Chapter 2
Gemma
This can’t be happening. I stand there, frozen in place, as what seems like a dozen mask men swarm the Silver Star. To his credit, Jimmy is a blur of motion instead of a block of ice like me.
“Oh my god!” he squeals like a pig while making a dash for the cash register. “Oh my god, oh my god! We’re going to be killed!”
It shows where my manager’s priorities are. He’s already got one meaty fist in the cash drawer when one of the black-masked men comes up to him.
“Stop,” the masked man hisses. “Put your hands up.”
Jimmy’s sweating bullets and his face is red and puffy.
“I was getting the money to give to you,” he babbles tearily. “I swear! I wasn’t going to take it for myself or anything.”
That makes no sense whatsoever, and the masked man agrees. He jerks his head and says, “On your knees.”
Jimmy’s chin trembles and he looks like he’s about to cry. His hands waver in the air and as I watch, horrified, one big tear rolls down his nose before dropping off the tip.
“Oh my!” he wails. “Oh, what’s going to become of us?”
This is weird. He sounds like a damsel in distress from a Shakespearean play, rather than the rat bastard that I know he is. But the masked man isn’t amused at all.
“On your knees,” he growls again.
This time, Jimmy listens. Even as tears roll down his face, he tries to lower himself to his knees with both hands on his head. But that’s the problem. Jimmy’s about a hundred pounds overweight, and instead of sinking gracefully to his knees, he trembles for a moment and then falls in a clumsy heap on the floor.
“Oh!” he cries in a high, panicked voice. “Oh my! My knee! I have weak knees- Ahhhhh!” he screams.
Because this gunman is a madman. Instead of giving my manager a well-deserved kick or a blow to the head with the butt of his weapon, instead the gunman takes aim and then shoots. He’s blown Jimmy’s kneecap and my boss is now squirming on the floor in a pile of wobbly flesh while grabbing at his knee.
“My kneeeee!” he screams in agony. “My knee!”
The blood pooling beneath him is horrendous. It’s dark red and seems to grow exponentially larger as I watch, becoming a small lake on the diner floor.
“My kneeee!” Jimmy screams again. “I’m dying!”
Clearly, someone who’s screaming, “I’m dying,” is probably not dying. But I can sympathize with my boss even if he’s been absolutely horrible to me. No one deserves to be shot in the knee, even if they’re mean to their reports and unnecessarly cruel. So I run over to the gunman as he takes aim again.
“Please!” I gasp, kneeling beside my boss as he cries in agony. “He’s just a big baby! Take pity on someone who’s only a child!”
The gunman snorts and raises his piece again, taking aim once more. This time, it’s at Jimmy’s head. Fearing the worst, I throw myself over the trembling pile of flesh that’s my manager, shielding him with my body.
“Please!” I whimper again. “He’s nothing more than a child. Surely you can’t be so cruel as to shoot a child.”
The gunman doesn’t seem moved at all. In fact, I can practically see his finger pulling down on the trigger, and time seems to stop as my life plays out in slow motion before my eyes. What have I done with myself? Who’s important to me? Who do I love? The answers to these questions are scary. For one, I’ve done nothing of import. I’m a waitress working full-time at a diner with hopes of saving enough to get into community college one day. I live in a drab apartment that’s seen better days, but it’s the only thing I can afford. My sole companion is a tomcat, Henry, who’s seen better days too. He’s old and scratched up, with half of one ear missing, and seems content to lay on my couch and nap when he’s not eating the cat chow which I can barely afford. As to people, there aren’t many folks who’d notice if I disappeared one day. I’m an orphan, and I suppose the person who means the most to me in life is Mamie. The elderly black lady is my only true friend, and the only person who cares if I live or die.
As I lie crouched over Jimmy, shielding him with my body, Mamie stares at me from the kitchen window.
“You’s go!” she waves wildly. “Go go go!” she mimes.
What? What is she talking about? But it’s all too clear. Mamie doesn’t want me sacrificing myself for a lump like Jimmy. My manager doesn’t deserve it, especially after the way he’s treated me.
But I can’t leave him like this. Again, Jimmy’s probably one of the few people in the world who’d notice if I didn’t show up one day, and besides, no one deserves to die like this. So I hunch over his portly form again, ready to meet death if that’s what Fate has determined. My eyes close, and I begin to dream of a better future. Days where I’m not scrimping and saving every penny I’ve got. Days where I wake up on a bed of clouds, instead of my lumpy, stained mattress. Days where Henry has enough to eat, and doesn’t stay up all night yowling from hunger. The rainbow of dreams has already taken over my mind when suddenly a low voice interrupts my reverie.
“You stupid fuck,” the new voice says to the gunman. “What the fuck is wrong with you? We were told to take their shit, not to kill people. Killing people is Murder One. You ready to sit on death row over someone like this?” he says, gesturing to me and Jimmy huddled on the floor.
“Aw man!” the gunman whines, dropping the muzzle away from us. I let out a relieved sigh even as Jimmy vomits beneath me. The stress has gotten to my manager and he’s not doing well. There’s blood pooling beneath us, and I can almost see it pulsing from his leg. The bullet must have hit something important, and Jimmy’s bleeding out.
Before I can think, I’m speaking.
“Take him to the hospital,” I say. “If you don’t want Murder One, then get him to the hospital now. Otherwise, this is on you,” I say fiercely, turning to the gunman.
He squints at me from behind the black balaclava and lets out another whine.
“Aw, man!” he says. “Shit, this has all gone south so fast.”
But I’m serious.
“He’s bleeding out,” I say with urgency in my voice. “Use your eyes. You can see the blood pulsing from his vein or artery or whatever. He’s going to be dead in minutes if you don’t get him to a hospital. Pick him up and go now!”
Even I’m stunned by the confidence in my voice. Never have I heard myself be so pushy and convincing. Usually, it’s the other way around – I’m the one who’s begging for external affirmation, instead of believing in myself. But my words are true. As the gunman turn to look it’s obvious that Jimmy’s in big trouble. Dark red, almost purple blood is pulsing from his wound in time with his heartbeats. He’s ashen and limp as his life slips away, and even the whines and whimpers from his throat have stopped. Jimmy’s close to death and there’s no denying it.
“NOW!” I practically scream, and that does the trick. The masked men jump into action, and two of them lift Jimmy by the arms while the leader surveys the scene.
“Come on, go, go, go,” he says, pushing the glass door open. “We’ll dump this loser off at the nearest hospital and then get back to base. Come on!” he says.
I stand there as my manager’s hauled across the restaurant floor, streaming blood the entire way. Our customers are stock still and ashen, watching with wide eyes as this scene plays out before them.
“Shouldn’t we take the cash?” one guy whines, gesturing to the open cash register. “Since we’re here, we might as well.”
The boss merely shakes his gun in the air.
“Don’t be so fucking greedy,” he says. “Let’s go!” he yells before letting off a bullet that slams into the ceiling. The guests and staff alike jump, and we huddle again in place, praying for this nightmare to be over.
The glass front door bangs shut, and I hunch in place with my head down. Are they gone? Are we safe now? I can hear sirens in the distance. Oh good, Mamie must have called 9-1-1 as that business with Jimmy went down.
But to my horror, as I’m just about to sit up, a big hand grabs me by the shoulder roughly.
“Come on,” it hisses. “You’re coming too.”
With that, I’m dragged off and hurled into a van before the door slams ominously. We race off into the distance as I stare around in the dimly lit interior. Why have they kidnapped me? Where are we going? More importantly … will I live to tell the tale?