Deadly Messengers (25 page)

Without thanking him, the server took his money and said, “There’ll be a wait of approximately five minutes. Sorry, we’ve been slammed.”

Acne Boy added the glimpse of a smile.

He wasn’t
really
sorry.
No, he wasn’t.

Then he pointed just off to the side, to a dimly lit area of the lot. “Park over there. We’ll get your food out to you when it’s done. If you prefer, park in general parking, come inside and wait near the counter. Here’s your receipt.”

Lyall gritted his teeth.
Calm, Lyall, calm.

“If I wanted to get out of my car, go inside and get my food, I wouldn’t have lined up for fifteen minutes in your drive-thru, would I?”

The kid’s face reddened. His spots seemed to melt together in an ugly, crusty, inflamed mask, perfectly matching how Lyall felt inside.

“I said we’re sorry, sir. We’re short-staffed.”

The boy shrugged, palms held face-up as though he was Jesus floating above his flock.

Lyall wanted to reply: “Fuck your staff problem.” Instead as he hung on to the doctor’s voice, he said, “Okay, but you’d better get my meal to me in the five minutes or I’ll—”

The kid turned and walked away from the window. He hadn’t even waited for Lyall’s full reply, leaving him sitting there like some kind of idiot, one-upped by a pimple-faced kid.

Lyall eased the car toward the waiting bay. There was another car there: the woman who’d given him the finger and her bouncy children. The three brats still leaped around as though the seats were trampolines, the mother screaming at them, uncaring he was watching. Even with the window closed, he heard her.

He thought of his own son, Jamie, out there somewhere with Karina. Gone. For good. Maybe
he
was the lucky one. Maybe his son was bouncing around with Karina yelling at him. Even so, he wished he were there to yell at his own son. Why did she get to do that and not him?
No, that was wrong.
He didn’t want to yell at Jamie. He wanted to play with his son, be there for him.

Something exploded in his head. Something wild. The fury, the despair, the unfairness of this life flooded through his mind and his heart.

Calm. Calm. You can do this Lyall. You can—.

No-thank-you Dr. Willis, I won’t remain calm.

The clock read seven forty-five, the numbers blurred through a red haze.

Where did that color come from?

He should be home at this moment, watching TV, having eaten his fill, having salved his hunger. Why was he here, sitting in the dark, watching this woman scream at her brats, with Mr. Future-acne-scars mocking him as if he, Lyall Wright, were a cosmic joke?

Rage exploded like the carnival game where the metal puck shoots up to hit the bell after you swing a hammer. It fucking hit his bell like a rocket launched.

Ding. Ding. Ding. You win the prize. Finally.

Fuck Dr. Willis and his calm, calm, calm.

Lyall leaned down to reach for the lever beneath the seat to flip the trunk latch. He stepped out of the car and moved to the trunk, a yawning and dark hollow calling to him.

It was wrapped in a towel, nestled snugly at the back, long, black, and powerful, waiting for him.

Ding. Ding. Ding. You win the prize.

The hunger was gone. He no longer cared about Dr. Willis, Jamie, Karina, or any fucking thing. He’d had enough of the world and its poor service. He’d deliver a complaint to the Burger Boys’ chain. It mightn’t be official, but one thing for sure they’d be getting the message loud and clear.

WHEN THE CUSTOMER FIRST ENTERED the dining area and stood at the back of the line, Charlie didn’t notice him at first.

They’d been slammed tonight. Everybody living within a ten-block radius must have decided Friday night was eat-out night. He felt bad every time he repeated: “Sorry, the wait will be a few minutes.”

They weren’t even close to keeping up. Clumps of people had grouped a few feet to the side of the counter, while others sat at the one nearest vacant table—not that there were many of them—staring hopefully at the counter staff every time an order was stacked on a tray.

This was what you got when three people call in sick claiming flu thirty minutes before their shift. You got chaos times ten and grumpy customers times twenty. Charlie flipped back and forth between the counter and the drive thru, seemingly getting nowhere fast. As soon as he served five customers, another five replaced them.

Tomorrow he’d talk to his dad about quitting this job. It sucked. He didn’t need complete strangers spamming him with their frustrations. The guy he’d just served at the window seemed ready to explode.
Screw this for a joke
. These days he had too many assignments and too much homework. He was falling as far behind with his schoolwork as they were tonight with the orders.

His manager had told him to prioritize the drive thru orders. “Lines of cars looks bad for the business,” he’d said.

He’d followed the manager’s orders, but Charlie couldn’t do much. It was down to the cooks. Three cars were now in the waiting bays. That woman with the kids who couldn’t make up her mind hadn’t helped matters, either. Minimum wage wasn’t enough to deal with this crap.

When he did spot the asshole from the drive thru, he recognized him immediately. He’d been kind of creepy; something about his eyes said
Freaksville.
Charlie had actually slammed the window closed, even though the guy was still talking. He wasn’t paid to serve weirdoes.

Freaksville moved from the back of the restaurant to stand in the area between the tables and the counter, blending in with the other customers awaiting orders. Maybe he’d come in to change his order. He didn’t move toward the counter, though. Instead he stopped near the window staring at the menu above the counter, rocking from one foot to the other.

Even though Charlie was busy loading an order on to a tray, he kept glancing toward Freaksville. Something about him was off center.
Way off.
Maybe he wanted to put in a complaint to the store manager. Charlie started thinking back, wondering if he’d served him properly. He
had
been a bit short. He’d actually pretended he couldn’t hear him properly on the drive thru speaker. Possibly he could say Charlie was rude. Well, what was he supposed to do on such a busy night? They couldn’t blame him, surely? Blame the shitheads who didn’t turn up for their shift.

Charlie pushed the completed tray toward a customer, and checked Freaksville again. He felt certain the guy had simply forgotten something on his order. That had to be it.

His gaze traveled from Freaksville’s face down his body. He looked like a hobo; his dirty, holed t-shirt hung limply over tattered jeans. His thick, ragged hair could use a wash, too. Maybe not a hobo, but he had an I-don’t-give-a-shit air. Why did Charlie have to get
him
as a customer?

Charlie had missed spotting the rifle the first time he’d looked. The gun must have been held behind his back. He had no time to tell anyone. He didn’t even have time to say “gun.” Charlie watched, speechless, as Freaksville raised the weapon to stomach-height and scanned it around the room.

This can’t be real.
I’m meant to do something now
.
What, freaking, WHAT?

Every staff member was trained on hold-up procedures, but he couldn’t think of a single thing to do.
Except, run away
. Was
run away
a procedure?

Adrenaline deluged his body. With that, he suddenly remembered. Instructions flooded into his mind: Give them the money. Don’t offer resistance. Don’t make sudden movements. Alert someone in authority.

Where the shit was the manager?

There’s a gunman in the store. The manager should deal with gunmen.

Oh, shit, what was he supposed to do?

Suddenly, someone in a group of waiting people took any decision out of Charlie’s hands when a woman screamed. Like some kind of mental transference, everyone in the gunman’s immediate vicinity realized the reason for the scream. As if a mini-bomb had erupted between Freaksville and the other customers, immediately a wide circle of space appeared around him.

A cacophony of scraping chairs and murmurs erupted. Frightened voices filled the restaurant, as word spread instantly around the room. A hundred plus eyes turned toward Freaksville and his gun. At the far side of the dining room a baby began to cry. A child’s voice called out, “Mommie, that man has a gun.” Then the sound of a woman shushing the child.

If Charlie’s heart beat any faster, it would crack his ribs.

Alert someone in authority
banged in his head.

He didn’t know if he could do it. He didn’t know if he could move. While he could see Freaksville, he felt a modicum of safety. If he turned away…
shit, was he actually going to die?

Freaksville continued to scan the room, the rifle held a little higher. Charlie couldn’t see if his finger was on the trigger. He, also, didn’t want the guy to notice him. Freaksville might remember it was him. It might piss him off. He didn’t want to piss him off or stand out in the crowd.

Slowly he turned just his head to look over his shoulder toward the kitchen. Through tight barely-moving lips, he half-whispered, “Cody. Codeee!”

Cody, the manager, should be in the kitchen keeping the cooks on pace. He didn’t answer. Charlie turned back to face ahead.

What was he meant to do?
A panic button was situated at the end of the bench, but he was too far away.
No sudden movements.

Without being told, the restaurant patrons had suddenly stopped talking. Even the crying sounds were muffled. Several coughs came from a nearby table, piercing the silence like a gunshot.

Shit
,
don’t think gunshot
.
Not
like a gunshot.
Like a cough
.
Like a cough.
This was all going to be nothing. No gunshots.

Freaksville wanted money for drugs, for food, or for whatever a freak would need. He’d get the money and go.

Not like a gunshot. There would be no gunshots.

Charlie had done nothing wrong today, except come to work. This wasn’t meant to happen. Not to him. Not to anyone who’d just wanted a fast food fix.

Just get on with it, Freaksville, so we can all go home.

His hand shook like it was minus-thirty inside. He moved the out-of-control appendage slowly to grasp the edge of his register, to still the tremors. It didn’t work.

Why hadn’t the freak spoken?
He just stood there, all zombie stare, panning the gun like it was a camera and he didn’t know what to film.

Shit, where was Cody?

He risked a half-body turn to the kitchen and snatched a glimpse of Cody standing over the fry station, directing more fries to be loaded into each basket.

Charlie whispered as loud as he dared. “Phsst. Cody, you need to be here.” To him, it sounded so freaking loud, he might as well have shouted.

Cody looked up. Must have seen the look on Charlie’s face. He moved quicker than Charlie had ever seen him move. In a second, he’d skidded to a stop at the counter. Charlie nodded toward Freaksville, who’d now raised the rifle to chest height and held it stiffly out from his body. He moved the weapon up and down as though beating the air with it. The gunman muttered under his breath, but the words were indistinct.

Why wasn’t he speaking, demanding money, taking hostages, doing something, for shit’s sake?

Cody held up his arms, even though the gunman hadn’t said “hands up.”

His boss’s voice sounded surprisingly calm. “Okay, man, no need for the gun. You can have everything in the tills. No problems. Okay?”

Cody kept one hand in the air; with the other, he slowly reached down and hit a register button. The manager was a real hardass. He barely smiled on the best of days. Charlie flicked a glance toward Cody. He was, also, pretty kickass. He hadn’t even raised a sweat. Charlie felt as though he was
drowning
in sweat. His underarms were wet and sticky, and he desperately wanted to reach up and wipe the wetness dripping down his face.

No sudden movements,
stopped him.

The cash drawer slid out, the sound cutting the air like a rocket launch. The drawer protruded between Charlie and Cody like a cubicle divider.

“See, man, it’s all yours. Probably a few grand in all of them. Can I move to the next one, please, sir?”

Cody took a few hesitant steps around Charlie, and then moved along the counter.

Freaksville’s gaze flipped to the next register, but still he didn’t speak. He just followed the manager with the gun, as he traveled to the next register, where Cody gingerly pushed a button to slide out the drawer.

Everything was surreal, so quiet, so civilized. No one moved a chair. No one tried to escape. Probably no one believed anything would happen, that they’d just have a scary story to tell their friends.

That’s what Charlie thought:
This was one to tell the gang, if he didn’t die
.
Of course, he wouldn’t die. That didn’t happen to kids like him.

Random sobs erupted around the room. Many quickly stifled by hands over mouths. Charlie wanted to cry, too, but he didn’t dare, didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Cody was in the spotlight now. He could stay there.