Terminal by Brian Keene

Author:Brian Keene [Keene, Brian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Terror
ISBN: 9780553587388
Publisher: BernyBenuyas
Published: 2015-01-16T16:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

At first, I thought Sherm killed Keith. Then another gunshot rang out and I realized that they were coming from outside. The customers started screaming again, growing louder and more frenzied, and Sherm ran out from the vault, pushing Keith in front of him as a human shield.

“What the fuck, Tommy?” The no-names rule had completely gone out the window. I’d slipped and called him by his name when he shot Leather Jacket. Now they knew my name as well.

“I don’t know, man. Somebody’s shooting outside.”

“Five-oh?”

“Fuck if I know, Sherm. I ain’t sticking my head out to see.”

Another gunshot boomed across the parking lot. Just then, a bloodied and haggard figure stumbled through the front door. Sherm and I raised our pistols at the same time.

John shrieked.

“Don’t shoot! D-don’t shoot, you guys! It’s m-me— John!”

He collapsed to his knees, hands clutching his stomach. Blood seeped between his fingers— dark blood, almost black. It soaked through his sweatshirt and jacket, and little flecks of it decorated his neck, cheeks, and forehead. He’d been gutshot, and I’d seen enough movies to know that wasn’t a good thing. Images of Tim Roth in Reservoir Dogs rushed through my head. I started toward him and almost tripped over the old man and the kid.

“Tommy,” John pleaded, “help me, man! Please? My stomach is hot— it’s burning up. It’s on fire. Hurts! F-fucking shot me…”

Deciding that the old man and his heart attack would have to wait, I ran to John, catching him as he sank to the floor. Sliding my hands under his armpits, I dragged him farther inside the lobby, away from the door. He whimpered, but whether from fear or pain I don’t know. His breath smelled sour and he spoke through clenched teeth, his words harsh and clipped.

“C-can’t believe he fucking s-shot me…”

“Shhh,” I soothed. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re going to be all right, John.”

His hand slipped away from his stomach and I caught a glimpse of the wound peeking out at me from beneath the burned fabric. It didn’t look good. I sat down, crossed my legs, and cradled his head in my lap, wiping the bloodstains from his face with my shirtsleeve. Tears slid from his eyes, and the panic in his voice increased.

“Oh, it h-hurts! I’m gonna d-die, Tommy! My stomach feels h-hot. It’s hot and it f-feels like somebody p-punched me. I’m dying!”

“You’re not gonna die, John. You hear me? You’re not going to fucking die!”

“I’m scared, T-tommy. I don’t w-want to d-die. I don’t want to g-go to hell. I’m afraid of hell. Don’t l-let me die. Don’t let me go to hell!”

He coughed blood. A lot of blood. Red froth bubbled from his lips and dribbled down his chin in long, ropy strands. I wondered if that was what I looked like when I got sick.

“There’s no such thing as hell, John. You’re going to be okay. Just lie still, dog.”

“I-I don’t w-want to die. Don’t want to d-die. Please… S-scared of hell…”

“Stop it, John!”

“Can’t catch m-my breath.

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