was starting to shake, his voice beginning to show the strain as he stared at the black hole at the end of the short barrel pointed at him, like a single, unblinking eye holding all his focus.
“I know there’s a safe in there.” The man brought the sawed-off up and thrust it out toward Doug. His voice carried both a tone of menace and a crack of uncertainty.
Doug’s raised his voice. “Honest, honest. There’s no safe in here.” He remained standing inside the walk-in cooler, looking around at the others, who he could see through the door.
The man gestured with the shotgun. “Get the fuck out, Bryon.” Doug’s eyes narrowed in confusion.
Bryon Schletewitz was kneeling on the floor. The woman had the pistol pointed at him, Joe, and Josephine. Bryon raised his voice so he could be heard. “I’m Bryon.”
The man stared at the thin, brown-haired young man still kneeling on the floor. He looked back at Doug, his face showing the realization that he had made a mistake. He pointed the shotgun at Bryon. “Get up. Where’s the safe?”
Bryon pointed toward the back of the storeroom, to an area hidden by several floor-to-ceiling shelves of food stock. “It’s way over there.”
The man gestured at Bryon with the shotgun. “Let’s go.” He waited until Bryon got up and walked behind him until they were in the back of the storeroom, concealed from the view of the others, who were watched over by the woman. Doug was back on the floor. Josephine was next to Joe. He could see her trembling out of the corner of his eye.
Joe raised his gaze to the woman holding the gun. Her hand was shaking. As the man marched Bryon to the back of the storeroom, she said, “Keep an eye on these guys.” Joe shifted his weight and the woman pointed the gun directly at him. A cold, tingling sensation of fear rippled up from his stomach. He was thinking about running into the bathroom. She stared at him. “I hate to do this.”
Joe looked around, afraid she was going to shoot. “I ain’t doing nothing. I ain’t doing nothing.”
The woman stared at him a moment longer. “You all just stay on the floor.”
Although Joe couldn’t see anything, he heard the sound of somebody being pushed around, thudding against the wall. He could hear the man’s voice, raised and angry. “I KNOW THERE’S ANOTHER SAFE. THERE’S ANOTHER SAFE, MOTHERFUCKER. A BIGGER ONE.”
Bryon stood with his back to the wall between the desk and a small safe up against the storage shelves. The entire area in the backroom was only five or six feet wide, with just enough room for the small desk and chair. A compact steel safe sat on the floor just behind the chair and up against the wall, next to a locked metal box. Bryon had no room to move, no place to run. The man pushed him against the wall with the barrel of the gun, prodding him in the stomach, screaming. “I KNOW THERE’S ANOTHER SAFE.”
Joe heard Bryon’s voice; he could hear the fear in it. “These are the only ones. These are the only two. I’ll open them.” Joe heard Bryon’s voice rising. “I’m going to open them. I’ll open them.”
“Give me the fucking keys, the store keys. Which one is for the doors?” Bryon fumbled with the store keys, singling out the one to the front door as he held the key ring out to the man glaring back at him, his eyes narrow and drawn. Bryon stared at the shotgun and back up at the eyes of the man holding it. All he could see was anger. The man was thrusting the shotgun into his stomach, pushing him back against the wall, yelling at him, insisting that there was another safe. Byron could hear the pleading sound in his own voice. He stared at the gun and then back up at the man’s eyes. Only blackness in the eyes.
Joe heard the booming sound reverberate off the walls in the small storeroom. There was a crashing sound as something hit the wall. For a moment, the room shook—and then there was silence. Joe smelled the sharp acrid odor of burnt gunpowder in the confined space of the storeroom. The man in the bandanna backed up. Now Joe saw him, the shotgun held loosely in his hands. Wisping smoke curled from the short, black barrel as the man turned and walked back toward them.
The man snapped the shotgun open, pulled the expended cartridge from the breech of the gun, and put it into his pocket. He kept his eyes on the three people on the floor. They kept their eyes on him, watching the thin strand of white vapor oozing from the breech as the man shoved in another cartridge and snapped the shotgun closed. Joe felt himself flinch at the metallic sound as the breech closed. The man’s eyes never left the three people on the floor, and Joe’s eyes never left the shotgun and the man holding it. Joe could tell that Josephine and Doug were staring, frozen with fear, their eyes widening. His own eyes were wide and unblinking. In that moment, Joe knew it. He knew they were all going to die.
Joe felt his eyes suddenly blinking rapidly as he tried to focus on what was happening. The man walked slowly from the back area where the desk was. Joe couldn’t see Bryon, couldn’t hear him. The sound of the shotgun blast was still ringing in his ears.
The man held the weapon out in front of him as his eyes moved across the faces of the three young people kneeling on the floor before him. The smell of fear soured the air, overwhelming the mustiness of the storage area and the tincture of burned gunpowder that now added to the mélange of odors filling the room. The shooter slowly moved the barrel of the sawed-off in front of the faces staring back at him, their eyes wide, tracking his every move. He could feel the control, the rush. He paused and pointed the gun at the face of Doug White, who stood six-foot-six, although he still carried the softness of his eighteen years. “All right, big boy. Where’s the safe at?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Joe watched Doug, whose eyes were locked on the barrel positioned just inches from his face. Joe moved his eyes back up at the man holding the gun. He could smell the pungent odor of fear seeping from the two people kneeling next to him and rising up from his own body. He could feel himself swallowing nothing but dry air, his mouth devoid of any moisture. Joe heard the tremor in Doug’s voice, the pleading tone of his explanations, knowing that each word carried the ebb or flow of his life. “Honest, honest, there’s no other safe. Those are the only two.”
The sharp explosive burst was deafening, as a blast of hot, buffeting air rocked Joe’s head. He couldn’t hear. He couldn’t think. But he could see. Doug’s entire body unfolded from the floor, slamming backward as if some unseen force lifted him off the cement and flung him flat against the wall. A red bloom sprayed from Doug’s throat, spreading out from a gaping black hole. Doug made no sound, except for a soft gurgling noise that was lost in the reverberation of the shotgun blast.
Joe’s mind filled with one all consuming thought: My turn is next! He didn’t think anymore; he could feel panic consuming him. He didn’t look anywhere; he jumped up and bolted for the store’s bathroom door, stumbling past Doug’s body lying spread-eagled on the cold cement, while Josephine still kneeled, frozen in fear. The door, lock the door. He fumbled with the simple latch and desperately locked himself inside. The inner door to the toilet was half open—another door, another barrier. Joe pushed it open, scrambling to find a place to hide, trying to make himself small, to make himself safe, pushing the privacy lock, turning in the small space, hoping to find one more place of concealment. But there were only walls.
Josephine’s knees were rooted to the floor. She couldn’t move. She had seen it. She had seen Doug’s body slam against the wall. She was only seventeen years old. She had not seen death before and now Death stood in front of her, his face an emotionless mask. He broke the shotgun open, his eyes never leaving the wide-open, blue-gray eyes staring back at him. He slipped the expended shell from the breech, the hot brass casing plugging the smoke inside the barrel until he pulled it out. He cradled the sawed-off and reached into his
