Merchandise - A Short Story

by Michael Wright

eyes grew wider—if that was even possible—and her eyes shot to Bram and back. She looked at the note and covered it with her hand.

  Jim dropped a pencil in her direction. He gestured towards it.

  Beverly looked down at it; looking at it a moment before she realized what he wanted her to do. She fastened onto his gaze and nodded, slowly.

  “…do you understand what I am telling you?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  He saw her set the paper down, a flicker of eyes, glancing back at Bram, the salesman who was speaking so carefully to his customer.

  Jim glanced behind him and saw the money being transferred. The man was loaded down with stuff, the little girl standing with him, looking down at her shoes, probably bored to death.

  Cash passed between them, a lot of cash.

  The man walked away, the little girl with him—she had just a slight limp—heading for an SUV that was parked just at the street.

  Beverly dropped the piece of paper by him; he glanced over at it, trying to feign interest in an item in the bin.

  Bram sighed and went for the porch; he pulled the sliding glass door open and stepped inside, leaving everything unattended.

  He read the three-word response, and then looked up at her, knowing that they could talk with Bram gone, he hoped she did too.

  “I think we can talk.” He said. “Just for a moment.”

  She glanced at the door; fear clouded her vision as the tears once had. “My name is Beverly.”

  He smiled. “Jim.” He glanced down at the note again.

  Please save me.

  VII

  HE SET the knife on the table. It was long and had a fresh edge on it. He had a feeling he would need that first. It was not the end of his list, but it was at least a start.

  The darkness outside was suffocating. The night had fallen with great suddenness, like a hasty curtain blocking out the show. The night was going to be heavy, he knew that; the moon was absent from the sky, adding to the deep darkness. It was just what he needed, the cover of darkness.

  The bolt cutters had to be in the toolbox. He couldn’t think of them being anywhere else.

  He looked at the knife, hesitation growing deep down within him. He could still hear the desperation in her voice.

  —I need help. Please, help me.

  —I’ll do whatever I can.

  —I’m not sure that’s enough.

  The hesitation disappeared. He knew he would need the knife; there was no question about it. He would have to take the knife—no chances.

  —I’m not sure I understand. Why are you here?

  He glanced at the clock, noting the late hour, but he still knew that he would have to wait at least another hour. It he went out it would be taking too much of a chance. He had to wait for the dead of night.

  —I…I have to stay here. I can’t leave.

  —Why?

  He rummaged around in the back room of his house, the piles of boxes and odds and ends was almost crippling, he knew that he should have taken more time to organize—but like all thoughts of that sort, it was far too late. He dug past a few boxes, piles of books, piles of photos—things from a life that seemed so far away, so distant from his current situation.

  The toolbox was deep down in the pile. Hiding in the pile, deep down, that dull, crimson box with the dirty, gray handle. He pulled it open, and began to dig around in the innumerable screwdrivers and wrenches that had long ago seen the light of day. It was funny that even when he finally did open the box, they still didn’t see the light of day. He quickly found the bolt cutters, a compact version, and he knew that they wouldn’t do, he had to get the good ones out of the garage.

  He stood and slammed the lid shut, going for the doorway and moving quickly through the one that led to the garage, and flipped the light switch on.

  —Because I belong here. That’s why I can’t leave.

  He saw the bolt cutters hanging on the pegboard. You really do sell anything, don’t you, Bram? He thought bitterly. It had all made sense, just half an hour ago, it had all fallen into place.

  He remembered watching the little girl go with the man, and he remembered that feeling he had gotten, remembering how familiar she looked. It was only hours later he would realize why she had looked so familiar, and soon after that he would piece it all together.

  —You can quit this job; you don’t have to work here. It’s not good for you.

  —I’m not a customer and I’m not an employee. I belong here because…

  The bolt cutters were heavy and they had quite a bit of heft in his hands. They would do the job but they would be very difficult to conceal. Thank God it was dark.

  The dark hair on the little girl, that slight limp, he had seen it before. He had seen it very recently in fact. Why it had taken so long to click he didn’t know, but as he was sitting in his chair, trying to think of a way that he could get Beverly out—counting up his cash—he remembered the girl. She was walking down the street, not with the man who had bought all of his stuff at the monstrous yard sale, but walking to the yard sale with her mother and father. Her father’s face was half burned off.

  —…I’m a product.

  The girl was a product, and she had just been sold to a man who had come in there looking for stuff and walked out with one of the longest selling items in the world. He had just bought a human being.

  “We Sell Anything”

  They sure did.

  —I’m part of the merchandise.

  That was their prime product. How did they get them? That had been his question as soon as Beverly had told him. They both looked over to see if Bram was coming back out, or was watching out the windows, watching so carefully.

  —The payment system. If you rack up too much debt, you can’t buy anything, and most of the time, they’ll do a trade. A car, or a TV, something small like that.

  —But not all of the time?

  —No, very quickly, they needed something more.

  Jim took the bolt cutters in the house and set them next to the knife. He would need more; he knew that he would need more. He needed something stronger. It was all he could do with these people—oh, these awful people—not to simply kill them. Deep down inside, that part that told him how wrong the whole thing was, selling people for crying out loud, also told him that he shouldn’t kill them. Part of him was afraid that he couldn’t kill them, that they were something…more.

  —They come at night. Sometimes, with torches—that’s how they got Amy, with torches—and they make their demands. You don’t have any choice but to comply, they won’t let you disagree…

  He walked to the cabinets that were in his kitchen. He pulled open the drawer—the middle one—and reached down inside, moving aside a pile of old papers that had no value to him at all, just a pile of papers that he had set there to conceal the drawer’s real purpose.

  —…you come with them or you all die.

  He reached, gently feeling for the tiny slot, only big enough for one fingertip; that was all it took. He found it only after a moment, and slipped his finger in, gently lifted it away and removed the drawer’s false bottom. The small wooden piece came away easily and he reached in with his other hand and pulled the small, black gun out of the bottom of the drawer.

  —You don’t have a choice. You can’t call the police, if they were to go investigate, they would be gone. Then they would come for you—come to collect.

  —How can…that’s not possible.

  —I think I’ve said too much.

  —No, they’ve gone too far, we have to stop them. Come with me.

  Fear in her eyes. Deep rooted fear, more than he had ever seen on a person’s face. Fear that was not founded on putting your personal safety in danger, but on putting the ones you love in danger.

  —I’m going to get you out of here. Tonight. You wait. If anyone dies here, it’ll be me.

  It was then that Bram had come ou
t, sipping a cold Mountain Dew, giving only a slight glance in their direction. He didn’t know what was going on between them, somehow he was oblivious—that had to be a work of God on their behalf.

  The grip of the Ruger LC9 was very tight. The 9mm didn’t hold very many rounds, but hopefully he wouldn’t need many. Best case, he wouldn’t need it at all, but it didn’t hurt to be a little careful.

  He would have to be very careful.

  The knife and bolt cutters stared back at him from the table. Each one waiting for him to come back to them, ready to be used, ready to assist him under cover of darkness.

  He looked at the note that she had written to him, in shaky, bold letters that spoke more of her desperation than the words did.

  Please save me.

  He saw the little girl—Amy—walking with the man up the driveway, about to be hauled off like any other piece of merchandise, brought to his house for whatever purpose that he had in mind. Taken away, like so many others, trafficked, sold—enslaved.

  They weren’t going to get away with it.

  The gun felt heavy in his hand, despite its small size. He slipped the slide on the semi-auto down and chambered a round. The familiar metallic snicker of the bullet sliding into place sounded a lot louder than it actually was. He stared down at it, building more resolve to do what he was going to do—a deed under cover of night, hiding among the shadows, moving swiftly among the dark, heavy shade.

  —I’m going to save you.

  VIII

  THE NIGHT swallowed all light around it. The streetlights tried to supply light to any who would dare venture the streets so late at night, but they tried in vain, and the