought he’d lost his mind. A giant frog was sweeping the shotgun left to right across the aisles. Donnie tried to blink away the nightmare. Then he realized the storekeeper was wearing some kind of mask. No … Not a mask. Night-vision goggles, the lenses protruding from his head like bulbous amphibian eyes.
Tiny jewels of sweat glittered on the Arab’s scalp. He began to sidestep slowly along the end of the aisles, his cheap leather shoes squeaking as he crabbed along—the shotgun steady in his hands as he moved methodically towards Aisle 1—towards Donnie, crouching in the shadows.
Panicking, Donnie snatched a jar of coffee from the shelf in front of him, and then lobbed it over the aisles like a grenade. Glass shattered as it exploded on the far side of the store. The storekeeper pivoted with a squeal of his squeaky shoes. The shotgun roared, the blast punching a hole through the aisles and scattering stock, the deafening noise drowning out Donnie’s scream.
This guy wasn’t fucking around. He wasn’t going to rough him up or make a citizen’s arrest. Donnie wasn’t talking his way out of this shit. There’d been no hesitation as the storekeeper turned and fired. That blast was intended to cut him in half. The man meant to kill him.
This should’ve been a quick dollar stickup. Donnie wasn’t going to play cat-and-mouse with a shotgun-toting maniac. Let the cops deal with the crazy bastard. He’d take the arrest if it meant he left the KWIK STOP alive.
He dug in his coat for his cellphone. No signal bars on the display. He waved the phone about frantically, searching for a signal. Had the shutters caused some kind of blackout? He raised the phone towards the ceiling. A single signal bar flickered weakly. He listened out for the storekeeper. On the far side of the store, he heard Arabic cursing as the man found the shattered coffee jar and realized he’d been duped. The storekeeper racked the shotgun and started back along the aisles, his shoes squeaking urgently.
Donnie monkeyed up the shelves in front of him. The flimsy wooden shelving boards sagged beneath his weight. His ears were still ringing from the shotgun blast. He could only hope that the storekeeper had also been deafened; that the guy didn’t hear him as Donnie slid on top of the shelving unit, disturbing a thick layer of dust that swirled around him in a cloud that prickled his fluey nose.
The storekeeper sprang into the aisle directly below him. When he saw the aisle was empty, the Arab muttered a curse, lowering the shotgun, and then adjusted the sweaty strap of his night-goggles. He was breathing hard. Maybe even excited. Enjoying the thrill of the hunt. He started stalking down the aisle towards the front of the store.
Flattened on top of the shelving unit, Donnie didn’t dare move, holding his breath and fighting an almost overwhelming urge to sneeze. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the storekeeper crept along the aisle below him. The man left his line of sight, but Donnie was still able to track him by his squeaky shoe.
He checked his cellphone again, and gave a silent prayer of thanks when he saw there were now two signal bars on the display. But before he could dial 911, he inhaled another thick cloud of dust that set his nose ablaze—
The sneeze echoed through the store like a karate cry.
The Arab turned and fired without hesitation, the shotgun belching fire.
Donnie sprang from the shelving unit, shredded cereal boxes exploding behind him, a shower of Kellogg’s raining over the store. Slamming into the next shelving unit, he crashed down into Aisle 2, landing heavily on his back next to the mop-bucket, his cellphone shattering on the floor beside him.
The storekeeper racked his shotgun and charged up the aisle towards him. Woofing for breath, Donnie could only flail his legs, kicking over the mop-bucket. Sludgy gray water spewed across the floor. The storekeeper slid on the muck like an Arabic Chevy Chase. He thudded to the floor and fired another deafening blast, plaster raining down from the ceiling.
Before the man could recover, Donnie scrambled to the nearest shelving unit. He slithered across the bottom shelf, clawing through a crinkling wall of potato chip bags, emerging into Aisle 3. Bracing himself against a deep-freeze refrigerator chest, he hauled himself up onto rubbery legs, sucking for breath.
Through the gaps in the shelves, he could see the storekeeper in the center aisle, wobbling to his feet like a prizefighter trying to beat the ref’s count.
Racking the shotgun with a grunt, the Arab began limping around the aisle after Donnie, careful not to slip on the sludge-slick floor, one hand clutching at the shelves for balance.
Donnie was still slumped against the deep-freeze, trying to catch his breath. The small of his back was screaming with pain where he’d landed on it. His legs could barely support him, let alone carry him away. Before the storekeeper rounded the aisles and spotted him, Donnie hauled up the lid of the deep-freeze.
Hardly thinking about what he was doing, he slid inside the chest and buried himself among the frozen food packages. As he cowered inside the icy coffin, peering up in terror through the frosted glass, listening to the storekeeper’s shoes squeak closer, it occurred to Donnie that as far as dumb fucking ideas went, this was right up there alongside robbing a store with an unloaded gun.
The storekeeper paused next to the deep-freeze. Wheezing for breath, he steadied himself against the refrigerator chest. Donnie stifled a scream as a hand thudded down on the glass lid. For a moment it seemed like the man was staring right down at him. Then he dragged his hand from the glass to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Frowning, the Arab glanced back down the aisle, maybe fearing his prey had circled behind him. Then he moved on to the back of the store.
Donnie waited until he heard the distant jangle of keys as the storekeeper checked whether the STAFF ONLY door was locked. Then he palmed up the glass door of the deep-freeze, and eased himself out, crouching down beside the refrigerator and listening intently. It sounded like the guy was doing another lap of the store.
This time, Donnie would be waiting for the crazy fuck.
He scuttled to the liquor display at the back of the store. Forced to squint in the gloom, Donnie scanned the shelves for firewater, saw a picture of Speedy Gonzales on a dusty label, and grabbed the bottle of Arriba 100-proof tequila.
Nodding to himself, he crouched behind the Aisle 2 end-shelf, and then peeked around the corner, waiting for the storekeeper to appear at the front of the store. He unscrewed the bottle cap, wincing at the screech of twisted metal. But the storekeeper didn’t seem to hear. Donnie listened to the guy’s shoes squeaking as he continued his patrol of the st
ore. Donnie necked a big swig from the bottle. For what he needed to do, and for courage. He shuddered as the tequila burned through him. Snatching his snot rag from his pocket, he began stuffing it into the bottleneck until only a little cloth tongue poked out. Then he pulled his Zippo lighter from his pocket and thumbed the wheel. Click!
The storekeeper’s shoes stopped in mid-squeak.
The Zippo shook in Donnie’s hand as he torched the snot rag fuse.
The shotgun roared. A tower of Heinz cans exploded on the shelf above Donnie’s head. Spaghetti sauce sprayed down over him, nearly snuffing out the flame. The storekeeper reloaded, feeding shells into the shotgun like a degenerate gambler playing the slots. Donnie mopped the spaghetti sauce from his eyes and then leapt out from cover. They faced each other like Old West gunfighters. A tin of beans rolled like tumbleweed across the aisle between them. The storekeeper saw the Molotov cocktail in Donnie’s hands. His mouth dropped open in shock. He started raising the shotgun.
Donnie Hail Mary-ed the burning bottle …
And then he watched in horror as it sailed harmlessly over the storekeeper’s head.
The bottle shattered against the steel shutters behind him and burst into flames. The storekeeper stood silhouetted before a wall of fire like a frog-headed demon from hell. Oblivious to the danger behind him, the storekeeper sneered at Donnie as he aimed the shotgun, his finger teasing the trigger—as flames started licking the fireworks display.
There was a blinding white flash and then the fireworks boomed like Hiroshima. Instantly, the storekeeper became a human fireball, the blast blowing him off his feet and hurling him up the aisles like a missile. He sailed straight past Donnie and crashed into the STAFF ONLY door, thudding to the floor like a piece of barbecue you toss to the dog.
The front of the store was now an inferno. Rockets ignited and screeched from the flames, setting shelves ablaze, the sound deafening inside the steel-shuttered store. The place was fast becoming a death trap.
Donnie crouched beside the charred storekeeper. He took off his coat and smothered the flames of the man’s burning cardigan. Wrestling the key hoop from his belt, Donnie juggled the red-hot keys, yelping as they scorched his palms. Wrapping his coat around his hand like an oven glove, he unlocked the STAFF ONLY door to reveal another locked door marked DELIVERY, and stairs leading down to the basement. Donnie knelt in front of the second door and sorted through the jumble of keys, trying to find the key that would fit the lock—
Something squeaked behind him.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the storekeeper staggering to his feet. His face was flame-grilled hamburger. The night-goggles were melted onto his head like devil horns. He propped himself up in the doorway, smoke coiling from the scorched rags of his cardigan. Before Donnie could stand, the Arab lunged at him, slamming the shotgun across his throat, pinning him back against the door. The fire had fused the shotgun to his hands. The melted flesh of his fingers was webbed across the stock as he crushed Donnie’s larynx.
Choking, Donnie grappled the shotgun and shoved the guy back. They stumbled across the landing, tumbling down the stone steps and thudding onto the concrete floor of the basement. Landing on top of Donnie, the storekeeper jammed the shotgun back across his throat and pressed down with all his weight. Donnie spluttered and bucked, the key hoop in his hand jangling wildly as he flailed at the man’s face before he slammed a long mortise key through the left lens of the Arab’s night-goggles, driving it deep into the eye socket. He then wrenched the key in the man’s eyeball like he was forcing open a rusty lock.
The storekeeper gave a hog-like squeal. His head jerked back, the keys dangling from his face like bloody jewelry. Yolky yellow gunk gushed from the shattered lens of his goggles, spraying across Donnie’s face. Gagging, Donnie hammered the heel of his hand against the key, burying it deeper in the Arab’s eye. The storekeeper shrieked, lurching to his feet and staggering blindly about the basement. Donnie scrabbled back across the floor, spitting eyeball fluid and heaving for breath.
The Arab crashed against a stock shelf, cans and jars clattering and smashing on the floor around him. He reached up to remove the keys from his eye, before realizing he couldn’t—not with the shotgun welded to his hands. His arms twitched pathetically. Once, twice … Then all the fight seemed to drain right out of him. His body sagged, and he slumped down on a camp bed parked against the cinderblock wall, the springs squealing like his squeaky shoes.
Huddled on the bed, the man glowered at Donnie with his one good eye, the other a ruined hollow of red and yellow slime. He slowly raised his left knee. Donnie watched in disbelief as the man planted the sole of his shoe against the length of the shotgun and sucked a few shallow breaths … before he flexed his leg and the melted flesh of his palms ripped free from the stock with a sound like Velcro tearing. The shotgun clattered to the floor in front of him, but he was too weak to reach for it.
With raw and bloody hands, the Arab grasped the hoop of keys dangling from his face. Donnie covered his mouth with his hand—nearly begged the guy to stop—but he couldn’t look away. The Arab yanked on the key hoop. The key ripped from his eye socket with a wet popping sound. He gave a yelp and fainted dead away, flopping back on the camp bed with the keys clutched tightly in his fist.
Donnie almost fainted himself; his head was spinning as he staggered to his feet. He peeled off his ski mask and covered his nose and mouth to keep from choking on the thick black smoke belching down into the basement through the open trapdoor above them. Fiery ash rained down onto the mattress. It wouldn’t be long before the fire spread downstairs. Already the basement was baking like a pizza oven.
He took a wary step towards the storekeeper, eyeing the keys clutched in the man’s fist. It looked like the guy was out for the count. All it took was getting burned half to death, blasted into a wall, thrown down a staircase and stabbed in the eye. But Donnie wasn’t about to take any chances. This guy was like the fucking Terminator.
He kicked the shotgun beyond the Arab’s reach. It skidded across the floor and clanged against the legs of a workbench. Donnie paused when he noticed some kind of photo shrine on the wall above the workbench.
The cluster of photos showed a young woman. The storekeeper’s wife, Donnie figured. She was beautiful (even in a burning building, Donnie could appreciate a piece of ass) and very pregnant. Beneath the shrine sat a chunky security monitor—but it wasn’t showing the store go up in flames. Instead it was hooked to an old VCR player running a short loop of silent film.
The grainy black and white footage was timecoded in the bottom corner, dated six years ago. It showed the storekeeper’s pregnant wife as she stood in terror behind the shop counter. She was opening the cash register for a jittery punk wearing a stocking mask that mashed his features. He was clutching a pistol in a sideways gangsta-grip. The cash drawer slid open. The punk’s pistol spat fire. The back of the woman’s long hair flailed as her brains splattered the cigarette rack. Bloody cartons of smokes rained from the rack in a waterfall. The woman crumpled to the floor. Leaning over the counter, the punk raided the cash register, pocketing bills as he fled the store.
The footage looped and played again. And again.
Donnie looked at the cushioned chair parked in front of the monitor, the cushion cratered by the weight of the husband, and the weight of the grief pressing down on him. How long had the storekeeper sat here? Hour after hour … day after day … watching again and again as his pregnant wife was gunned down by a two-bit stickup man. A piece of shit like Donnie.
Before the footage could loop and play again, Donnie switched off the monitor. He saw his reflection in the blank TV screen, and was about to look away in shame, sickened at the sight of himself. Then something in the screen’s reflection caught his eye. A sudden movement behind him.
He wheeled around in time to see the storekeeper swinging a fire extinguisher by the hose like a mace-and-chain. The metal butt of the fire extinguisher scythed acros
s his jaw, smashing teeth and bone, and Donnie dropped like he’d been shot, like the storekeeper’s wife, out cold before he hit the deck.
When he came to, Donnie found himself facedown on the cracked concrete floor. His ankles and wrists were bound tightly with duct tape, hogtied behind him. He raised his throbbing head weakly off the floor. A rope of congealed blood drooled from his mouth, puddling like black treacle on the concrete. His vision blurred in and out of focus, but he could see he was still in the basement.
The room was fogged with smoke that was starting to clear. The fire upstairs had been extinguished. The storekeeper must have doused the flames while Donnie was unconsciousness. Donnie listened intently for the wail of EMS sirens outside. Surely someone must have reported World War III breaking out in the KWIK STOP. But all he could hear was the sound of someone digging.
A section of the basement’s concrete floor had been broken, probably by the sledgehammer propped against the wall, a slab of stone levered up to reveal the dirt below. The storekeeper was using a shovel to dig a hole in the plot of earth, piling up the dirt beside a steel drum with a skull and crossbones symbol and a label marked LYE. The Arab’s wounded hands were swathed in bandages. He grimaced in pain as he worked the shovel. Whenever the pain seemed too much to bear, he would glance at the security monitor on the workbench, watching the footage of his dying wife again, and summon the strength to continue digging.
When he was done, he climbed from the hole and loomed over Donnie.
Donnie tried to beg, but his shattered jaw and blood-clogged mouth allowed only a pitiful choked whimper. The Arab planted a foot on him, his shoes giving the last squeak Donnie would ever hear, as he kicked him into the grave.
Donnie landed on his back, his bound arms and legs twisting painfully beneath him with the impact. He watched in helpless terror as the storekeeper began shoveling the dirt over him. The last thing he saw was what looked like another shrine on the wall directly above him. No photos, this time. Donnie thought this one looked less like a shrine than a trophy wall. Nailed to the cinderblocks was a stocking mask, a bandana, and three ski masks, one of them black wool, with red trim around the eyes and mouth, and not so lucky after all.