Bells above the liquor store’s door jingled merrily, a small, cheerful sound on a night thick with snow and cold. Pearl looked from her crossword puzzle, pencil paused mid-word, to see two figures: one heavyset, the other shorter, skinnier, both faces shadowed by hoodies. The shorter’s hoody hung on him like wash on a line. The heavier one muttered low-voiced as they moved towards the register.
Pearl’s heart skipped as the larger figure drew a weapon. “Don’t move!” His voice was rough, almost ragged. This close she could see his face, eyes sunken and skin covered with sores.
“You hear me?” The sore-faced man asked. “Don’t move—just open the register and hand over the cash.”
Mind blank, Pearl stood stock still except for her racing pulse. She had been afraid before. This was different—sharp and cold, but strangely clarifying. The soft strains of Silent Night from the little radio behind the counter seemed oddly crisp. She smelled spilled beer somewhere in the store. Something still escaped her though—something she was supposed to remember in this kind of situation…
“Now!” The big man slammed the pistol’s butt against the counter, shocking Pearl to awareness. His bulky body seemed to fill the store, blocking all light, barring any exit. She’d quietly lived seventy years while wars raged in far places and the neighborhood changed around her. Nothing had prepared her to face a gun. Her fingers nervously danced across the register’s keys, the machine buzzing angrily.
“What’s the problem?” the heavy man roared, shoving the gun nearer Pearl.
“She’s scared, Doug!” the younger, skinnier one shouted, the first he’d spoken.
He fidgeted behind his partner. He also had a gun, but it drooped towards the floor. He glanced from Pearl to Doug, eyes darting like prancing reindeer. His free hand wouldn’t stay still—he shoved it into his pocket, pulled it out, rubbed his eyes, his nose. His face had the same sores as the big man’s, but they seemed to weigh more heavily on him.
His eyes were still human, though; Doug’s looked like a hunted animal’s. The boy saw Pearl as a person, not just an obstacle. “Silent night, holy night,” the radio droned, piercing her hazy thoughts. Now she remembered.
“Let’s just go,” he said suddenly, words spilling in a rush. His voice cracked, like he was entering puberty. He grabbed Doug’s arm. “C’mon, this ain’t right, man. It’s Christmas Eve.”
“Get off me!” Doug yelled, elbows shoving outwards before turning on the boy. His sneer tightened into something nastier.
The kid’s gaze met Pearl’s for an instant. “I just—Look, leave her alone. I’ll think of something else, okay? We’ll get the cash.”
“Dumbass.” Doug snorted. “Like she’s gonna let us walk—”
The gunshot cut him short, the sound deafening in the confined space. Recoil sent Pearl stumbling backwards. Dazed, she raised her head, watching horrified as the boy crumpled, folding like a string-cut marionette. Bright-red blood pooled around him, bringing to mind the sweet Christmas wine bottle she’d broken on her first day, the week before.
The song reminded her of the silent alarm button beneath the counter—and the revolver. Mr. Gibbons, the owner, said not to hesitate handing over money in a robbery, but to defend herself if she felt threatened. She’d pressed the button, but she’d aimed for the bigger man.
Pearl’s ears rang, the sensation suffocatingly heavy. She and Doug stared at one another in mutual disbelief.
Doug recovered first. His gun rose.
“Please don’t,” Pearl said, softly. “Police are coming.”
Doug looked from Pearl to his dead cousin, Eddie. The addiction’s fire burned hotter than any Yule-log, hurting like hell, demanding he feed it—but he was still alive. He dropped the pistol.
Minutes later, the door jingled again, police this time. Wildly spinning red and blue lights splashed the store with merry color. Pearl set down the revolver. An officer was saying, “…Saved yourself tonight. Maybe even other people.” She stared at her shaking hands, remembering how the boy had collapsed, a weight like she’d never known in her chest. Like the smell of burnt gunpowder, or the stains on the floor, this holiday memory would linger.
~ fin ~
Brandon Barrows is the author of several crime and mystery novels. His most recent is And Of Course, There Was the Girl from Full Speed Publishing. He has also published over one hundred short stories and is a three-time Mustang Award finalist and a two-time Derringer Award nominee. Find more at http://www.brandonbarrowscomics.com and on Twitter @BrandonBarrows
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