When Pennies Rattle

Convenience Store | 9:12 pm

Front door chimes. New shoppers coming through. I look up, instinctively. Shake my head. Old habits.

Three men enter shouting: "Get dahwn!"

"Get dahwn!" "Wha'd yaw looking at --"

"Get dahwn!" "Dontcha make meh shoot yaw --"

Southern drawl. Louisiana native. Maybe. Maybe Cajun.

Next comes curse word soup. He's into it -- terrorizing.

A flash of metal. South paw shooter. At the register, guns out. Who's in charge? He's waiting for orders. Jumpy. Twitchy.

Take it easy. Easy now.

Peripheral vision's on high alert. Old training's kicking in. Been too long. Too long since I was on the job. More than a decade. Come on. Hold it together.

Breathing slows. Don't think. Do.

S--l--o--w

m--o--t--i--o--n.

Better.

What do you see?

In charge: 6 foot. Red hair. Blue ball cap. Rose tat, a girl's name. Lola. Slight build. Two guns. Three. Third's tucked in back. Black jeans.

Maintains his weapons. All three, well oiled.

Two guns drawn, fingers on. Safety's off. Shit. He's aiming. Ball Cap's in charge. And definitely aiming. The others are ready, overexcited. Hungry for the go ahead.

This is planned. Ball Cap knows someone here. Her. Dark hair. Fuck. He means it. Planned to do it. Came here for her. Won't hesitate. Shit. Target acquired.

Not a robbery. Not a robbery.

His voice turns my stomach. It's smooth, like caramel. Thick with a regional dialect. Home schooling, maybe. Momma's boy.

Spots me. Shit. Can he tell?

Play dumb. You're off the force. Be cool.

"Dahwn bitch." He smiles. Broken right front tooth. Tat under his right eye. Prison. Forest green. Spider? Cricket? Fly. Maybe. Shitty tat.

Need to move closer. Don't overthink it. Be decisive. Breathe. You've got this.

Clanking coins at 10 o'clock. Cashier's tray's hitting slots. Shit.

Cashier's panicking. Don't panic. Anything but that.

Shit. He opened it. He opened his cash register. Why not wait? Give me a sec?

Okay. Let it go. Focus on now. What can you do?

Second gunman slams the drawer. Low yield. Coins mostly. Too late to talk any of 'em down.

Ball Cap's on the move. Pissed. Out of control. Looking for the third guy. Looking for her.

What'd he say? No. Oh no. What'd he say? Move! Move! Now! Shield her. Get there.

Six clicks: Pop-pop. Pop. Pop. Pop-pop. Shit.

Can't get there. Too slow. Nooooo!

Who's hit? Who's hit?

She falls when pennies rattle. Slumps. No chance. Target's down.

I'm hit too.

Might be a through and through. Feel. Can't get my fingers there.

Greedy for cash -- that third gunman. All about cash for him. Addict? Yes. Focus. Where are the others?

Fingers fly over bills, counting, tossing coins. He's pissed. Dumps the last coins from the back of the tray. Spills them across the counter to the floor.

Crack? Can't tell. Points his weapon like a damned fool. Idiot. Kickback like that's a nightmare. No time for surprises. Lacks practice. Can't tell him anything.

Relative of Ball Cap's? Brothers? Cousins? Like brothers.

Teen drops a KitKat. Moving. Shit. Candy aisle earlier and now coffee station. Behind me. Can't see. Come on, please, be quiet. Stay where you are.

I slip to my knees. Losing too much blood. So much blood. Hard to think. Adrenaline's kicking. Apply pressure. Hands are slippery. Blood's under my nails. Everywhere.

Need to check the injured. Need to think. Slow your breathing.

Ball Cap's pacing again. Middle of the store. He's losing it.

Teen's gonna get himself shot. Thinking about his dad now. It's in his eyes. He's sorry for that last thing. Won't help if you get yourself shot. Stay where you are. Might get out alive. But you've got to stay still. Be silent.

"I wanna go home." Big eyes, snot bubbles, salty tears. Terrified. Six, maybe, seven. Where's your mommy, sweetheart? Shit. She's down. Mom's down. Shaking. In shock. Be still.

Trying to mouth "I love you." Except she can't. Kid's moving toward her. No. Please. Holding out her hands. Cannot reach. Stay where you are, kid. Christ.

Too late. Fuck. Pop-pop. Pop.

No!

I can't breathe. Can't move. So much blood. Breathe. What do you see?

Ball Cap's pacing. Scared. Didn't plan for this.

"Not a kid, J. Fuck! Whadyaw dooo?!"

Ball Cap wanted the one capped. Just her. Black hair, green eyes. Taylor tee, shorts, jean jacket, hoop earrings.

He won't go back. Did time. Got out. No way he'll go down. Suicide by cop. He's thinking it now. Go slow. Don't spook him. Whatever you're gonna do, do it now.

"Permission to speak?" Gotta try.

"Whadyaw say?!" Gets in my face. Whisky breath. 6'1. Missed it by an inch. Focus. Breathe. Keep calm.

"Cop's'll be here in seconds - another 20, 30 tops. Station's just down the street--"

"Yaw can't know thaatah." Knocks over the donut case. Ringing metal clanks against the ground. Plastic O's fly everywhere.

"Jawhnny, yaw telling meh yawll ain't checked--"

"She's jerking ya off, man."

Teen's shaking hard, shoulders shuddering. He's hit too. Mid-leg. Bad. What can I use? Tie rack, back of store. Get there. Create a distraction.

"Take me. I'll go with you. Just let everyone else--"

"Think Ah'm stoopid?"

Second shooter steps up. Big man. Weak right knee. Proving himself. Use that.

"Not going according to plan, right? You see that. Don't you? Let me help. I can help." Breathing's getting hard. Punctured lung. Has to be now.

Ball Cap lays hands on his target. She's not dead. He wants her dead. She's not giving him what he came for. She's smiling. Crying and smiling.

"Ain't yours." She's feisty. Hold on.

"You ain't pregnant--" Ball Cap flips his right hand to his forehead. Knocks off his cap with the tip of his barrel. Incidental contact. He's thinking on it. All those times he followed her. All that sneaking she'd done. Was she just hiding that she was carrying his kid?

"Nah, yaw fullashit, darlin." Long drawl. Cajun, definitely. He believes her. He wants it. He's disarmed by this revelation. He didn't suspect that. He wants his chance. His one chance.

Too late for us all, if she dies. This nightmare's gonna become a spree. He won't stop til he's out of ammo. And somewhere out there's a truck full. Long dry stockpile.

He's losing her.

He's smart. Putting pressure on her wound. But his hands aren't strong enough to appease the damage.

She falls to the floor, his guns to his knees, her collapsed body filling up his sights. No way out.

Sirens ring out in all directions. Louder than loud. We're surrounded.

Ball Cap doesn't hear a thing. Only the sound of blood no longer flowing.

_______

Copyright © 04/11/2024 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.

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Author's Note: Leave it here, or choose to read on. Check out Lola to find out what comes next, and what came before...