by Brian Keene
“Fuck! What the hell do we do if they fire tear gas?”
“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. If we need to, we'll seal the vault with us inside. I don't think the gas can get in here. Until then, we chill. We've got plenty of time to figure shit out.”
“So we just sit tight? That's your plan?”
“For now, yeah.”
“But—”
“Once we get the negotiator to play ball with us, we'll get a ride out of here, a car or maybe a Humvee or something. Take a few of the hostages with us as insurance and let the others go as a good faith gesture.”
“And they'll give us that?”
He nodded.
“I don't know, Sherm. Why not just make a break for it now? We could go out the back.”
“That's no good, yo. They've got us surrounded already. Even if we could make it to John's car, they'd bum rush it as soon as we were inside. You're just gonna have to trust me on this, Tommy.”
He turned to Keith.
“Your office is across the hall, right?”
“Yes. But there's no money in there.”
“I don't give a fuck about the money anymore. What I do give a fuck about is if your office has windows. Are there any windows in it? Don't lie to me, Keith, because if we get in there and I see a cop peering through the glass at me, I'm gonna cap him, then I'm gonna rape your ass with the barrel of this pistol and cap you too.”
“No,” Keith swallowed, “there aren't any windows.”
“Good. Okay, this is how it's gonna be. Keith and I are going to have a chat and wait for the cops' phone call. You stay here with them, Tommy. And keep that fucking kid under control.”
“What about John, Sherm? What do we do about him?”
He didn't answer. I don't know if he didn't hear or if he was just ignoring me. Instead, he yanked Keith up by his hair and shoved him out the vault door. Then he turned back to me.
“Keep your shit together, Tommy. We'll get out of here and get John some help and you'll see Michelle and T. J. again.”
“That's easy for you to say.”
He flashed that grin of his.
“Trust me.”
After Sherm left, my headache swelled, exploding in the space between my eyes. I sat back down, keeping the pressure on John's wound, and felt like dying with him. You know how in books and movies they sometimes describe pain as being blinding? I'd never really thought it was possible until that moment. For a second, I really was blind. Frustrated, I knocked my head against the steel wall, and that made it worse. I felt completely and utterly helpless. But it was more than just the pain. I tried to breathe and found that I couldn't. Something welled up inside of me—a sense of sorrow and grief and guilt unlike anything I'd ever felt before. It was like I'd swallowed a balloon, and it was inflating inside my chest. At the same time, my lips began to swell, as if someone had cracked me in the mouth with a baseball bat. I could feel my heartbeat pulsing in them as they grew. That was when the tears started; hot, self-pitying tears that didn't stop.
“Oh my,” Martha breathed.
“Wow . . .” Oscar whispered.
“Ummm, are you okay?” Kim asked.
I tried to respond but all I could manage was a long, grieving whine. John's blood coated my arms and hands. It had been warm at first but now it was cold. Cold and sticky. He was dying. I was dying. Mac Davis and Kelvin were dead. Before this was over, there was no telling who else would join them.
“We are so fucked.” I leaned my forehead against John's and sobbed. I felt like I was going to burst.
“You could give yourself up,” Roy commiserated. “Don't you understand, son? There's still time to save your friend, still time to get him to the hospital. Nobody else has to get hurt. The way I see it, you didn't do any of the shooting. It was your friend, Sherm, that killed those two men.”
“That's right,” Dugan agreed, sitting up straight. “We can all vouch for that. We could sneak out now, while he's busy with the manager. Then you surrender and we'll tell the police that you helped us escape.”
I shook my head and wiped my nose on the sleeve of my sweatshirt, willing the tears to stop, the pain to go away. The mucus on my sleeve was pink, and I wasn't sure if it was John's blood or my own.
“No. That won't work, man. It's too late. John's dying and I may as well be dead and it's my fault. All this shit is my fault. My wife and my kid . . . I deserve whatever happens next. Everything's fucked.”
Roy tried again. “I'm sure that your wife and child would want you to do the right thing. You want to see them again, don't you? They'll want to see you alive, right?”
“It doesn't matter, Mr. Kirby. I'm already dead.”
“What do you mean you're already dead? Surely, your sentence wouldn't amount to the death penalty. Your friend perhaps, but not yourself. You're just an accomplice, and if you help us, it could only go in your favor.”
“That's not what I'm talking about. I'm dead already—was dead before we walked in this fucking bank.”
The bloody ski mask felt like a heavy sponge. Laying John's head on the floor, I ignored Roy's question and placed John's lifeless arm over the tourniquet. I didn't like leaving him, but I had no choice. I taped up Sheila and Benjy as quickly as I could, trying to be as gentle as possible. I felt bad about doing it, but I knew Sherm would do worse if he came back and found their hands free. Then I ripped the duct tape from Oscar's wrists. He cringed, scooting back in fear.
“P-please don't kill me . . .”
“Give me your shirt.”
“What—why?”
“Because that ski mask is worthless and I need something to stop my friend's bleeding, and because Hellboy is for pussies. The Punisher is the real shit.”
“I-I don't think I should—”
“Oscar.” I sighed. “I'm having a really bad day. You have no idea what it's been like. So don't make things worse, okay? Just give me the fucking shirt and quit arguing with me.”
“Do what he says, son,” Roy advised Oscar. “He's the man in charge.”
“But I—I don't want them to see me.” He eyed Kim and Sheila. “I'm fat. They'll laugh . . .”
“Now's definitely not the time to get embarrassed,” Dugan told him. “Suck it up.”
Mortified, Oscar slowly stripped the shirt off and handed it to me. His hands were shaking, and so was his belly. It looked like a big bowl of gelatin. Clearly uncomfortable, he tried to cross his arms over his breasts. At the very least, the dude was sporting a pair of C cups.
“Sorry, Oscar, none of that. Give me your wrists again.”
For an overweight comic book geek, he moved pretty fast.
Oscar's foot lashed out, catching me in my shin. He paused, his face registering shock and surprise in the fact that he'd actually succeeded, and then he swung at me with one meaty fist. I caught it, twisted his arm behind his back, and yanked—hard. Something grated inside, near his shoulder, and Oscar howled.
“Shut up. Shut up you fat piece of shit or I'll give you something to scream about! Do you understand me, motherfucker? Do you?”
Blubbering, he let his arms go limp. I tied him up with the duct tape again, and I wasn't gentle about it either. Then I pressed the shirt against John's bullet wound. He and Oscar moaned in unison. As I finished, Sherm burst through the door, his gun drawn and ready.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Nothing, man. Fat boy just decided that he wanted to play hero is all. I dealt with it. Where's the manager?”
Ignoring my question, Sherm started toward Oscar, a storm brewing in his eyes. Suddenly, every phone in the bank began to ring at the same time. I think that all of us jumped.
“That's the cops. About fucking time too. I'll handle them. Stay here and keep them quiet. Shoot the fat boy if he acts up again.”
He ran back out of the room. The phones rang three more times and stopped. The vault was silent once more. For a moment, I wondered where Keith had been when S
herm ran back into the vault. Wouldn't he have had a chance to escape? Maybe Sherm had bound his feet with duct tape as well.
“You guys could have helped me,” Oscar accused the rest of the hostages. “We could have rushed him. It could have all been over by now.”
They didn't respond. Oscar leaned back against the wall, wincing as his shoulder pressed against it. Tears of shame and rage ran down his face. The rest of them looked away, studying the ceiling, the floor, the cash and valuables drawers, and the safety-deposit boxes—anything but him. Everybody except for Benjy and Sheila. Benjy was staring at John, and Sheila was watching me.
“Your friend, the one that's an asshole, his name is Sherm?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“He mentioned Michelle and—?”
“T. J.”
“Right, T. J. Are they your wife and son?”
I nodded and turned my attention back to Oscar. “You smell like piss, man.”
“Leave me alone. Haven't you done enough?”
I suddenly found myself almost apologizing to him, but I didn't.
“I—I don't mean any offense,” Sheila continued, “but did you ever stop to think about how this would affect Michelle and T. J. before you did it? Don't you care about what's going to happen to them if you go to jail? I can see how much you love them. You were crying earlier . . .”
“Yeah, of course I thought about how it would affect them. I was doing this for them.”
“What—the money?”
“Yeah, the money. What else? You don't rob banks for blank deposit slips.”
“But you must have known that the consequences wouldn't be worth it. No amount of money is worth that.”
I snorted. “Worth it? Consequences? You think I don't know? Is it worth it to see my wife and son wearing decent clothes and not shit we got from the Goodwill? Is it worth it to not eat government cheese and generic corn, and to be able to buy my son a toy once in a while? Is it worth it to have heat and electric in the same month, and not have to decide between the two? To have health insurance, and not have to swallow a bottle of aspirin every time you get a toothache? To finally have some money, other than the minimum wage bullshit I earn? Yeah, I thought it was worth it. Don't fucking tell me about consequences. You don't know consequences, Sheila.”
She clenched her bound fists and her voice rose in anger.
“I don't know? Try being a single mom on welfare sometime. Don't talk to me about government cheese. I ate it growing up and I swore that my children never would—and now Benjy's eating it too. How do you think that makes me feel? You have no idea. And at least your son has a father. At least you've got a job. I can't get anything, not even fast food. Who wants to hire a single welfare mom who can't find a babysitter?”
“Can everybody please quit fighting?” Benjy pleaded, and we both stopped.
Sheila glowered at me, and the others were silent. Across the hall, I heard Sherm talking on the phone to the police.
“No, I ain't giving you my fucking name. If you gotta call me something, then call me Slim Shady—the real Slim Shady.”
Despite the fact that he was possibly unraveling, this struck me as the funniest thing I'd heard in a while, and I started to snicker. It was just so bizarre. Two people were dead, John was dying, hostages had been taken, we were facing jail time or worse—and Sherm was making Eminem jokes. Sheila smiled too and after a moment, so did Kim and even Oscar. The others didn't get the joke.
“I'm sorry,” Sheila apologized. “It's none of my business. You just seem like a nice guy. Too nice to be involved in something like this.”
“You know what they say about first appearances,” Dugan said under his breath. I ignored him.
“I'm sorry too.” I smiled at them all and turned back to Sheila. “So what happened to his father? He bail out on you or something?”
“I'd really rather not talk about this, if you don't mind.”
“Oh come on,” I prodded. “What else are we gonna do to pass the time? Tell me.”
She didn't say anything at first, and I figured that I must have hit a nerve. Maybe the guy bailed on them before Benjy was born, or maybe he was abusive or Benjy had come from a drunken one-night stand. I started to tell her that I shouldn't have asked, that it was none of my business and we should just drop the whole subject, and then she told me.
“This is hard to talk about. He—I don't know who Benjy's father is. I . . . I slept around a lot when I was younger.” She held her head up and looked me in the eye, challenging me to say something. Her lower lip trembled.
“You were with more than one guy around the time he was conceived?” Sharon asked. The whole group was focused on Sheila now, hanging on her every word.
“Yeah. Like five or six. I don't remember for sure. I was young, and it seemed like the only way I could get attention was through sex.”
“Harlot,” Martha spat, but at least she had moved beyond the traditional “Oh my.” She clutched her crucifix necklace with her liver-spotted hands, and the look on her face was pure disgust.
“I think it's pretty cool,” Oscar said, his embarrassment at being bare-chested in front of the women and getting his ass kicked forgotten. “It's like empowerment, you know? Using sex as a form of empowerment.”
Dugan and Kim rolled their eyes at the same time.
“It wasn't anything like that,” Sheila said. “It wasn't empowerment. It was fucking pathetic. I was a slut.”
“You shouldn't put yourself down like that,” Oscar admonished her.
“Look,” Sheila frowned. “Thanks for the compliment, but I'm not going to be sleeping with you while we're hostages in this goddamned bank vault, so you can stop the bullshit.”
“You should be ashamed,” Martha crowed. “You admit to promiscuity. You are blaspheming against the Holy Spirit—taking Our Lord's name in vain. That is the ultimate sin, and one that cannot be forgiven, no matter how much you might beg. You will regret this before the day's end.”
“Wait a minute.” Ignoring Martha, I held up my free hand, keeping pressure on John's wound with the other. “So what happened after you got knocked up? You couldn't figure out which guy it was?”
“No. By the time I figured out I was pregnant, it was too late. It was near the beginning of my senior year. I missed two periods in a row, and started getting sick in the morning. I was throwing up all the time and didn't know what was wrong with me. I finally went to the doctor and he told me that I was pregnant. I couldn't believe it, but it was true. My main boyfriend got so pissed off. He called me a whore and dumped me, then my parents kicked me out. There was no way I could afford a paternity test, and back then, the laws in Pennsylvania were different, so I couldn't get an abortion. I ended up dropping out of school. Actually, that's why I was depositing money in my savings account this morning when you guys came in. I've been saving enough to take some classes and get my GED It's hard, because I can only put a little away at a time, but I can't find a job without one.”
Benjy seemed oblivious as we talked. He fidgeted, uncomfortable with having his arms tied behind him, and kept watching John.
I don't think any of us knew how to respond to Sheila's story. It was just so unbelievable that she would open up and admit something like that to a bunch of strangers, especially given our situation. But she told it with such openness and sincerity. We all just sat there, silently mulling it over. I noticed that none of us would look directly at her or Benjy. Finally, Roy cleared his throat.
“Your son is special, isn't he, Sheila?”
“Well yeah, he's special. He's everything to me. Benjy is all I've got.”
Roy smiled, nodding his head.
“I'm sure he is, and it's easy to see that he's a wonderful boy. But that's not quite what I meant. Benjy can—do things, can't he? Special things, perhaps?”
Sheila turned away from his questioning stare. A small vein in her throat fluttered and I could tell that she was scared. Not scared of being a h
ostage. This was something more. Something primal.
“What are you getting at, Mr. Kirby?” Sharon asked.
“Before Tommy's friend here was shot”—he cocked his head toward John—“I was dying. Plain and simple fact, my friends—I was dying. I lied to Tommy and Sherm, and said that it was just angina to protect the boy, but the truth is that I was having a massive heart attack. It would have been my third, so trust me when I tell you that I'm a bit of an expert on the subject. It feels like nothing else. Heart bypass surgery is no picnic. My wife Nora, God rest her soul, died of ovarian cancer three years ago. Her heart was healthy as a horse. But mine—I'd always had trouble with my ticker. It's hereditary. My father had it and his father before him.”
“So why aren't you dead, then?” Dugan asked. “I was watching. The kid didn't perform CPR or anything like that. He just placed his hands on your chest.”
“Yes. Yes he did. That was all. He just put his hands on my chest. I was scared for him, worried that he'd get shot, but I was too weak to resist. I didn't have any breath to speak with. He kept his hands there. My chest felt warm at first, then the pain vanished. By the time Sherm shot that second man with the gun, the one that seemed high on drugs, I was fine. Better than fine, in fact. Despite our circumstances, I haven't felt this good in years.”
Dugan snorted. “He's not the new Messiah. You heard Sheila's story. I'd hardly call that an Immaculate Conception. No offense.”
“None taken,” Sheila murmured.
“I'm not suggesting that,” Roy insisted. “I'm just saying that Benjy has a gift. A healing touch.”
“Maybe you were mistaken,” Kim said. “Maybe it was just stress. I know that I was scared and it felt like I was going to have a heart attack too.”
“No young lady, I'd like to think so, but I wasn't mistaken. Of this I am absolutely sure. This little boy—Benjy—healed me. I truly believe it. That's why I offered myself to Sherm if he'd at least let Benjy go free. He's a remarkable young man.”