Terminal

Footsteps outside. Right outside the door, just out of sight. Cautious and stealthy, but hurried as well. And more sirens on the way. Lots more, by the sound of it.

“Your name is Benjy?” I asked him.

He nodded, his big round eyes frightened and confused, but excited at the same time.

“Benjy, I’m going to do something that might be a little scary. I need you to cover your ears, okay?”

“Okay, mister.”

He placed his small hands over his ears and in that instant, he reminded me so much of T. J. that I almost started crying. Instead, I pulled the pistol, pointed it at the shattered glass on the front door, and fired a warning shot. The gun kicked in my hand, snapping my wrist upward, and the blast was deafening. I could actually feel it push against my eardrum. The remaining glass in the door crashed to the ground, covering Kelvin’s sprawled corpse with jagged shards. Immediately, my shot was answered by surprised shouts of “Down! Down!” and “Call for back up!” followed by scrambling, retreating footsteps. I took a deep breath.

“All right, listen up out there! If we see one fucking cop stick his fucking head through that fucking door, we’ll kill him and everybody else inside this goddamned bank. You got that, you motherfuckers?”

There was no answer, but I was pretty sure that they understood the message. I grinned. Hard-core, original gangsta shit. The ringing in my ear was as loud as the gunshot. It felt like it was plugged with a ball of wax.

Reaching down to ruffle the kid’s hair, I saw the blood on my hands and thought better of it. Instead, I winked at him. He winked back and smiled. I began dragging John’s unconscious body toward the vault, and Benjy tagged along beside me.

“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!”