by Anthony Puyo
“Yup . . . He’s a tough one alright, saw the whole thing,” Norman recounts. He pauses for a moment. He looks at Charlie—puffing his top lip—presuming with his eyes.
Charlie noticing the look, tightens his face to the side. “What? If you got something to say, Norman, say it.” The two old friends begin to restart the conversation they were having leading up to the room.
“Well I’m not saying that’s not what you would’ve done for us, because I know you would have. But why risk yourself for a guy you just met? He almost got you killed. He’s a pacifist, Charlie.”
Charlie’s demeanor stiffens. “We got a code, you know that.” Norman begins to lean up against a metal file cabinet—listening. He gives little effort to understand. Charlie continues. “I know he’s not one of us. But he did help us get what we needed, and he helped in bringing it here . . . Plus he’s got family . . . Something me and you haven’t had for a long time. But when we did, we protected it.”
“That’s great he has family. I hope he sees them soon. But when are you gonna cut ties with him. Let him on his way to go find them?”
Charlie sighs bitterly. “Nothing has gone to plan so far. This whole fucking pandemic, disease or whatever, fucked up everything. Yeah we got all the money, but what are we going to do?”
Norman quickly interrupts. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to get to my place, stash the money under the kitchen floor, then we get underground somewhere.”
“Somewhere, huh? That’s a real solid plan.”
“The sewer maybe? It’s a good place, I doubt them Crazies would go down there.”
“What about food and water, did you think of that too, wise-guy?”
“We get some on the way. There’s plenty of unlooted stores.” Norman paces around, “Thanks to you and Chris—”
“Craig,” Charlie interjects.
“Yeah, okay, Craig. Anyway, we got more weapons and the ammo to survive now.”
“For how long, Norman? Guns, ammo . . . we aren’t the only ones who are armed. And for all we know, that money could stay all but useless.”
“It won’t be long before things are back to normal. We already saw them choppers. Government will get things back in order; when they do, we’ll cash in. It’ll be better than we planned,” Norman eyes light up, “Not to mention there’s less of us to take a share now.” It’s the best part of his whole idea.
Charlie sighs, “Don’t sound so sad about the loss of are men there, Norman.”
Norman shakes his hands in the air, “I didn’t mean it to come out like that, but if I was dead, I wouldn’t have no qualms about how you, or any of the survivors, spent my share.”
Charlie listens to Norman and debates in his own thoughts. He didn’t agree with everything Norman had to say, but they had gotten this far and many had died. It would be in vain if he quit now. In that respect, he let Norman entertain him with his proposal.
Intense, Norman continues, but with a whisper of a voice this time, “But we got to let this guy go. He’s dead weight. A liability. He could get us killed. Charlie, we can’t have a guy around that freezes up like that.”
Charlie battles his conscience. “What do you suppose we do? I already told him we were going to get him to his family?”
“Just tell him we can’t, he’ll understand. The situation doesn’t call for it.”
“And if he asks to go with us?”
“He won't. You said it yourself, he wants to get back to loved ones. So we’ll encourage him. And if for some outrageous reason that doesn’t work . . . we’ll force him out.”
Charlie begins to stare into nothingness, wrestling with Norman’s idea. It wasn’t easy for him. Charlie is a man who remembers his friends, and more importantly, he remembers his promises. Though Craig isn’t exactly a friend, he did help. And Charlie did tell him he would help in return. Even in a time like this, where promises should be easy to walk away from, Charlie doesn’t want to. It isn’t who he is—or who he wanted to become.
“So you’re asking me to let him leave here . . . alone? He wouldn’t last five minutes out there, not by himself, and you know that. He helped us, Norman. If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t have the chest here. I couldn’t have brought it alone. And you wouldn’t have been able to blow a hole in that vault without that C-4 that was in it.” Charlie sighs.
They both get quiet for a moment.
“Tell you what, Norman. He mentioned he was going to meet up with his family who are with a crew of armed people. He said there wasn’t more than five or six of them. We already lost four of our guys during this mess. Why don’t we escort the man, see what kind of people they are? If they’re alright, maybe we bring ‘em along with us? It might be a good idea. We can’t survive this—just us three.”
Norman begins to shake his head in disagreement. “Let’s finish this conversation in another room before your guy wakes up and has a cow.” The two men stroll out.
Craig waits a minute before rolling over to his back. He sits up. Feeling pain in his throat, he raises his hand to inspect. He feels the texture of small adhesive bandages, eight of them, four on each side of his throat where the crazy’s nails pierced.
At least they’re not contagious.
He gets to his feet with a slight stumble. He looks around for his Bye-Bye-Kitty bag that has his supplies along with the Kesburg’s 357 revolver. Seeing the bag on a desk, a few feet away, he gingerly steps over to it. The bag sits fully opened. Craig comes to the conclusion it’s been gone through. He sifts through it, taking out the Kesburg’s revolver. Looking it over, a thought enters his mind to holster it in his front waistband and walk out. Hoping the mere fear of it, like Jerry Kratz said, would allow for that to happen. It didn’t take him long to disperse that idea, determining it might bring forward unwanted escalation.
He zips up the bag, and his banged up body proceeds towards the exit. It’s dark towards the front-door of the bank. The only light comes from the full moon that cast its rays a few feet into the entrance. It makes sense not to have the lights on. Charlie and his friends aren’t looking to hold an open invitation to anyone.
Craig, ten feet from the exit, hears a raspy, low, calm voice. “Where do you think you runnin off to?”
Craig startled, scrutinizes over in the direction it came. The moonlight shines on a face he doesn’t recognize. Then again, he hadn’t met anyone in Charlie’s crew. It crosses Craig’s mind to run, but with his bumps and bruises, it would be nothing more than a pathetic attempt at a brisk walk. So he straightens, cautiously attentive, with nothing to say.
The black male sits on a desk, wearing a military attire. He has a camouflage vest. Sunglasses are tucked in the front pocket. The vest wears over an olive-green thermal long-sleeve shirt. This man is younger than the rest: somewhere in his late thirties. He supports a seven-inch afro which he clearly took good care of. Very cool and a little rugged in his appearance.
The male comes off relaxed; a toothpick dangles out his front gapped teeth. He gazes serenely out the window then back at Craig with the same look.
The guardsman? Craig thinks.
To counter the darkness outside, the man wields an AK-47 equipped with a night vision scope. The perfect weapon for the environment, very lethal and durable to boot.
“The names Dockery James, but most people call me Doc.”
Craig moves slowly, not because of his bruises, but because he’s not sure what kind of situation he’s in. He looks over at the man suspiciously, not knowing his own face shows nervousness. “The names Craig.”
Again there’s an awkward pause—for Craig only; it makes him uneasy. If it wasn’t for the fear, maybe It would have traveled his mind to say, with or without reason, he was leaving. It would have been good enough. There’s no reason the man wouldn’t have let him go. Perhaps Charlie’s secrecy and lies clouded his judgement.
Doc lays the gun on the desk and lights a cigarette. The radiance from the match expo
ses a scar; leading from the back of Doc’s hand all the way into the long-sleeve. After taking a large puff, he asks, “So, you gonna say?”
Craig, a bit lost, responds. “Excuse me?”
“Where you headed this time of night? It’s pretty tough out there, and you don’t look in the best of shape. And being that we’ve just met, means you must've barely woke.”
Doc sees Craig eyeing the pack of cigarettes. He offers by lifting them. Craig’s not a smoker, but he limps over gradually, glancing at the AK-47 more than once. He hopes his face doesn’t give away his thought of grabbing it.
“It got you pretty good, huh?” Doc says, inhaling. “Fucking government experiments. Always fucking with something. I guess they finally went too far.”
Craig’s close enough to grab the gun. Take it! He’s not expecting it . . . Now! Do it Now!
He couldn’t. His fear blocked him like a left tackle. Instead, he takes the cigarette and leans up, half sitting on the desk next to Doc.
Coward, he thinks.
He hasn’t built the nerve to do it. It’s hard for him to be forceful that way. What if he had to hurt him? He isn’t the type to premeditate harm on anyone. Killing the Kesburgs was done through reflex—survival instincts. It was also the only violence he was involved in personally.
“Is that what you think it is? A government thing?” Craig asks, before getting his cigarette lit.
Doc takes another puff of his cancer stick, flicking the filter with his thumb, dropping the ash to the floor. Craig looks down, viewing a decent amount of buds on a small ash pile. The way Doc smokes a cigarette, is smooth—with enjoyment. He’s a man of deep thought, and the size of the ash pile would prove, he’s been doing a lot of that lately.
“Looks that way to me. Some type of mind manipulation,” Doc replies.
Craig about to talk, gets interrupted by a cough. Rookie. He clears his throat noticing a smile coming from Doc. The gig is up; he’s made me out.
“How can half the world be mind manipulated at the same time? . . . It seems a bit farfetched, don’t you think?”
“What else could it be? The footprints lead back to them. They’ve been studying, working, experimenting on this sort of thing for a long time. Ever hear of MK Ultra?”
Craig nods “No.”
“It was CIA project to try and do just that. Mind control, my friend. They used various methods—hypnosis, LSD and God only knows what else. Started in the early fifties and went on into the seventies. At Least that’s what was documented. But knowing our government, the research probably went on well after that. Maybe till it exploded in everyone's face a few days ago.” Doc flicks his cigarette, “And If it’s not the government, then it’s the devil, but to me, it don’t make a difference, they’re one in the same.”
Here’s my chance. He’s deep in his opinions.
Doc, done with his cigarette, reaches for his gun, unsuspecting of what Craig has planned. Craig sees Doc’s hand moving casually for the weapon. With a quick go, Craig beats Doc to it.
With the gun in his hands Craig moves away quickly.
Doc’s confounded at first, then his face turns angry. “What the fuck, man?!”
Craig’s erratic, he points the AK at Doc. For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t being passive, but he isn’t going to be an ass about it either. So he apologizes. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I just want to leave and find my family. I don’t care what you guys are up to here. It’s none of my business, I just need to leave.”
Craig shakes noticeably. Doc has his hands up. Seeing Craig’s fright, he begins to slowly make for his sidearm. It’s holstered to his thigh.
Craig’s left eye begins to twitch, he knows what’s about to take place if he doesn’t react. One of them will surely die.
Craig pleads. “Please don’t do that. I don’t want to kill you . . . You know I don’t, but I will if you try and harm me. So please . . . stop—drop your weapon and let me leave.”
Doc’s stops reaching.
Charlie’s voice yells out, “Craig. What are you doing, man?” Him and Norman stand by the hallway entrance, surprised at what they’ve walked in on.
Norman pulls his handgun, aiming it at Craig with both hands. “I’m a take a shot,” he tells Charlie.
Charlie puts Normans arms down. “No you’re not,” he then quickly yells out to Craig, “Craig, put the gun down, friend?”
Craig nervously points the rifle towards Charlie and Norman.
An opportunity. Doc reaches for his sidearm.
Craig points the gun back at him.
The state of affairs has gotten grim, and something is going to give. Craig’s face—sweaty—his palms too.
I love you Melissa. Take care of my boy. I’m sorry I failed you.
Charlie yells out, “Noo!”
Norman, in a swift reaction, pulls his gun back up and takes a shot at Craig.
Craig’s eyes shut from the blasting sound. The front window shatters from the shot.
The bullet hit five feet to the left of him. Charlie saved his life, pushing Norman’s arms; making him miss.
“Don’t shoot, Craig! . . . Doc, leave him alone!” Charlie moves forward, palms up and out, trying his best to defuse the hostile situation.
Craig stunned, drops the gun on the floor. With adrenaline pumping, the hobbled man heads out the door. Doc and Norman confused, look to Charlie. Charlie stares back with disappointment, shaking his head. He then runs out after Craig.
As Charlie passes, Norman shouts, “Let him go!” He couldn’t understand what was becoming of his old comrade. Seeing what he said had no effect on Charlie, he shrugs his shoulders to Doc. “Damn fool. I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.”
It’s gotten darker out with the forming clouds, but the moon fought hard in keeping it from being pitch—but soon the rain would come.
If it isn’t for Craig’s steps and hard breaths, nothing else would be heard; the city streets are eerily quiet around here.
Craig, with a head start on Charlie, comes up on an alley. He ducks into it right passed a city trash can. Out of Breath, he sits on his bottom leaned up to the brick-wall of a building. He made sure to stay close to the dumpster, using it for cover. He begins to hear Charlie’s running footsteps come to a stop at the alley entrance.
Charlie peered in all directions, not seeing any sign of Craig.
Dammit, Craig. You won’t make it out here alone. “Shit,” he says, under his breath. He searches around a little more, opting not to yell as it would only cause trouble for both of them. It's a moot point to go searching any further. Filled with disappointment, he turns and heads back to bank.
13
Matthew 16:26 - The Resolution
Charlie storms back into the bank. He walks past Doc and Norman who sit across from each other on two of the lobby couches. He goes behind the cashier counter where the weapons chest is kept. A small lamp on the floor gives light to what he’s doing. He grabs some bullets, an automatic rifle, and a pistol.
Norman and Doc come up behind him.
Norman, apologetic in tone, “Hey, Charlie, I know you’re upset, but you should think about what you’re doing.”
“I did plenty of thinking today, Norman,” Charlie replies. He gets up from kneeling down and walks over to his coat lying on the nearby counter. “You see, Norman, I realized something through this whole ordeal. That money that’s over there. That useless pile of paper. You can have it all . . . You and Doc, it’s all yours. Go ahead, split up amongst yourselves. Me? . . . I’m done. I’m not risking myself or my integrity for that shit no more.”
Norman rolls his eyes. To him, Charlie’s logic is nonsense.
“Your fucking losing it, man,” he argues. “I can’t believe you’re going to throw away everything we worked for. A plan two years in the making. What would Jim say, huh? What would Jay, Crimson, and Ramirez say? You’re letting the whole unit down, and for what, or who I should ask, some fucking pussy faggo
t. Where’s your honor? You’re a fucking green-beret, man. Act like it.”
Charlie Walks up to the much taller Norman. He angrily stares him straight in the eye. He raises his index finger—steaming with passion. Norman leans back, expecting a swing.
“You know . . . Fuck you, Norman. There’s no honor in what we did here. We’re just a group of bank robbers . . . thieves. Where’s the honor in that? That man—Craig. He has honor. He helped us . . . thinking he was doing some good; trusting me—trusting you.”
“Bullshit, man. He only aided us because you told him you would help him. Don’t make him out to be some goddamn saint. Stop feeding yourself that crap. Get your head out of your ass, and let’s go about our plan of stashing this money and waiting for this fucking thing to pass.”
There’s no reason to keep this up, he doesn’t get it. “No, Norman, I’m finished here. I don’t want any part of that blood money.” Charlie gazes over at Doc. “Take care, Doc. It was a pleasure serving with you . . . always. Hope we see each other again sometime.” He sticks his hand out to be shook.
Doc replies, “I can’t do that, Boss. You really going?”
“Yeah, there’s nothing for me here. I’m going to try and find Craig. Come through on my promise. Hopefully, meet some good people on the way.”
Doc looks at Norman. “Looks like you don’t have anyone to split that coin with. The money’s all yours.”
“Oh give me a break, not you too?” Norman pleads.
Doc tilts his head slightly with his face tightened to the left.
Norman grabs a stapler and flings it in disgust. “Goddammit you two! The hell with you both. You stupid sons of bitches, you’re going to regret it. You’ll see. While your dumb asses go find your graves, I’ll be sitting pretty with all that money!”
Charlie about to walk towards the exit, has one more thing to say. “I’m glad you got what you wanted. Good luck, brother.” He then raises his arm, saluting, showing his skull and crossed guns tattoo.