Terminal

“If I want your fucking opinion, I’ll beat it out of you.”

He motioned again with the pistol, and Keith did as he was told. Sherm was too busy watching him to notice the biker drop to one knee and reach inside his coat. Slow motion switched to stop time as he clutched something inside his leather jacket and drew it out. I caught a glimpse of a holster and the bank’s fluorescent lights flashed off of something metal. I opened my mouth to warn him and Sherm both, and found that I couldn’t.

“Let’s go.” Sherm told Keith again. “Come on! I’ll fucking drop you right there, man.”

The biker pulled out the handle of a pistol, not as large as ours, but it looked like it would do the job just as well. Then the handle was out in the open and so was the rest of the gun. I blinked the sweat from my eyes and in that fraction of a second he was aiming at Sherm. Time snapped back to normal and chaos came with it. My paralysis shattered.

“Sherm! Look out! He’s got a gun!”

The biker whipped toward me and suddenly there was an explosion. I staggered backward, expecting to feel the bullet punch through me. Instead, the biker’s hair puffed up in the back of his head, as if caught in a breeze, and then his brains and little fragments of skull exited through his forehead, splattering onto the carpet. At first, I thought that I’d gone deaf, but then my ears began to ring over the screams of the customers. In shock, not understanding what had just happened, I turned to Sherm. Smoke billowed from the barrel of his .357, and the stench of it filled the lobby.

“Sherm,” I hollered, “what the hell are you doing?”

“I said no names, goddamn it.”

“You said no shooting too. What the fuck did you do?”

He grabbed Keith by the sleeve of his suit jacket and shook him hard, but the manager didn’t seem to notice. He just stared in horror at the dead body on the floor. I coughed, then looked back down at the biker. Blood was pouring from his head like water from a faucet. It didn’t look anything like the movies. The whole front of his head was gone—

scattered about the floor and embedded in the carpet. I fought to keep from puking. The old man with the cane, the comic geek, and the younger teller did it for me, all three at once. The little boy glanced at the gore, then closed his eyes and buried his trembling face against his mother. She just stared in shock, her face blank.

“You said no shooting.” I shouted again.

“Just keep them down on the floor and get the cash drawers,” Sherm ordered. “Keith, you and I are gonna open the vault. Any questions?”

“I— I c-can’t open the—”

Sherm punched him in the mouth. Crying out, he stumbled back a few steps, his knees buckling, then he regained his balance. Blood trickled from his split lip.

“Let’s be real fucking clear. Lie to me again and you’ll be sucking on a .357 round instead of my fist. Vault! Open! Now! Do you have any questions?”

Wiping the blood from his mouth with the front of his tie, Keith led Sherm down a hallway to the back. I stepped over the biker’s body and headed toward the cash drawers. His head was still leaking blood, and the comic book guy, now that he’d finished puking, was still leaking piss. The stench of it all, combined with the gun smoke and sweat and overall fear in the room was nauseating, and I felt sick again.

“Can’t breathe . . .” the old man gasped.

“Everybody just stay down,” I choked. “It’ll all be over soon. We just want the money.” It sounded stupid and empty in my ears.

The mother whispered to her son. He inched forward.

“Benjy, keep still.”

“But Mommy, he’s sick. Both of them are sick. One in the head and the other one here and here and here.”

He touched his jaw and throat and chest, and I wondered if he was talking about me. But there was no way the kid could know about my cancer.

“And so is that old man,” the boy continued. “He’s going to die.”

I stepped toward them and the boy froze, watching me.

“Please,” the mother begged, “he’s only five. Please don’t hurt him.”

I swallowed. “Just keep him still. Okay?”

I checked them all one more time. The comic book guy was done pissing himself, and lay facedown on the carpet. The bearded guy and the tellers did the same, but with more bravery. The bearded guy gripped the older teller’s shoulder, repeating over and over beneath his breath that it would be okay. The old woman let out another “Oh my” and stroked her cross, praying to God and Jesus and all the Saints to save her. The old bald man lay on his back, looking pale and sweating profusely. His cane lay discarded to the side, his glasses sat crooked, and I noticed he was panting.

Poor guy, I thought. He must be scared shitless.

So was I.

I glanced quickly at the door. The coast was still clear.