by Kylie Scott
Beep, beep, beep went the sales register, adding up my purchases. Excellent. Cute clerk guy and I were ignoring each other. No further eye contact was made. This was the best of all possible outcomes. Human interactions in general were a trial, but attractive people were far and away the worst. They unnerved me. I always started sweating and turning red, my brain an empty, useless place.
All of my loot got shoved into a thin white plastic bag, guaranteed to tear halfway across the parking lot. Never mind. I’d hold it against my front, stretch the bottom of my T-shirt out to bolster it or something. Easier than asking him to double-bag it.
I shoved the money in his vague direction, mumbled thank you, and got moving. Mission accomplished.
Except a scrawny guy entering the store was in an even bigger hurry than me. We collided and I lost, my flip-flops sliding out from under me, thanks to the wet floor. I stumbled back into the shelving before dropping, hitting the cold, hard ground. The plastic bag broke and shit went everywhere. Fother mucker.
“Awesome,” I muttered sarcastically. Followed up fast with a sarcastic, “I’m fine. No problem.”
How embarrassing. Not that anyone was paying me any attention. Must have caught a metal edge on the way down because I had a scratch on my waist. It stung like a bitch, both it and my bruised ass.
College boy gasped. Fair enough. I’d be pissed too if some fat chick in pajamas started throwing her stuff everywhere. But the douche canoe who’d sent me reeling slammed his hand onto the counter, snarling something, as college boy stuttered, “P-please. D-d-don’t.”
I froze, realizing this wasn’t about me crashing into the shelf.
Not even a little bit.
College boy fumbled with the register, panic written all over his face. This was wrong. All of it. Time slowed as the kid punched register buttons, tears flowing down his face because it wouldn’t open for some reason. Skinny guy was shouting and waving something in the air like he’d lost his mind.
Suddenly the drawer flew open with a discordant little jingle.
College boy grabbed a wad of cash, shoving it into a plastic bag as the skinny guy slammed a hand down on the counter again, full of frustration and anger. Then the scream of a police siren split the air and I heard tires screech. I watched in horror as a battered car careened out of the parking lot, knocking over a garbage can and spilling trash across the pavement. A cop car followed it over the curb as another came to a halt in front of the store, lights blazing.
The man at the counter spun toward the parking lot, yelling something indecipherable as he twitched, his eyes messed up, pupils swollen and huge. Red patches—sores—covered his face, and his teeth were nothing more than rotting stumps. Then I saw the gun in his hand and my heart stopped.
There was a gun. A gun. This was happening, right here. Right now.
Red and blue lights flashed through the filthy windows and I sat stunned, my eyes wide, nothing computing. It was all moving so fast. I saw the instant the gunman realized he’d been left behind, because his whole body jerked. The gun wavered and then he turned on the college guy.
For one second they stood frozen, one shaking in terror as the other pointed his weapon. Then a loud cracking noise filled the air. College boy fell. It looked like someone had thrown a bucket of crimson paint across the rack of cigarettes.
The sound of sirens grew louder as more cars surrounded the building.
“You bitch!” the man screamed, even louder than the siren and the ringing in my ears. “Joanna, you fucking bitch! You weren’t supposed to leave! Get back here!”
I couldn’t breathe. Throat shut tight, I stayed cowering on the floor.
He turned back to the mess of blood behind the counter and swore long and hard.
“Put down the weapon,” said a woman’s voice through a loudspeaker. “Put it down slowly and come out with your hands in the air where we can see them.”
Heavy, mud-splattered brown boots smacked against the floor, coming at me. Oh, no. I had to reason with him, talk him down somehow. But my brain remained stalled, my body shaking. He might’ve been skinny, but he easily dragged me to my feet, the grip on my arm strong enough to break me in two.
“Get up.” A hand fisted painfully in my hair, the hot muzzle of the gun shoved beneath my chin. “Get to the door.”
Step by shuffling step we moved forward as he used me as a human shield. I almost tripped on my Pringles, the tube rolling beneath my foot, messing with my balance. His grip tore at my long blond hair, ripping a chunk free. Tears of agony flowed down my cheeks.
“We can end this without any more violence,” said the policewoman, voice crackling. “Let her go.”
The headlights were blinding, lighting up the rain. I could make out the shadow of a head, one of the cops half-crouched behind a car door, arms extended with a gun in hand. Georgia was out there somewhere. God, I hoped she was safe.
“We’ve got both exits covered. Let her go and put down the weapon,” she repeated. “We can still end this peacefully.”
Pain tore at my scalp again as he pulled my hair, shoving the gun into my mouth. My teeth chinked against the hard metal, the muzzle scratching the roof of my mouth. The stink of gunpowder filled my head.
I was going to die, here, tonight, in the Drop Stop in my fucking pajamas. This was it. Out in the parking lot, someone screamed.
“I’ll kill her!” he yelled, foul breath hot against the side of my face, holding the door ajar with his body.
“Don’t.” The cop sounded panicky now. “Don’t. Let’s talk.”
The gunman didn’t respond. Instead, the hand that had been in my hair grabbed the store door handle, pulling it closed. Next he locked it, dirty fingers pushing the deadbolt home. No escape. Not with the gun in my mouth, trembling just like his hand. All of the things I’d never do if he pulled the trigger filled my mind. I’d never get to go home again, never say good-bye to Mom, never become a teacher.
“Back up,” he said. “Move!”
The gun pressed deeper, making me gag. I dry-heaved. It did no good. Slowly, I put one foot back, then another, panting as we took baby steps. Racks full of magazines filled the front glass wall; nothing could be seen of us below chest height. Above that line, the world was red, white, and blue. It looked like some messed-up disco, colors flashing between the posters advertising drinks and other stuff. In the distance, I could hear the blare of a fire engine getting closer.
Then he pulled the gun from my mouth, pushing me to the floor. I lay there, sucking in air, trying to keep calm, to make myself small, invisible. High above me chrome flashed, his arm swung in a mighty arc, and bam. The pistol’s butt slammed into me, pain exploding inside my skull.
“Stupid whore,” he muttered. “Stay there.”
Then nothing.
He did nothing else. For now.
Honestly, I couldn’t have moved if I tried. When I was eight, I’d broken my arm falling off the top bunk at camp. That had sucked. This, however, was on a whole different level. Agony crashed through me in waves, flowing through me from my head to my toes, turning my mind to mush. Staying aware of him wasn’t easy between the hurt and the blood flowing from my forehead, dripping in my eye. I peered out from behind my hair, the world a blur.
No movement, no noise at all. I tensed at the sound of footsteps, but they were moving away from me this time. I breathed as shallow as I could, crying silently.
Everything turned to shadows as he switched off the overhead lighting. There was still enough light coming in from outside to see, though. Guess the policewoman had run out of things to say. The rain on the roof was the only sound.
“Don’t shoot,” said a male voice. Muffled footsteps. “We’ve got our hands up. You’re Chris, right?”
“Who the fuck are you?” spat the gunman.
“Dillon Cole’s little brother, John,” said the same voice.
“Dillon . . .”
“Yeah.” Footsteps moved closer, toward the front
of the store. “Remember me, Chris? You came around to see Dillon a few times at our house. You two used to hang together, back in school. You were both on the football team, right? I’m his brother.”
“Dillon.” The gunman rocked on his feet, voice slurred. “Yeah. How the fuck is he?”
“Good, real good. Keeping busy.”
“Shit. Great. Dillon.” The muddy boots moved back, both coming into view. I could see bits and pieces, my face mostly shielded from view by my hair. The gunman leaned against the blood-spattered counter. “What are you doing here, ah . . .”
“John,” he repeated his name. One of the guys who’d been standing by the beer fridge. It had to be. “Just re-upping. You know how it goes.”
“I know, I know,” said Chris. “I was just . . . I was picking up supplies too.”
“Right.” John, the guy in the hoodie, sounded friendly, relaxed. Probably drugged to the gills like Chris, our friendly neighborhood psycho. I didn’t know how else you could be calm at a time like this. “You should try the back door.”
“Yeah,” slurred Chris. Straight away, he headed for the door in question, disappearing out of sight with a wave of the gun in our general direction. “None of you three fucking move.”
It was so quiet. The click of the lock on the back door and the slamming of the same door a second later came through clear as day. Chris swore bitterly, striding back to the counter. “No good.”
“Damn,” said John.
“Not a bad idea, though . . . you know. Shit. Forgot this was open.” Out of the topmost corner of my eye I could see Chris reaching over the counter, pulling cash out of the register. “You need any?”
“Twenty never hurts, right?”
“Right,” laughed Chris, handing a couple of bills over. “Go around and grab me some cigarettes, would you?”
“Sure. What do you smoke?”
Chris huffed out a breath. “Marlboro.”
“No worries,” said John, moving around behind the counter. “Man. What a mess.”
Squelching noises came from back there, the kind you get when a rubber-soled shoe meets something wet. My stomach turned, bile burning the back of my throat. I swallowed it down, trying once again to calm my breathing, trying to stay still.
“What’s your problem?” asked Chris.
“Slippery back here,” said John. “Never been great with blood.”
“Pussy.” Chris giggled like a lunatic. “You’ve gone gray, man. You going to puke?”
A grunt. “Go easy, I’m still in high school. I got a few years to get hard like you. Mind if I grab a pack?”
“Sure, kid. Help yourself.”
“Thanks.”
I stayed still, taking it all in. And wasn’t it beautiful that John and his hero Chris the meth-head could spend this quality time together? Fucking hell.
Chris cleared his throat. “Who’s your friend? Grab some for him too.”
“Ah, that’s Isaac,” said John. “A friend from school. He’s on the football team.”
“No shit?” said Chris. “What position?”
“Receiver,” came a quieter, less assured voice.
“I was fullback, Dillon was quarterback,” said Chris proudly. “Those were the days.”
Isaac mumbled something agreeable-sounding. A match flared and the acrid scent of tobacco smoke drifted through the air.
“Want me to get us something to drink?” asked John, like he was helping to host a damn party.
“Mm.”
Squelch, squelch, came the footsteps toward me. Faded green Converse, the soles stained red with blood. I stayed still, sprawled on the ground, blood puddled around my face. At least the cool floor eased the ache in my head a little. A very little.
Chris’s friend, John, stopped beside me, watching for a moment. Without a word, he about-faced, leaving a trail of bloody shoe prints behind him.
“Better not go past the door,” he muttered.
“No,” said Chris, giggling again. “That’d be bad.”
Bottles clinked against one another. Outside I could hear car doors slamming and lots of different voices. The flashing red, white, and blue were brighter than before, as if a whole squadron of cars had joined in with the light show. Please, God, let one of them do something constructive to get me out of here. I’d go to church; I’d do anything. I was only seventeen, still a virgin, for fuck’s sake. And while I knew I’d probably never make prom queen, I’d at least like to live long enough to attend the damn thing.
“Nice,” said John. “They’ve got Corona.”
More noises. The pop of beer bottles being opened as the boys settled in to celebrate the whole hostage situation. I couldn’t see the other kid, Isaac, just Chris the tweaker and John. They were sitting on the ground with their backs to the counter, hanging out. It was ridiculous. And they might’ve known each other, but I don’t think John did drugs. At least, not seriously. His shoulder-length hair wasn’t patchy and greasy like Chris’s. Scruff covered his jaw, framed his mouth. But his lean, angular face didn’t have the same sores or emaciated appearance.
“What’s your name?” he asked when he caught me looking.
I licked my lips, trying to summon up some moisture. “Edie.”
“Eddie?”
“No. Ee-dee.”
A nod. “Eee-dee allowed to have a drink too, Chris?”
“Whatever,” the guy mumbled, staring off at nothing.
John rose, carefully approaching me like I held the gun. You’d have thought the meth-head would be the bigger concern. Then the nutter—John, that is—winked at me. Not a come-on kind of wink, but a play-along sort of thing.
Huh. I’d read him all wrong. He wasn’t trying to be like Chris. He was trying to manage him.
“Sit up,” he said quietly, crouching down at my side.
God, it hurt. Moving, thinking, breathing, everything. I set myself right, leaning back against the edge of a shelf. Gray fuzz filled my vision, the world tilting this way and that. He popped the cap on another Corona, putting it into my hand, closing my fingers tight around the cold, wet bottle. The way he touched me might have been the only thing that didn’t hurt.
“Drink up, Edie,” he said. “We’re being social, right, Chris?”
Chris huffed out a laugh. “Sure. Social.”
“That’s right,” said John. “It’s all good.”
I only just stopped myself from snorting.
“Maybe hold it to your head,” he said, a little quieter. “Okay?”
“Yeah.”
Beer had never been my thing. Georgia and I were prone to liberating the occasional bottle from her mom’s wine collection. All of it cheap and nasty crap. It wasn’t much like she’d notice, let alone care. The beer slid down my sore throat, joining the churning and nausea going on in my belly. I willed it to stay put, taking deep breaths, swallowing it back down.
John nodded.
I nodded back, still alive and all that. “Thanks.”
His eyes were intense, gaze heavy. In a pretty-boy contest, he’d have beaten the now-dead cute clerk guy easily. What a screwed-up thought. Who knew whose blood would wind up decorating the walls next?
“What school you from?” John asked.
“Greenhaven.”
“Poor little rich girl,” said Chris, words slurred. “Bitches, all of them.”
I kept my mouth shut.
“Dillon always liked the Green girls.” John joined Chris back over by the counter.
“Liked fucking them.”
“That too,” said John with a false smile. “Said it was easier, going with a Green girl. They couldn’t hassle him at school. Less maintenance.”
Chris chuckled.
“What do you think, Edie, want to go out sometime?” asked John. He couldn’t be serious. The boy had to be crazy.
“Sure,” I said, keeping the WTF off my face.
“What do you want with her?” Chris scratched at this chin, lips set in a sneer.
>
“I like blondes.” John just smiled. “And Edie here seems cool with drinking stolen beers. My kind of girl.”
Chris shook his head.
No words were safe, so I sipped my drink.
Drawing back his arm, Chris let his empty bottle fly, glass smashing against the rear wall. My shoulders jumped, the sound was so startlingly loud.
“Another?” asked John, calm as can be. Like he saw this kind of thing every day. Maybe he did.
“You.” Chris jerked his chin at the silent friend.
“I’ll get some more,” said Isaac, voice shaking.
“Wish I hadn’t left my stash in the car,” said John. “Be good to pay you back, Chris.”
Chris coughed out a laugh. “’nother time.”
With a nod, John smiled.
A sudden obscenely loud trilling broke the silence, making my breath hitch. It was the phone. Just the phone. At this rate, I’d die of a heart attack long before the head wound could do its damage.
“Don’t answer it,” said Chris, body snapping to attention, glaring at all of us. As if we’d dare.
The ringing stopped, a moment later starting up once more.
“Bastards!” Chris struggled to his feet, keeping low as he took aim. Crack went the gun, again and again. It took him three tries, but he finally managed to score a hit. At least, the ringing stopped. “I’m just . . . just going to wait. Joanna, she’ll come back. She’ll have a plan. She’s always got a plan. Probably have to ram a window or something, I don’t know.”
Isaac returned, handing out more beers.
“Cool,” said John, lighting up another cigarette and exhaling a ring of smoke.
“You can go then.” Chris smiled, flashing a mouthful of black and broken teeth. “We just have to wait.”
John licked his lips. “You didn’t want to get rid of Edie now?”
Frown in place, Chris turned his head. “Why the fuck would I do that?”
“Like you said, useless Green girl. We don’t need her,” said John, voice smooth, compelling. “Bet you she’ll panic and mess things up, make shit difficult for you. Might as well send her out, right?”