Jon turned, looked for the largest stack of boxes to hide behind. He ducked behind them just as the door to the cooler was opening. He held his breath, afraid the ghostly vapors from his mouth would give him away. “Please don’t hurt—”
“I said get the fuck in there!”
“Just listen to him!”
“But what about Terry?”
“Terry’s fucking dead, you stupid bitch! Now get the fuck in the freezer and be lucky you’re walking in, instead of feet first, you hear what I’m screaming?”
“FUCK YOU! You killed Terry!”
Jon heard the fist hit her, the uugh as she crumpled to the floor.
“Now don’t you fucking move!” one of the robbers told her. “This ain’t over yet.”
Jon saw a line of light sweep across the wall as the door opened and closed, heard the women start a debate. They spoke in intense little whispers.
Jon could not hear much: their words were lost beneath the refrigerator equipment’s constant low drone. He detected no tones of comfort—their sentences were focused verbal exchange, aimed at a specific goal, trying to connect with something almost tangible: survival.
Jon listened to them whisper back and forth, heard the frustration mounting between them as their voices rose. They were like synapses trying to connect in a shattered mind, endlessly firing in the wrong direction, progressing only into further insanity. If they kept it up, they’d get themselves killed. And him too.
He stepped from behind the row of boxes and said, “Shh—I’ve called the cops.”
Both women turned and stared at him with blank expressions. They sat on the floor, knee to knee as they faced each other. The woman in the skirt had streams of mascara down her face, her white stockings soaked in blood and spilled gin. The cashier had one eye swollen shut, a dribble of blood from her left nostril from when the bastard hit her.
“Holy SHIT!”
“Shh! Keep it down—they don’t know he’s here,” said the cashier. “Do they?”
“No.”
“How long have you been here?”
“The whole time. I hid in here right after the shooting started. Called the cops from my cell phone.”
“The cops are outside.”
“I know.”
“Why aren’t they coming in?”
“I don’t know,” Jon said.
“I do,” said the cashier. “This is now a hostage situation. They’re afraid they’d get us killed if they were to barge in here.”
“They’re probably right,” Jon said.
“That’s what I was trying to explain to her,” the cashier said.
“Those fuckers killed my boyfriend.”
“Shit,” Jon said. “Sorry.”
“I’d like to rip their nuts off.”
“Guess you won’t be going Patty Hearst on us, then?”
“Who?”
“Nevermind.”
“I don’t suppose you have a gun or anything, do you?”
“Not on me. You kidding? You know what you have to go through to carry legally in New York State?”
“It was a thought,” said the cashier.
“Yeah, well, this is the last time I leave the house without it, I’m here to tell you.”
“You have one at home?”
“Yeah. SIG P-220. Lot of good it does us here.”
“My boyfriend has a Ruger .22 out in the car.”
“Lot of good that does us here,” said the cashier.
“I don’t know how to use it. That’s what he was going for when...” She started to choke up.
The cashier reached out and hugged her. “It’s okay,” she said.
“No it’s not!”
“Listen,” Jon said. “I’m sorry Terry got shot—but you’ve gotta hold it together. Really. Because if these guys could get away with it, they’d—” The door to the cooler banged open.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
One of the robbers entered the cooler, a pistol in one hand, a roll of duct tape in the other. He looked at Jon—hate-blue eyes locked on him from behind the ski mask. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I...I’m—”
The robber took a step forward. “How the fuck did you get in here?”
“I’ve been—”
Another step. “Motherfucker!” The robber raised his gun.
Jon leaped behind the boxes as the shots rang out. Cold wine cascaded down upon him, drenching his face. The women screamed. The other robber came rushing in, gun at the ready. “What the fuck?”
“Another fucking guy in here!”
“Are you crazy? Fuckin’ Police outside! Trying to get us killed, dumbfuck?”
With the door open, Jon could hear the cops on a megaphone: “What was that? Is everyone all right? We heard shots. I’m telling you guys, if we don’t see those hostages right now, we’re coming in.”
“Tape him up with the rest. Bring ’em all out here. Fuck. Another goddamned hostage. Shit. This fucking sucks. Goddamnit! I’ma go talk to these pigs. Get ’em ready.”
The robber ripped off a strip of tape and put it over Jon’s mouth. The tape blocked part of his nose, too. It was difficult to breathe, and that air he did suck in tasted like wine and adhesive. Then, the robber wrapped a length of tape around his wrists, locking them behind his back. He covered the women’s mouths next, then led them out of the cooler, single file. Jon at the lead, Terry’s girlfriend in the back. The women’s hands were not bound, he learned, when the cashier gave his hand a squeeze as they were marched to the front of the liquor store.
The light hurt his eyes; he had become accustomed to the darkness of the cooler, but was thankful for the relative warmth. Though he went into the cooler by choice, now, soaked with wine and the sweat of fear, he was glad to be out of it—it was far too much like a cell. He heard the other robber speaking to the police.
“Hey, yo...Easy, man. Nobody’s hurt. Just saw a spider, is all. My partner hates bugs.”
“Very funny. Where are the hostages? I’m going to count to five.”
“Easy, easy. We’s bringing ’em out now.”
“One.”
“Hurry the fuck up, willya?” said the robber by the door to his partner.
“Two.”
“I’m coming!”
“Three.”
The robber gave all of them a shove, and they stumbled toward the front. Jon stepped even with the door of the liquor store, saw the cops outside in their riot gear, shotguns and pistols held at a low ready. When he stepped into view, most lowered their weapons a moment. Thank God. He’d had one gun aimed at him today, and that was more than enough.
Never again. I ain’t ever leaving the house without that goddamned gun again. Fuck these democrats wanting to make me a victim.
Jon nodded to the cops. They acknowledged him with subtle movements of hand and head. They knew there were hostages in there, and would not risk them unnecessarily. Just seeing them there gave him an overwhelming sense of relief. He did not want the cops to come in shooting, have himself get caught in the crossfire, and end up like Terry on the floor, there, cooling in a pool of blood and cheap booze. Terry. Poor bastard.
Jon didn’t want to, but he looked anyway. A fly landed on Terry’s neck, right at the entrance wound, and was busily rubbing its front legs together as it flitted around his skin. Jon wished he could shoo it off—it was wrong for the fly to be landing on Terry like that. Jon was offended by its audacity until he realized that he had never met Terry when he was alive—Terry was dead moments after the robbery began. He looked over toward Terry’s girlfriend—whatever her name was. She refused to turn to see Terry’s corpse. Just as well. Jon wanted to offer her a word of reassurance and comfort, but the sentiments wilted in his mouth, for he, like the others, was a duct tape mute.