The Cage (2 page)

“I’m s-sorry, sir. W-we’re closed.” The keys jingled in Alan’s shaking hand.

Jeff thought that in a surreal way, Alan’s statement was sort of bizarrely comical. He wondered for a second if the man with the shotgun would say, “Oh, I’m terribly sorry about that. Please forgive me” and then just walk back out to the parking lot.

He didn’t. Instead, the man let the glass doors slide shut behind him. He stared at Alan. Alan stared at him. A strange silence seemed to fill the store. Jeff held his breath. Then the intruder motioned at Alan with the barrel of the black shotgun.

“Lock the doors. Then give me the keys. Do anything else and you’ll die.”

His voice was perfunctory—his tone matter-of-fact. He spoke with an almost clinical detachment, as if the instructions he was giving Alan were the most boring, tedious thing in the world.

Alan didn’t move, except for his trembling hands. He continued staring at the man with the gun. As Jeff and the others watched, Alan opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again with a small moan. His eyes blinked rapidly.

“Do it.” The man glanced away from Alan, quickly scanning the rest of the store. His demeanor was unperturbed.

Jump him,
Jeff thought.
Now, while his attention is on us. He’s not that big. You could take him, Alan. Get the shotgun and turn it on him. Or grab one of those pistols.

Alan did none of this. Instead, he stuttered, “W-what?” A dark stain spread across the crotch of his khaki slacks. Even from behind the sales counter, Jeff could smell the sudden, pungent tang of piss. The keys continued to jingle in Alan’s hand. Then the rest of him began to shake, as well.

Sighing, the intruder raised the shotgun, set the stock against his armpit and shoulder, and pulled the trigger. The weapon jumped in the gunman’s hands. The explosion boomed across the store. In that split second, Alan seemed as surprised as everyone else. Then half of Alan’s head disappeared. The pulped remains splattered all over the microwave oven display behind him. Jeff caught a glimpse inside Alan’s head—teeth, nasal cavities, and the dripping gray and pink curds that were all that remained of his brain. Then Alan stumbled backward and slapped at a microwave with one flailing hand. His fingers slid across the buttons on the control panel, accidentally pressing them, and the unit hummed to life. The little light came on inside of the microwave, illuminating the blood dripping down the door. The turntable began to spin. Alan slid to the floor. Something slipped out of his head and splattered onto the carpet. His one remaining eye stared sightlessly. Blood jetted from him like water from a fountain, until his heart stopped. Then, the crimson flow became a trickle.

Jeff became aware that he was shouting, but he couldn’t hear himself over the echoing blast. His ears rang as the sound of the gunshot faded.

Jared said, “What the fuck?” Jeff couldn’t tell if his co-worker was screaming it, or merely mouthing the words.

The man in black moved quickly. He reached down, scooped up the key ring with one hand, and then turned his back on them. He checked the keys, one by one, searching for one that would fit in the lock. He seemed unconcerned that they might rush him or run away. In truth, Jeff didn’t even consider it. He would have, just moments ago, but watching Alan’s head blow up changed everything. Now, instead of fleeing, he just stood there behind the counter, stunned and numb, unable to act or to even think straight. His ears still rang, but he could hear again—at least partially. Jared stood next to him, screaming and pulling his hair. Big Bill still loomed behind them, but for once, the fat man was uncharacteristically silent. In an odd way, that seemed even more unreal to Jeff than Alan getting his head blown off. Still clutching his cell phone, Scott bent over and puked on the carpet. Carlos ducked down behind the television displays in an attempt to hide, but his loud wails and shrieks gave his location away. Roy and Clint dropped their still-lit cigarettes and fled into the warehouse. Jeff held his breath and watched them go.

The intruder grunted in satisfaction as a key slid into the lock. He turned it, locked the door, and then faced them again, dropping the keys into his pants pocket.

“I only need six,” he said.

His voice was still unperturbed. Calm. The intruder projected an aura of confidence and self-assuredness that would have been almost soothing under different circumstances. To Jeff, he sounded like an accountant or a social worker. Jeff made his living by figuring people out. Selling them expensive televisions and surround sound systems was secondary. You couldn’t close a sale until you knew your prey. You had to know what made them tick—had to know what methods would make them buy. A good salesman was nothing more than a student of people. Within two minutes of a customer walking into the store, Jeff could usually figure out what they did for a living, approximately how much they made per year, their marital status, and most importantly, whether they were in the store to pay or to motherfucking play. The gunman was single, or at least unmarried. There was no wedding band on his finger, and no white circle on the skin, left behind from where a ring would have been. His hair was neat. Not too short, but not too long, either. Professionally cut and styled. He had no facial hair, and his clean-shaven cheeks were free of five o’clock shadow. The intruder carried himself like a professional. He was efficient, no-nonsense, and very businesslike. Jeff guessed that he made over one-hundred thousand dollars a year.

Other than the guns, the knife, and the fact that he’d just blown Alan’s head off, the man in black seemed totally normal—until the black sunglasses slid down his nose, and Jeff looked into his eyes. What he saw there chilled him. The man’s eyes were dead and full of darkness. The man in black was definitely here to pay, rather than play. He was not fucking around. This was a no-nonsense individual. He knew what he wanted and he intended to get it. Jeff suddenly felt dizzy. The ringing in his ears—which had almost faded—grew louder again. His breath caught in his chest.

The intruder pushed the sunglasses back up on his nose and motioned with the shotgun barrel, pointing it at Scott, who was wiping puke from his lips with his tie.

“You. Get up here. Bring me the cell phone.”

Scott made a noise like a squawking bird. The cell phone slipped from his fingers and clattered softly onto the gray-carpeted floor, narrowly missing the puddle of vomit.

“Pick it up,” the man ordered. “Bring it up here, or you end up like your co-worker.”

Groaning, Scott bent over, not taking his eyes off the intruder, and fumbled with the cell phone. He walked to the front of the store, head bowed, eyes on the carpet, holding the phone out in front of him like an offering to a god or king. He shuffled the last few feet and then stopped in front of the gunman. Scott glanced up. Jeff could see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, although he wasn’t speaking. When the man reached for the cell phone, Scott flinched.

“You call the cops?”

“No.” Scott’s voice was barely a whisper. “I was leaving my girlfriend a message when you walked in. It’s her birthday today.”

“It’s more than that. Today is a very important day. The most important day of all.”

“I…I don’t understand.”

“That’s okay. You will. Did you tell her what was happening?”

Scott shook his head. “No, I had just hung up, before…”

He glanced at Alan’s corpse and the rest of the sentence died in his throat.

The man flipped open the phone and after studying it for a moment, scrolled through Scott’s text messages and list of calls. Regaining some of his bravery, Jeff mentally urged Scott to rush the intruder while he was distracted. Sure, the guy was armed, but he couldn’t kill all of them at once, could he? If Scott would just be so kind as to possibly sacrifice himself, maybe the rest of them would get out of this alive. He wondered if Clint and Roy had gone out the back door. The warehouse was quiet—no sign they were still hiding back there. With luck, they were racing across the parking lot right now, calling 911 or shouting for help.

The man motioned with the shotgun again. “Everybody come out from behind the counter. Be quick about it. Line up over here, facing me. No talking. Remain still. Don’t test me.”

Jared made a squawking noise that reminded Jeff of a turkey. The two of them shuffled out from behind the counter, hands over their heads. Jeff’s dizziness increased. He wobbled as he walked, and took deep breaths through his mouth. He felt his hands shaking above his head, and his pulse throbbed in his throat and temples. Nearby, Carlos crawled forward on his hands and knees, sobbing.

“And the two of you back there in the warehouse can come on out, too,” the man shouted. “I know you didn’t escape. I made sure of it before I came in. I blocked the rear exit and the loading door. You can’t get out that way. No use hiding.”

Roy and Clint tip-toed out of the back room, hands up in surrender. Their faces were pale and covered in sweat. Both men were older than the rest of their co-workers. Seeing their appearance, Jeff wondered if they were having heart attacks. Then sweat trickled into his eye, stinging it, and he realized that he probably looked as scared and disheveled as they did.

“You too, fat boy.” The killer pointed at Big Bill. “Get out here.”

“Now look here,” Big Bill hollered in what was his normal, blustery speaking voice—the voice he used to berate and badger customers into buying extended warranty service when they didn’t want it. “I don’t know who the hell you are, or what your major malfunction is, but that’s enough of this nonsense. If you want money, we’ll give it to you, but if you think we’re—”

The shotgun was even louder the second time. Jeff closed his eyes to stop the room from spinning. He heard Scott puke again. Carlos and Jared screamed. Roy yelled something—it might have been “No” or “Oh.” Jeff couldn’t tell and didn’t really care. When the shotgun blast faded, silence filled the store again—a noise-less vacuum shaped like Big Bill himself. Jeff opened his eyes.

Big Bill had been legendary among home electronics salesmen in Pennsylvania and Maryland. Over the years, he’d worked in all the usual places—Rex, Circuit City, Best Buy, Sears, American Appliance, and all the others. He’d been there when satellite television was brand new. He’d been there when projection screens were the next big thing, and when they became archaic, giving way to plasma and liquid crystal display. He’d even been there when compact discs made cassettes as extinct as eight-track tapes and vinyl. Big Bill had seen it all. He knew the trends. He knew the technology. Most importantly, he knew what people wanted and he knew how to sell it to them.

Eventually, he’d opened his own store, going toe-to-toe with the big box retailers in the area. Business had blossomed, despite the flagging economy. Bill knew the specs of every item in the store, and if he didn’t know the specs, he’d bullshit his way through it, in order to make the sale. Big Bill was a closer. He was a pit bull, refusing to take no for an answer. He didn’t give his customers a chance to think about it, or price shop else-where. Instead, he blitzed them with a bewildering barrage of technical data and price point information and flattery until they made a purchase just to escape him or shut him up. Big Bill liked to talk. If he wasn’t twisting a customer’s arm, then he jabbered at his employees, testing their product knowledge or giving them sales pointers. Big Bill was loud, obnoxious, and never laconic. He worked seven days a week, open to close, fueled on all-day combinations of coffee and energy pills and Red Bull. The store was his life. There was nobody waiting for him at home. Nothing to distract him on weekends. He had no hobbies or pets or loved ones. The only other things in Big Bill’s life were an ex-wife and two kids who he never got to see because he was always working.

Despite all of his faults, Bill’s employees respected him. Behind his back, they used to call him Bumble, after the creature from
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
. The nickname had been apt, not only because Bill was large and loud, but because beneath it all, he had a good heart. He might piss them off throughout the day, but when push came to shove, he always had their backs, and he
always
took care of them.

And now he was dead, and his silence seemed strange and unfathomable to Jeff. It was hard to imagine not listening to Bill push an extended service plan on a customer ever again, or hear him breathing heavy on Friday mornings after unloading that week’s deliveries from the truck, or berating Scott to “shake a hand and make a friend”—just one of his sales mantras. (Scott was always reluctant to approach customers when they first entered the store, preferring instead to give them time to look around for themselves before offering his assistance, and it had been a point of contention between the two.)

Jesus,
Jeff thought.
Jesus Christ, this is really happening. This is really fucking happening.

“Why did you do that?” Carlos sobbed. “Why would you fucking do that?”

The gunman shrugged. “I told you. I only need six.”

“What does that mean?” A long strand of mucous dripped from Carlos’s nose. “You’re fucking crazy, puta.”

“No,” he whispered. “I’m not the crazy one. You are. All of you are. I’ll show you. Just wait and see.”

“L-look,” Jeff stuttered, hating the fear and panic in his voice. “We don’t want anymore trouble. Just—”

“Enough talking.” With the barrel of the shotgun, the killer motioned to the warehouse door. “Let’s go. Everyone into the back. No talking. Step out of line and I’ll kill you all. And I’ll do it slowly, because having to kill all of you would really piss me off. If that happened, then I’d have to do this all over again a year from now, and tonight would be a total loss. He doesn’t want to wait a year.”

Jeff felt a sick surge of jubilation. The guy wasn’t making a lot of sense, but from what he was saying, it sounded like he might let the rest of them live, and Jeff desperately wanted to do that. But if so, then why had he insisted that he only needed six of them alive? What did that mean? For what purpose did he need them? Everything was happening so quickly. Jeff tried to sort it all out, but he couldn’t decide what was happening. Was this a robbery, a hostage situation, or just some lone nut on a shooting spree? Or was it something else?

They marched single-file into the warehouse. Clint was in the lead. Their captor brought up the rear. They walked in silence, shoes scuffing the carpet, and none of them turned around to face the gunman. Jeff had never heard the store so quiet. Usually, the televisions and stereos were blaring. After all, you couldn’t sell a high-end surround sound system unless the customer could experience its full power and potential right there in the store. But even when the units were turned off, there was still noise in the store—employees talking or a phone ringing. Now, it was utterly still.

Jeff glanced down and realized that they’d walked through Alan’s blood. Red footprints marked their passage. When all of them were inside the warehouse, the killer shut the door and ordered them to stop. Jeff stared up at the fluorescent lights and held his breath.