Terminal

by Brian Keene

  “Tommy, what are you talking about? Did you try to stop them or something? Did they take you hostage? Are you hurt?”

  “No, but John is. John's hurt really, really bad. He's dying, Michelle, and it's all my fault. This whole fucked-up mess is my fault. It's always my fault, all the time.”

  “John is with you? Tommy, I don't understand any of this. Why is John there? Is he okay? What's going on?”

  “We . . .” I couldn't finish. I was aware that all of the hostages were staring at me.

  “Tommy? Talk to me, baby! Why were you guys at that bank?”

  “Michelle,” I sobbed, “I just wanted you to know that I love you and that I'm sorry. Okay? I love you and T. J. and I only did this for you.”

  “Tommy, you're scaring me! What is going on?”

  “We were the ones—the ones on TV. We're the guys that robbed the bank.”

  She paused.

  “Where's Sherm?” I heard the suspicion in her voice.

  “Sherm's here too, Michelle. All three of us are. We're the ones that did it. I lied to you about getting laid off. Jenny was right. They canned us.”

  She paused again and then exploded.

  “Goddamn it, Tommy, you asshole. That is so not funny. Do you think that's funny? It's not. Quit screwing around! You scared the shit out of me, you son of a bitch. If you're feeling good enough to play phone pranks, then maybe you're well enough to go to work. What if T. J. had been with me right now? He'd be freaking out. Bastard! I can't believe you—”

  “Michelle . . . Michelle, listen to me. Listen very carefully. I'm not playing here, baby. This isn't a joke. I'm serious. I've never been more serious in my fucking life. John, Sherm, and I decided to rob the bank. I did it for you and T. J. To take care of you after . . . after I'm gone. Michelle, you were right when you said that whatever I had wasn't getting better. I lied to you about that too, honey. I lied to you about everything and I'm sorry. I'm not just sick. I've got—”

  The words were stuck in my throat.

  “Tommy?” I could hear the shocked fear in her voice and it broke my heart.

  Cancer. I've got cancer. It's growing at an alarming rate. I'm afraid it's terminal. Life's a bitch, then I die. Later my niggaz! Peace out!

  But the words would not come. I still couldn't tell her. Not even then, when I was confessing to everything else. I still wanted to protect her from that most awful knowledge.

  “Tommy? Are you still there? Tommy?”

  “What I did, I did for you guys. I just wanted you and T. J. to have a better life, better than the one I've given you. You both deserve it. When I got sick, it didn't seem like anything else mattered anymore. So we robbed the bank. But it wasn't supposed to be like this, Michelle. I swear to God, it wasn't supposed to go down like this. Sherm said that there wouldn't be any shooting. He promised me. But it got out of my control. He's taken over the whole thing. You've got to tell them that, okay? Tell the police that Sherm said there wouldn't be any shooting. And tell T. J. that Daddy never meant for this to happen. Tell him that I'm sorry and that I love him very, very much and that I'm proud of him.”

  “Stop it, Tommy! Just stop it, right now! You're scaring me. I don't understand any of this. Please tell me what's—”

  Then I heard footsteps coming down the hall, accompanied by Sherm whistling an old Public Enemy song.

  “Michelle,” I whispered, “I've got to go. I've got to go right now. I love you, baby. I need you to know that. I love you so much. I'm sorry—for everything.”

  “Tommy! TOMMY!”

  I pressed END and shoved the phone back in my pocket just as Sherm walked back into the vault.

  “What's up, yo? Did I miss anything good?”

  I shook my head. So did the others.

  “Then why are you crying, Tommy?” he asked.

  “I'm just worried about John. That's all. He's fucking dying, Sherm. Do I have to remind you of that every minute?”

  “You think I don't know that, Tommy? For fuck's sake, quit bringing it up.”

  “Sorry. I'm sorry.”

  “Don't sweat it. We're all just a little hyped right now.”

  “This duct tape is hurting my wrists,” Kim complained.

  “Get used to it, sweetheart. Maybe if you promise to be nice to me, I'll cut you loose a little later on.”

  I kept the pressure on the gunshot in John's stomach. At this point, I wasn't even sure if it was doing any good. I kept forgetting, like while I was on the cell phone. And Sherm had neglected to do it when I took Benjy to the bathroom. I tried to take my mind off of it again.

  “So what's up with Lucas and the truck?”

  “I taped him up and put him in the bathroom. Figured we were getting too many people in here to watch all at once, and there's no way in hell he's getting out of there anytime soon. I found some glue in the janitor's closet and squirted it in the lock. Only way that door is getting opened is if somebody busts it down.”

  “Great. So now what do we do if we have to take a shit?”

  “Go on the floor.”

  “Nice. I hope you got his keys first.”

  “Yeah, I got the keys, but I don't know if we'll be able to use them or not.”

  “How come?”

  “There's five-oh all deep between us and the truck. When they call again, I'll negotiate—see if I can get them to pull back so that we can get to it.”

  “Do you really think the cops are gonna go for that, Sherm?

  “They will if we start killing hostages and throwing them out the fucking door.”

  Upon hearing this, Oscar's and Kim's eyes widened. Sheila shuddered. Roy shifted against the wall. Dugan stroked Sharon's foot with his own and silently mouthed assurances. Martha prayed under her breath.

  Benjy stared at me.

  I stared back, and for a split second, an image of Sherm placing his pistol to the back of Benjy's head flashed through my mind. A crystal-clear flash sparked as Sherm squeezed the trigger, and I heard Sheila screaming. No. There was no way that I was going to let that happen. Enough people had died already. I didn't want any more deaths on my conscience, especially not that little boy's.

  I tried to keep my voice calm and level.

  “Quit playing, dog. It's not gonna come to that. Right?”

  “Sure it could,” Sherm disagreed. “If I don't start getting some cooperation from those cops, if shit doesn't start going my way, then I've got no problem capping a few of these fuckers to get some attention.”

  “You don't mean that,” Roy replied. “Surely you understand that they'd give you the death penalty for something so heinous.”

  “Old man, I've already qualified for the death penalty today. The way I see it, a few more bodies ain't gonna make a whole lot of difference at this point. In fact, it may just hurry the whole thing along.”

  “Sherm,” I reasoned with him, “if you start killing hostages and throwing them out the door, the cops will bum rush this place. Soon as they hear the first gunshot, they'll be in here. They'll have tear gas and pepper spray and automatic rifles and Kevlar body armor and laser sights; all kinds of other shit. We'll be outgunned and outnumbered. You kill any more of these people and you might as well be committing suicide for all of us.”

  “Signing our death warrants?”

  “Fuck yes!”

  “Isn't that better than sitting on death row, Tommy?”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but a loud electronic squawk cut me off.

  “SHADY! SHADY, THIS IS DETECTIVE RAMIREZ! WE ARE STILL WORKING ON YOUR ORIGINAL DEMANDS. IN FIFTEEN MINUTES, I'M GOING TO CALL YOU AGAIN ON THE BANK'S TELEPHONE AND GIVE YOU AN UPDATE! I CAN'T STRESS ENOUGH HOW IMPERATIVE IT IS THAT YOU PICK UP THAT PHONE WHEN I DO. THERE'S NO NEED TO MAKE THIS ANY WORSE THAN IT ALREADY IS. NOBODY ELSE HAS TO GET HURT, SHADY. IF YOU PICK UP THE PHONE, WE CAN TALK ABOUT THIS!”

  “Oh look”—Sherm grinned—“the police finally figured out how to make their bullhorn work. The batteries must h
ave been dead before.”

  “Is this Ramirez the same guy that you talked to before?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that's him. He's a real weasel. Let me tell you, I'd like to take a shot at him too before this is all over. Fucking police negotiators . . .”

  The voice on the bullhorn continued to bellow.

  “Who the hell is Shady?” Roy asked, confused.

  “I am,” Sherm said proudly, “I'm the real Slim Shady. So won't you please shut up. Please shut up. Please shut up. Please shut up.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “Forget it,” I said. “You wouldn't understand.”

  “Can one of you tell me who Shady is?” Roy insisted.

  I stayed silent.

  “Is that Sherm's nickname or something?”

  “No,” Oscar told him, “it's the nickname of a rapper.”

  “Oh. I must admit that I'm not familiar with most rap music.”

  “You're not missing anything,” Sharon said. “A lot of juvenile, thuggish, masochistic dick-swinging, if you ask me.”

  “Which we didn't,” Sherm growled.

  “All they rap about,” Sharon countered, “is their drugs, their cars, their guns, their bitches, their bling-bling, and who has done the most jail time.”

  “What's bling-bling?” Roy whispered to Sheila.

  “Money. Gold jewelry. Stuff like that. Flashy things.”

  “Oh.”

  “That's not all they rap about,” I protested. “They tell stories about the streets. It's just street life from their perspective. And not all of that is negative either.”

  Roy bent his legs, frowning in pain.

  “What's wrong?” Sheila asked him.

  “Arthritis is acting up a bit. But my ticker still feels fine.”

  He gave Benjy a warm smile and turned to Sharon.

  “So you're saying Tommy, John, and Sherm robbed this bank in part because of the type of music they listen to?”

  “I'm saying it's got to factor in, sure.”

  “Sorry, Sharon, but I've got to call bullshit on that,” I interrupted. “That's like blaming the fucking Columbine shootings on The Matrix. I mean, no offense, but I know who the real me is, versus any image I might pick up from a song.”

  Sherm slowly turned.

  “Let me tell you something, all of you. I don't know you and you don't know anything about the real me, other than I'm the son of a bitch who's holding a gun. That's all you need to know too. None of you know the real me. And you ain't gonna either. So stop fucking caring and asking questions.”

  “Well,” Roy countered, “maybe we will know you before this is over.”

  At first, I didn't think Sherm was going to respond, but then he did.

  “You better hope not.”

  What do you guys think happens to us when we die?” Kim asked.

  We'd sat in silence for a long time, and I think the question surprised us all. For the last half hour, our only conversation had taken place when Sherm finally took over for me and kept the pressure on John's wound. I'd planned on using the opportunity to finish emptying the cash drawers in the lobby, but as I inched my way down the hall, I realized the cops would be able to see me behind the counter from outside in the parking lot. It pissed me off. Somehow, Sherm had ended up running things, and when I finally did decide on a course of action, I couldn't follow through on it.

  “Seriously,” Kim insisted. “We could all die in here today. What do you guys think happens to us after we're gone?”

  Oscar flinched. “That's a pretty morbid question, don't you think?”

  Kim shrugged. “I don't know. I guess, maybe. All I know is that I can't stop thinking about it. I miss my mom and dad, and my little brother. I wish I could talk to them one more time, you know? I don't want to die. I'm too young. I want to get married and have kids and—”

  “Nobody is going to die, sweetheart,” Sherm said, “as long as you all follow orders, and as long as those fucking cops out there don't piss me off.”

  Kim pointedly ignored him.

  “My family and I used to go to church when I was a little girl, but it's been a long time since I've talked to God. I still believe in Him, I guess. But I wonder if I'd go to heaven if we don't make it out of here?”

  “I don't think God cares how often you go to church,” Roy commented. “He's probably more concerned with how you lived your life. That's what guarantees you a place in Heaven.”

  “Ha!” Martha spat on the floor.

  “What the hell is your problem, bitch?” Sherm was twitching again, slapping the barrel of the handgun against his leg.

  “Hell is not my problem,” she answered. “It is your problem.”

  “How many times did you see The Passion, Martha? I bet it was the only movie you've seen in the last twenty years.”

  “None of you know anything about how to get into Heaven. As it says in the New Testament, ye must be born again! You must know Jesus Christ as your personal lord and savior. You must ask him to forgive your sins and let him into your heart. Then, and only then, can you enter into Heaven.”

  “Well shit,” Sherm snorted, “that sounds simple enough. I had no idea it was that easy. I'll get right on that. Nothing like a little insurance, right?”

  Laying the gun on the floor, he got down on his knees, raised his head up to the ceiling, and clasped his hands together in prayer.

  “Please God, please don't let me go to hell; especially if they don't have any cigarettes there. That would really suck. All that fire and nothing to smoke. Or worse yet, if the only thing they have is Ultra Lights. But if you do decide to send me there, could I get a room next to Tupac and Biggie? That would work. Or maybe between Sam Kinison and Bill Hicks? That would be great because at least I'd have something to laugh about. Oh, and before I forget it, God, I'd be honored if you could be my personal savior and assistant or whatever this crazy bitch just said I needed to ask you to be. Amen.”

  He started to stand up, then paused.

  “P.S., good food, good meat, good God let's eat!”

  He picked up the gun again and grinned at Martha.

  “How was that? You think I can get in through the gates now?”

  “Mock the Lord all you want,” Martha replied, “but when the hour comes your prayers will be real. You will beg. You will wail and gnash your teeth and pull out your hair in your sincerity. But He will not hear you because you have the Devil inside you already. And He will not hear your friend either because your friend has committed the ultimate sin. He has blasphemed against the Holy Spirit. All of you have! Scripture tells us that there is no pardon or forgiveness for that. The Imp has been loosed upon the earth, and it makes a mockery of the healing gifts of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Only he can heal!”

  “What the hell is she talking about now?” Sherm asked me.

  Martha was about to spill Benjy's secret. I threw up my hands in annoyance.

  “I have no fucking idea. Does it really matter, Sherm? It's all bullshit anyway. Bullshit for the masses. There is no God, plain and simple. God is nothing more than Dog spelled backward. You really want to know what happens when we die, Kim? Nothing. That's what happens. Nothing at all. We get burned to a crisp or thrown in a box and put in the ground, while the dirt slowly presses in on us a little bit more each year.”

  “That's pretty fatalistic,” Sheila said.

  “Is it? I don't know about you, Sheila, but the way my life has turned out, it doesn't sound like a bad choice at all. Sleep is okay. Death might be better. You don't have to think anymore or feel anymore—or even be anymore. You're just blank, empty. An afterlife where you had to experience all of those things again would just suck.”

  Even though I said it, and even though I believed it, I still didn't want to find out if it was true. I'd proven to myself that God didn't exist (or maybe He'd proven it to me), but I was still afraid of dying, afraid of taking that final breath and not being able to take another. Afraid of closing
my eyes and not opening them again. I thought of John, shot in the stomach and stumbling into the bank, pleading with me to save him because he was afraid of dying.

  I'm scared of hell, Tommy!

  “Well, though I'm not quite as vocal or strident as Martha, I am a believer,” Roy said. “I believe in God and I also believe that Jesus died for our sins. I try to be a good Christian, but nobody is perfect and we all make mistakes. I guess the point is just that you atone for your sins and try to live right, the way God would want you to.”

  “I used to believe,” Sharon said, “but these days, I just don't know. I really don't. With all that's going on in the world, it's hard to believe in a supreme being that would just let it all happen.”

  “Word,” I agreed. “The Arabs think that only they are right, and so they hate the Christians and the Jews. The Jews think the same way, and so they hate the Arabs and the Christians. The Christians? Same thing. Their way is the right way so they hate the Arabs and the Jews. And you know why they hate each other? Because God told them to. They kill each other because He said so. They worship the same guy—they just call Him by different names! Religion has fucked this planet up from day one.”

  “I don't know about that,” Roy countered. “Some of the so-called religious leaders, perhaps, but not religion itself.”

  “Osama bin Laden ordered his followers to fly airplanes into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, right?”

  “Correct. And he was a religious leader—”

  “Who was acting on what God told him to do,” I finished.

  “Allah is just another name for Satan,” Martha shrilled. “Thou shall have no other gods before Me!”

  “Actually,” Oscar tried correcting her, “Tommy and Mr. Kirby are both right. The Arabs, Jews, and Christians all believe in the same God. He just has different names. It's his prophets that they disagree with.”

  Martha glared at him with eyes like razors, and Oscar got quiet again.

  Sherm jumped to his feet, head cocked and listening.

  “What is it?” I whispered.

  “Thought I heard something,” he mouthed. “Voices. Quiet, soft. Check the hall and the lobby.”

  I opened my mouth to protest and Sherm cut me off.