Terminal

by Brian Keene

  “It's going to be okay,” I told him.

  “I know. I'm not scared too much anymore.”

  “Well, that's good.”

  As we talked, I noticed my eardrum vibrating. I had to strain just to hear him and each time I spoke, it vibrated some more.

  “What's your name, mister?”

  “My name?”

  I paused, readjusting John's weight. Blood flowed from the wound, leaving a trail behind us.

  “My name is Tommy. Come on, we have to hurry up and lay my friend down again.”

  “How did you know my name was Benjy, Mr. Tommy?”

  “I heard your mother call you that.”

  “Oh.” He considered this and looked back up at me.

  “Mr. Tommy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I can help your friend. I'm going to be a doctor when I grow up. I'm going to fix people so they're better.”

  “All right,” I humored him, “let's go back here with the others, then we'll help him.”

  “You're sick too, Mr. Tommy. You know that, right?”

  I almost dropped John. It felt like Kelvin had shot me in the stomach too.

  “W-what did you say?”

  “You're sick too. Not your ear. That will go away in a little bit. But you've got bad things growing inside you, like spiderwebs. Black things. It's okay, Mr. Tommy. I'll make you feel better.”

  He lowered his voice.

  “Your other friend is sick too, but it's different. He has the darkness inside his head, and it's getting ready to bubble out. It's going to be soon. The monster people are whispering.”

  Having forced the others into the vault at gunpoint, Sherm poked his head back into the lobby, gave me a warning glance, and began reloading his .357, pulling the bullets from his pocket.

  “Where did you get those?”

  His voice sounded like the buzz of a bee.

  “At the sporting goods store. Why?”

  “I thought when we bought the guns from Wallace that we said we only needed six in the chamber. That we didn't need more bullets. You said there wasn't going to be any shooting, Sherm.”

  He walked toward me.

  “Figured it wouldn't hurt to be prepared.” He cocked a thumb at Kelvin's body. “And aren't you glad that I did?”

  He bent down over the body of his first victim, the guy in the leather jacket who had pulled a pistol. His head was still dribbling blood. Sherm picked up the man's weapon, checked the chamber, and pocketed it with a smile.

  “Thirty-eight special. Loaded too. Not bad. Might come in handy before this shit is over.”

  My ear seemed to be clearing up a bit, just as Benjy had promised. The sounds were rushing back, and I could hear the commotion outside again.

  Sherm began rummaging through the dead man's pockets. He found a silver cigarette lighter and kept that too. Then he rolled the body over and pulled a wallet from the corpse's back pocket. He flipped it open and looked at the driver's license. A second later, he snorted with laughter.

  “What?” My headache had apparently decided to come back with my hearing. Outside, the cops were starting to move closer again.

  “It says here that the guy's name was Mac Davis.”

  “You mean like that singer back in the seventies?”

  “Yeah. Too frigging cool, dog—I shot Mac Davis!”

  He said it casually, but there was a hint of something else beneath the words. Sherm was starting to lose it. Hell, I don't know. Looking back on it now, I think maybe he'd lost it long before we ever walked into that bank. Sherm may have been my friend, but I never trusted him one hundred percent. Neither had John. Our conversation from the night we drove to York looking for guns echoed in my mind.

  “Sometimes Sherm scares me,” John had whispered. “Sometimes I think he's crazy.”

  “Me too,” I'd replied.

  “Me too.”

  Sherm looked up. “You say something?”

  “Nothing. Yo, we got to get moving, Sherm. The cops are creeping up again. Give me a hand with John, okay? He feels like a sack of potatoes.”

  “What's that on the floor, mister?” Benjy asked Sherm, pointing at his feet. Something bright and shiny had fallen from Mac Davis's jacket.

  A badge.

  “Oh fuck me running.”

  Sherm closed his eyes, removed his ski mask, and ran a hand through his greasy hair. The guy in the leather jacket, a.k.a. Mr. Mac Davis, recently deceased, hadn't been a singer like his namesake. He'd been a police officer. I would find out later that he'd been off duty, coming home from the night shift.

  “Sherm,” I choked, “you shot a fucking cop . . .”

  Then I threw up all over my shoes.

  We left Kelvin and Mac Davis lying where they were, and finished cramming the hostages into the vault. The group was obedient and followed our orders—sitting on the floor quietly with their backs against the steel walls. Benjy returned to his mother, and when I caught her eye, I tried to give her a reassuring smile. She glared back at me and looked away. The old woman caressed her cross, stroking it lovingly, and muttered an occasional “Oh my” and the fat guy in the Hellboy shirt was panting like a dog. Both of the tellers sniffled, their tears slowly drying up as the reality of the situation hit them and shock set in. The bearded guy in the chambray shirt continued to soothe the older teller, assuring her that it would all be okay. He looked at her the way I looked at Michelle sometimes, and it was so easy to see—written all over his face. I wondered just how long he'd been using this bank. How long had he been in love with her? Did she even know about it?

  Sherm rummaged through his backpack and pulled out a roll of duct tape. He grinned, and the sweat on his forehead glistened beneath his dirty hair.

  “Okay,” he announced. “Here's what we're gonna do. We don't want to kill any more of you—”

  “Why stop now?” Keith sneered. “You're on a roll. Do you get points for each one you kill or something?”

  Sherm slapped him hard across one cheek, then the other. Then he clutched Keith's left earlobe between his index finger and thumb and gave it a savage, jerking twist. Keith howled in pain, glaring back at him with hatred burning in his eyes.

  “Say one more word, asshole. I fucking dare you.”

  Keith opened his mouth, glanced at the frightened looks of his employees and customers, who shook their heads in silence to urge him to keep quiet, and shut it again.

  “Now,” Sherm continued, “as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted. I'm gonna duct tape your hands behind your backs. If you all promise to behave, I won't tape your feet or your mouths shut—well, except for you, Keith. While I am doing this, my associate, Tommy, is going to make sure that none of you move. If you do, he is going to shoot you in the fucking face. Fair enough?”

  He directed the question to them but looked at me as he asked it. I nodded in understanding along with the rest of them.

  “Good.”

  I wondered why he had brought a roll of duct tape along with him when the plan had originally been to get away, but I didn't ask.

  “Mommy,” Benjy whispered, “I have to go pee.”

  “Do it in your pants,” Sherm said, jerking his thumb toward the comic book fan. “It was good enough for fat boy over there.”

  He knelt by the old woman. Trembling, she opened her mouth to speak.

  “Oh . . .”

  “What's your name?” Sherm asked her.

  “Martha.”

  “Martha, so help me God, if you say ‘Oh my' one more time, I'm going to cut your head off and stump fuck your neck. Do you know what a stump fuck is?”

  “N-n-no . . .”

  “A stump fuck is when I insert my penis into the orifice provided by the wound and I fuck it.”

  He thrust his hips back and forth.

  “O—”

  “Don't say it. Don't you dare fucking say it.”

  Her mouth hung open, but no sound came out.

  “Too bad.
I could have used a good nut.”

  Despite his threats, Sherm allowed Martha to keep her hands in her lap. I guess he figured she wasn't a threat. He taped her wrists together, and moved on to the elderly bald man.

  “Give me your cane. You ain't going to be needing it anytime soon. We're not going anywhere.”

  The old man did as he was told. Sherm slid it across the floor toward me and wrapped his hands together too.

  “You boys are in a lot of trouble,” the old man observed.

  “No shit?” Sherm scoffed. “Thanks for letting us know, Pops. I hadn't figured that out yet. Anything else you want to let us in on?”

  “Why make it worse by taking hostages? Why not just let us go?”

  “I'm sorry, your name is?”

  “Roy. Roy Kirby.”

  “Well, Roy, the reason I'm not letting you go is so if the cops bust in here with tear gas and pepper grenades and laser sights and body armor and all that shit, I can use you as a human shield. I figure that's why you survived your heart attack—for me to use as cannon fodder. Sound good?”

  “Then keep me,” Roy offered, “and let the others go. At least let the boy have a chance.”

  “Sorry. No.”

  “But he's just a little boy.”

  “And you're just an old man. But both of you will make excellent cannon fodder. You know what I'm saying?”

  “I'll pray for you,” Roy said.

  “You do that, Pops. But I think Martha over there has that covered already.”

  He kicked the cane closer to me, pushed Roy back against the wall, and moved on to the next hostage—the comic book geek, whose real name turned out to be Oscar. After Oscar came Dugan, the bearded guy with the crush on the older teller.

  “Dugan? That your first name or your last?”

  He eyed Sherm like he was a squashed bug. “None of your business.”

  While Sherm taped Dugan's wrists, I checked John's pulse. It took me a moment to find it, but it was there—weak and slow—but still there. He moaned, beginning to regain consciousness. I could only imagine the agony he'd be in when he woke up. My own pain was coming back as well, now that the adrenaline rush had left my body. My head hurt so bad that my vision blurred. I tried not to let on and stood back up, using my foot to keep the pressure on his makeshift tourniquet.

  “How is he?” Sherm asked.

  “Not good. Not good at all. He's going to die, Sherm. You know that, right? Kelvin shot him in the stomach. He's going to fucking die.”

  “Nothing we can do about that now, Tommy.”

  “He's our friend, man. Of course we can do something about it. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Benjy stirred in excitement.

  “I can help him, Mr. Tommy. I really can.”

  “Sit down, kid,” Sherm warned him, finishing up with Dugan's hands.

  “Benjy!” His mother looked anxious again.

  “It's okay,” I told her, and turned to Benjy. “Sit down for me, buddy. Okay?”

  Pouting, he let out a frustrated sigh but did as he was told. I thought of T. J., doing the exact same thing when Michelle told him to turn off Justice League Adventures and get ready for church.

  “What's your name?” I asked his mother.

  “Sheila.”

  “Okay. Just try to keep him still, all right?”

  She nodded.

  “That man is going to go see Jesus soon if we don't help him. Or maybe the monster people. Tell them, Mommy. Make them believe me.”

  She pulled him close and whispered something in his ear. Benjy leaned back against the wall and folded his arms, clearly unhappy with this turn of events.

  Meanwhile, Sherm had moved on to the older teller, Sharon. She grimaced in pain as he pressed her wrists together.

  “Does that hurt?” he grinned.

  She nodded, and Sherm pressed down harder, leering.

  “Leave her alone,” Dugan growled, “or so help me I'll—”

  Sherm wheeled on him, shoving the barrel of the .357 under his nose. Dugan didn't even flinch. He had some big brass balls, I'll give him that.

  “You'll what? Kick my ass? Kill me? Motherfucker, you are in no position to threaten me. I'm in charge. What part of that don't you understand?”

  “I don't care what you do to me, but if you hurt Sharon, I'll come back from the grave just to watch you fry.”

  The light went on in Sherm's eyes. He stood up, grinned at me, and looked back down at them.

  “Ohhhhh, I get it. I see now. You're slipping her the old salami. Goddamn, why didn't you just say so, Dugan? It's cool, man. You're popping the old Viagra and Sharon here is your piece of ass, and you don't want anybody else sticking their dick in her. Shit, I can respect that. Here's to you, player.”

  Dugan sputtered, his face turning scarlet.

  “You foul-mouthed little white trash punk. Take this damn tape off of my hands and we'll see how tough you are.”

  Sherm's grin vanished, his voice growing serious again.

  “Relax. She's all yours, Dugan. And Tommy there can have Sheila. Old women and milfs don't do it for me.”

  “What's a milf?” Roy whispered.

  “Mom I'd Like To Fuck,” Oscar mouthed back.

  Roy closed his eyes and shook his head.

  Sherm ignored them and turned his attention to the young, blond teller.

  “Now you on the other hand . . .” He ripped off another piece of duct tape and crouched down beside her. “What's your name, girl?”

  “K-k-kim.”

  “Kim.” He rolled it around on his tongue. “That's a pretty name. Yo, Kim, check this shit out. I'm gonna be a rich man, soon as I get out of here. Maybe you can come with me. We'll go live in the Bahamas and shit, run around naked all day and get high.”

  He leaned forward to kiss her and she shut her eyes, cringing against the wall. Sherm finished binding her hands, then grabbed her face with one hand and drew her toward him.

  “C'mon, baby, what do you say? Dude like me and a fine girl like you? You don't have to be a star to be in my show. Give me those seven digits so I can give you a call when this is over.”

  “F-fuck off, you piece of shit.” The curses sounded strange coming out of her mouth, as if she wasn't used to saying them.

  Sherm's eyes grew wide, but his response was cut off as Keith burst into laughter. Tears streamed down the manager's face, leaking from his swollen eye. His busted lip pulled back in a sneer as he chuckled.

  “Good for you, Kim.”

  Sherm finished with Kim and stood up, turning his full attention to Keith.

  “I saved the best for last.”

  Sherm stepped toward him and Keith stopped laughing. Suddenly, he looked very small and very afraid.

  “Tommy, make sure they stay quiet. Keith and I are gonna go have a nice, private talk.”

  “But what about the cops?”

  “Five-oh won't be bothering us for a while. They're still trying to figure out what the fuck is going on.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “These cops weren't responding to the robbery. I'm sure of that. When a silent alarm gets triggered, the police dispatcher puts it out to the cars immediately. They get this strong-ass warning tone on their radios—they can hear it even if their radio is turned down. It's kind of like the Emergency Broadcast System. In a town like Hanover, they're required to have a minimum of two units respond. One unit takes the rear and the other takes the front, so each cop is diagonal from the other. But here's the thing, dog. When they do this, there are no lights and no sirens. Five-oh doesn't want to alert the bank robber that they're on the way.”

  “But we heard sirens.”

  “Damn straight we did. We heard a shitload of sirens, which tells me they were responding to the shots fired in the back alley, when Kelvin shot John, then followed him around to the front. If they'd known it was a bank robbery they were rolling up on, they'd have done this whole thing differently. They were looking
for Kelvin. They found us instead.”

  “You're pretty smart for a white trash hood,” Keith observed. Sherm ignored the comment, but I saw him flinch. Worse, he was starting to twitch again, and that was never a good sign when you were dealing with Sherm. When Sherm began to twitch, bad things happened.

  “So what about us?” I asked. “What's next?”

  My mind raced. All I could think of was Michelle and T. J. She was at work, ringing up cigarettes and lottery tickets and maybe thinking of me too. He'd be at day care, maybe having a snack or drawing a picture of the three of us as stick figures.

  “Well, you bought us some time, shooting out the door like that and talking smack to the cops. You surprised me, dog. That was some smart thinking, man. They don't know what the fuck is going on now, except that they've got an unknown number of hostages and gunmen up in here. They'll pull back, set up shop, and let their dispatcher know what's going on. Pretty soon, dispatch will call here for the bank contact and have them walk outside with a predesignated signal that everything is cool and it was a false alarm, or that the bad guys are gone.”

  He turned to Keith.

  “Who's the bank contact?”

  “I am.”

  “There ya go.” Sherm grinned at me. “Easy enough to find that out, right?”

  “So we're sending him out when they call?” I asked.

  “Oh hell no. Even if he gave them the all clear, there's no way we could get out of here now. They'd have to come in and double-check. So when Keith here doesn't respond, they'll hunker down outside, try to contain us. They've probably already got us surrounded, so stay the fuck away from the windows. Hanover doesn't have a SWAT unit, so they'll call for York County's Quick Response Team. Those guys will take at least an hour to respond—maybe more. They'll want to bring their armored vehicles and their helicopter and shit. Make sure the taxpayers know that their money is being used.

  “Meanwhile, they'll have every available officer here, except for one poor schmuck who'll be responding to other calls—and I'm betting that even he will creep close to the scene. It's the day shift, so we're probably talking five to seven cars, four detectives, a platoon supervisor, probably a captain, and definitely the chief. He'll want to have his picture on the front page of The Evening Sun tonight. Sooner or later, a police negotiator will try to contact us. When Quick Response shows up, they'll have a second negotiator trying to deal with us too, if needed. I'll handle all of that. They might try to break windows or shoot in tear gas and pepper spray grenades, or maybe send in that little surveillance robot, but that should be hours from now.”