David E Anderson – Author

Jeffey should have been watching more closely, that’s all. They should have frisked the guard after they took his piece. They hadn’t counted on him carrying a second one in an ankle holster.

Everything had been going smoothly. Ed and Stan were about to grab the money, the staff was cooperating like they were supposed to, and the customers were all down on the floor. Next thing anyone knows, Jeffey’s doing this macabre can-can to the rhythm of the security guard’s gun, blood spattering the window behind him.

The guard was at least forty years old, thin but muscular as hell, his blonde hair beginning to turn white, should have been past his mid-life crisis when a man decides he wants to live forever. Instead here he is putting holes in Jeffey’s body.

Gustav’s just standing there watching, his face blank like he can’t believe the shit that’s happening. Then he’s thrown against the counter with two holes in his stomach.

Stan’s got his gun out, but he don’t wanna fuck with this security guard who just brought down two of his friends, so he sprints for the front door, putting himself out in the open. Ed’s gun is in his jacket pocket, and he can’t even think, so he just follows Stan to get out.

Neither of them are trying to shoot, just to escape, but the security guard starts blasting anyway.

Ed sees the hole appear behind Stan’s left ear, then a shitload of blood and brains sprays out Stan’s face. Stan brings his hands up, still running, and he crashes into a drinking fountain and collapses face-up. His nose is gone.

Ed halts instead of running around Stan. He’s pissed as hell at the guard for shooting his buddies who weren’t really out to hurt anyone, especially Stan who was just trying to get the hell out of the bank.

Ed finds his own gun, draws it, and faces the guard.

The guard stands, looking confident. Customers are hugging the floor or crawling into corners or under tables. It’s totally silent except for a man crying somewhere.

Their guns are aimed. They’re no more than eight yards apart. There’s a moment where they’re sizing each other up like two cowboys in a spaghetti western. All is silent and tense, and the guard’s got a wild look in his green eyes like a hungry animal.

Then the guns crack and bullets buzz. Out of the corner of his eye, Ed sees the customers tensing up in fear of stray bullets.

The guard flies backwards, his legs splaying into the air as he leaves the ground, and Ed can see clearly a line of holes opening across his chest and he goes down dead.

Fuck! The van’s gone! Jack musta heard the shooting and vamoosed! Goddamn sonofabitch coward!

With the alarm blaring directly overhead, announcing his solo escape from the First National Bank of Logan, the time sign innocently flashing that it was 2:46 in the afternoon, Ed tried to let his common sense break through the distraction of the moment. A solution hovered on the horizon.

Would somebody kindly turn that alarm down!

The cops would be pulling up any second. He had to get to…

The station wagon! Yes! In the ramp on Hannaford behind Jacobson’s!

Both the getaway van (a red Dodge Caravan) and the wagon (a brown Olds Custom Cruiser) were stolen. As an added precaution, Jack stole plates from two other vehicles and put them on to make the cars harder to trace.

The Dodge was supposed to be their immediate escape vehicle, the one all on the scene would see and the one the cops would have the A.P.B. out on. Meanwhile, Jack would drive them to the ramp, park it, and they’d all switch into the wagon. They’d drive the wagon out of town with the loot while the cops would be hunting down the Caravan. The whole thing was Jack’s idea and they all admitted it was brilliant.

The ramp was two blocks down Grand and one block up Hollander, and they made copies of the key for everyone in case not everyone made it to the ramp.

He had to get to the ramp, but stay off the main streets. If there was a crowd, he could try blending in with it, but the streets along Grand were dead. Any cops coming down the street would spot him in a second.

He’d have to take the back alleys, so he cut through the drive-thru lanes, which were empty. Cameras overhead filmed his escape, but he knew the attempted robbery and his murder of the guard had already been recorded, and his picture would be all over the media in a half-hour if he wasn’t caught by then. He had to haul his buns out of Logan quick, maybe head for Canada instead of Chicago like they’d planned.

The five of them had been laid off at the local plastics factory, where they made parts for children’s toys, but the company had to either lay off a third of their employees or risk shutting down entirely in the next couple years.

Gustav Van Den Berg, recently divorced, still had a three-bedroom house he was renting and he let the other guys live there while they looked for work, and they split the rent five ways, which came to only a hundred and twenty per person.

Surprise-surprise! Jobs didn’t seem to exist in Michigan, at least not in the Logan area. Jack started doing small-time criminal stuff, selling dope, breaking and entering, et cetera, and eventually they all joined in and managed to live rather comfortably.

Stan suggested the bank job originally, but it was probably intended as a joke. After a while, it began to sound pretty good. Jeffey said they could probably pull in a few hundred thousand if they did it right. But what if we get caught? Ed had asked. Hey, at least they’d get free meals and free room and board for a few years while the Democrats and Republicans tried to untangle the economy. Besides, if they didn’t get caught, they wouldn’t have to worry about nothing for a long time.

The problem with crime, Jack said, is that the bigger the haul, the better the chances of getting caught. You could break into any poor slob’s house and get caught unless you were stupid, but probably with no more than a hundred in cash and merchandise. Breaking into a rich man’s house could get you thousands, but it took some amount of luck not to get caught. A bank job, he said, gave you a fifty-fifty chance of getting straight out and another fifty-fifty chance of being caught down the road, and that only if you knew what you were doing.

They all agreed it was worth the risk.

Only Jack knew how to fire a gun, and he taught each of them, but only so that they’d appear confident in handling them when the time came. None of them wanted to shoot anyone. They all agreed that if the cops showed up or someone in the bank, even a customer, pulled a gun on them, they’d all surrender without a fight.

And they would have if the goddamn guard hadn’t started blasting away at them! If he’d just told them to drop their weapons, they would have, and he would’ve been the hero he wanted to be and they’d all be alive! Ed wouldn’t have been forced to blow the guard away, either. That had only happened because Ed knew the guard was going to pick him off. It had been self-defense.

Like any jury would buy that.

Behind the bank was an alley that ran behind all of the businesses along Grand Avenue, mostly used by delivery and garbage trucks. It wasn’t much to look at, all littered and the walls looking the color of car exhaust. But hey, he didn’t care about the scenery. Hopefully no one would think to check the back alley until Ed was in the ramp.

A short ways down the alley, he sensed someone following. He turned, found himself alone, but still the feeling persisted. Someone was coming!

A shadow flickered, and then he could hear the footsteps in the drive-thru over the still blaring alarm.

Ed dove behind a dumpster.

He reached into his jacket pocket for his pistol, but it wasn’t there. Come to think of it, he didn’t remember having it after shooting the guard. So what had he done with it, then? He couldn’t remember. He shot the guard, left the bank. He must have left it inside.

Shit! He was unarmed, and a cop was closing in on him, maybe a whole bunch.

He could hear the feet coming down the alley, echoing off the buildings. The walker, the cop, he figured, was moving hesitantly, knowing Ed couldn’t have made it out the other end of the alley, knowing Ed was hiding nearby, expecting to be surprised.

Surprise! I’m unarmed!

Ed backed against the wall. The dumpster was too close to the wall for him to squeeze behind it. Once the cop came around the corner, Ed would be in plain sight.

Surrendering didn’t sound as pleasant as it had earlier.

The echo was incredible as the footsteps approached. They practically drowned out the chattering of the alarm less than a block away. Ed could almost hear the distance. About forty feet away, stopping occasionally to look and listen.

If only he hadn’t dropped his damn gun!

A creak to Ed’s left startled him. The cop seemed to hear it too, and the footsteps stopped.

A door ten feet from Ed had swung inward slightly, like it hadn’t been latched and a breeze happened to push against it. So close, so tempting.

‘PENELOPE’S – EMPLOYEES ONLY. CUSTOMERS PLEASE USE FRONT ENTRANCE’ was written in marker on the door. Ed knew Penelope’s. It was a feminist bookstore.

He could make the door in about two seconds, but that would mean putting himself out into the open, where the cop would have a clear shot at him.

Okay, but it’s my only chance.0

Ed would’ve crossed his fingers had he been superstitious, but he wasn’t, so he just sprinted for the door, staying low.

“Stop!” Ed prepared for gunshots.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Ed leapt for the door.

BAM!

His hands hit it and it flew inward before him.

BAM! BAM!

CRASH! The door hit a bookshelf, flinging hardcovers, then slammed shut.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Ed got onto his knees, amazed that he wasn’t hit. He flipped the lock on the door, then realized that the banging sound hadn’t been a gun, but the cop’s running feet, the sound amplified by the echo effect and Ed’s imagination.

Ed found himself in a small room, smaller than a jail cell, filled with shelves of used books. Some of the shelves were built into the wall, others were free-standing. He lifted a chest-high unit filled with books, tilting it so books wouldn’t fall off, then propped it against the door to give added weight to keep the cop out.

Now what?

The only other entrance he knew of was out onto Grand Avenue, but he was still a stone’s throw from the bank. If he tried going that way, the cops would spot him in a second.

The cop began banging on the door, first with his fists, then with his feet. The shelving unit would only hold him for so long and soon he’d be radioing for backup. Soon they’d be coming through the front doors, trapping him inside, unarmed.

Unless there was a way onto the roof!

He’d need something with which he could threaten the clerk, some kind of weapon to use as a bargaining tool.

A tool! He looked around and found a tool box, silver and slightly rusty, which opened on the top and had two drawers. It had a padlock, but it wasn’t latched. He pulled it down, opened it, and found a nice assortment. He selected a large claw hammer.

He cracked open the door, peering into the stacks. No one in sight, no sound except for the cop still banging on the door behind him.

He stepped out further, trying to see down the row that ended at the counter.

The shop was empty. He could see that the reversible ‘Open/Closed’ sign had the ‘Open’ facing outward, yet there was no one manning (or womanning in this case) the counter. Maybe they went outside to see what was going on at the bank.

He went to the counter, vaulted over it, and looked at the manual cash register, trying to decide which buttons to press to open it. Not having time to experiment, he forced the claw-end of the hammer into the narrow space under the drawer and yanked the handle back like it was a one-armed bandit.

The drawer flew open with a bang.

JACKPOT!

He promptly withdrew the bills, counting three fifties and at least seven twenties. He didn’t take time to count more than that, but he figured on a total of over three hundred in bills alone, not quite what he’d been hoping to have when the day was over, but enough to send him on his merry way if he ever got the hell out of here.

He stuffed the bills into his pockets, but left the change. If he ended up being chased, it would just weigh him down.

Now to find a way to the roof, before anyone comes back! Looking around, he saw only one other door, towards the rear of the shop, near the door to the storage room.

As he headed back, he heard a bunch of books fall off of the shelf at the back entrance. The cop was making some kind of progress.

Ed opened the door, hoping to find a staircase, but it was only a small bathroom with a toilet and sink.

Shit! He was trapped in the store after all, and with all this cash in his pocket, they’d have one more robbery to pin on him. If he could only get to the roof somehow…

He slammed the bathroom door, shaking the shelf next to it. A book, a dark hardcover, bounced once, then landed face-up at Ed’s feet.

THROUGH THE GLASS CEILING, by Jacqueline Nystrom. A drawing on the cover showed a cross-legged woman in a business suit levitating with her outstretched forearms disappearing through a glass plate above her.

“Through the glass ceiling?” he asked. Through the ceiling! Sure! Why not?! He laughed, then looked up at the ceiling.

Solid wood. Maybe he could break through it with the hammer, but it would take a good half-hour just to make a hole big enough for him to fit through. He didn’t have a half-hour. He doubted he had another minute.

He turned and opened the bathroom door, hoping that maybe, just maybe, there would be some way through that ceiling, a large vent or something.

The ceiling consisted of foam paneling, set on metal braces. Each panel was about two feet square.

“Yes!” He stepped into the bathroom. Moving the paneling aside and crawling through should be simple enough.

KU-RACK! CRASH! A bookshelf fell over in the back room.

The back door! He’s inside!

Ed threw the bathroom door shut and locked it. The lock wasn’t much to speak of. If that cop could get through the back door, it shouldn’t take anything for him to get through this one. Ed had to move fast.

He jumped onto the toilet tank and pushed a paneling up and aside. He threw the hammer in, then grabbed two opposing braces and pulled himself up.

The bathroom door flew open, and Ed found himself staring down at the white-haired security guard he’d shot dead less than five minutes before.

The guard looked up, fire burning in his eyes, and reached for Ed’s legs.

Ed kicked frantically, screaming, expecting his feet to have no effect on the specter or zombie before him. His feet, however, caught the guard square in the forehead, slamming him against the door.

Dazed as any ordinary man would be, the guard rose to his feet and came again.

Ed tried to scramble through the hole in the ceiling. His shoulders barely fit through, and he got as much as his stomach through before a pair of hands grabbed his ankles.

“Get down here, you son of a bitch! I’ll KILL you!”

Ed tried to kick his legs free, but the guard’s grip was firm and strong, threatening to drag him down. Ed leaned forward, supporting himself on his stomach so he could free his hands.

For the first time, Ed considered the possibility that the guard wasn’t actually dead. Maybe he’d been wearing a bulletproof vest, though Ed had never heard of a bank guard wearing one. They’re very bulky and uncomfortable, and cops rarely wear them unless they’re expecting trouble. Why would a bank guard wear one? Besides, this guard looked rather thin, whereas someone wearing a vest would look thick.

But what other explanation was there?

“It was your fault, asshole!” screamed Ed, groping for the hammer. He’d thrown it up, but he couldn’t see it now in the darkness. “We just wanted to get out!”

He found the hammer, grasped it, and swung behind him, missing the guard but hitting his own leg painfully across the calf. He swung again, careful not to hit his leg again, but missing the guard as well.

“Nobody robs MY bank! Nobody takes MY piece!” The guard leaned back. Ed felt himself about to slide out when the hammer hit something hard with a crack.

The guard let go of his ankles and Ed heard him hit the floor.

Ed pulled himself up, then maneuvered around so he could look down. The guard was unconscious, laying alongside a wall with a silver-dollar sized gash on his forehead, bleeding slowly but steadily. He probably wasn’t going to die, but he certainly had a concussion. Ed wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore, just every cop in the city.

He considered climbing down and killing the bastard, but he just wanted to get the fuck out of Logan before the police surrounded the entire block (if they hadn’t already).

He slid the panel back into place so the cops wouldn’t automatically know which way he went. They’d probably figure it out, but maybe they wouldn’t and maybe not soon enough to catch him.

He wished he had a cigarette, though he’d quit when he got laid off. He used to work in a Burger King that had a ceiling like this, and he hid his cigs above the tiles so he could smoke when he went to the john. It worked for a couple of weeks, then they disappeared. One of the supervisors must have smelled the smoke and figured it out. Maybe hiding the cigs up there was an older trick than he thought it was.

Maybe going through the ceiling was an older trick than he thought it was, too. Maybe the cops knew exactly where he was and this would all be for nothing.

If only that guard hadn’t begun firing at them, everything would have been okay. Stan and Jeffey wouldn’t be dead, and Ed wouldn’t be fleeing a murder rap.

But the guard’s not dead, idiot!

Somehow, Ed didn’t believe that. The guard fell like a dead man and, Ed wasn’t sure now, but he thought he saw blood on the guard’s uniform, though there hadn’t been any blood, or any apparent holes, on the guard’s uniform a minute ago. Besides, it didn’t make any sense for the guard to be wearing a vest on the job.

So how come the guard’s still alive, Ed?

I’m not so sure he is.

God, I could use a cigarette!

There were trace amounts of light in the ceiling crawlspace, and it seemed to be clearer to his right, towards the front of the store. Maybe the light was coming from the store below, but he hoped it was coming from the roof, a way up.

He crawled towards it on his hands and knees, having to stay low due to the narrowness of the crawlspace. After about ten feet, he came across a pipe that blocked his path, stretching from one end to the other with no way around.

Using his hands, he judged the distance below and above the pipe. Below it was maybe four inches. Above, maybe a foot at most. Hopefully, he could crawl over it.

He slid his head and hands over the pipe. As his arm brushed it, it was slightly warm. With his chest over the pipe, his back was against the ceiling. The first serious doubt about fitting through entered his mind.

He was a somewhat hefty guy, but had lost weight since losing his job due to being unable to afford food. They’d all been working out since deciding to definitely knock over the bank. He still had his love-handles, but at least he didn’t have the love-luggage he used to.

Still, it was either slide over or go back. He sucked in his gut and slid forward. The ceiling pressed on his back and the pipe dug into his stomach. Even through his shirt, he could feel the warmth of the pipe.

A couple of more inches, and then he stopped, unable to go any further. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs and contracting his diaphragm, then pushed ahead a few more inches.

No good. The pipe was still above his navel. Even another quarter inch of ceiling and he could make it over. He’d have to find another way.

He pushed backwards, but found that he was wedged in tight.

Okay, take it easy! Be cool! Suck it in!

He tried to inhale further, but felt panic coming on and started to hyperventilate.

The more he tried to convince himself that everything would be fine, the more he realized his situation. He was stuck and he couldn’t inhale!

He looked ahead, and the light was gone.

He was stuck and alone and in the dark and no one was gonna save him!

The pipe began to heat up, as if hotter water was running through it, and he could feel his skin beginning to scorch under his shirt.

He choked down a scream and frantically rocked back and forth, though his stomach stayed in place, the pipe feeling tighter and tighter. He remembered when he was a kid and got his head stuck between the railings on the stairs, only this was worse because there wasn’t anyone, no parents, to help him or even comfort him. The only people in the area were people who wanted to lock him up and if they found him, they wouldn’t help him get out, they’d just laugh and sit on their butts and turn the heat up on the water letting it grow hotter and hotter while he screamed, finally burning a hole in his stomach and setting his intestines on fire.

“Noooooo!” he screamed, not caring if he was heard or not.

Ed groped around for something, anything that might give him hope, maybe a button that, if pressed, would magically lower the pipe.

Instead he found that the pipe was attached to the floor by two stiff metal brackets welded to the pipe and screwed into the wooden floor of the crawlspace. If only he’d taken a screwdriver instead of a hammer!

But he hadn’t, just the hammer. He tried to use the claw end to turn the screws, but as he suspected, the screws wouldn’t budge.

Shit!

He again pushed his entire body forward, or tried to. No good.

The air thickened around him, becoming hot and stale from his breath. There was little if any ventilation in the crawlspace, and his frantic gasping was spoiling what little air he had.

Call for help? Bang on the floor with the hammer? No one would hear him, and even if someone did, he’d just end up arrested. He wouldn’t be able to take that, not with facing a murder rap.

Attempted murder, he reminded himself. The guard’s still alive. Why couldn’t he believe that?

He lifted the hammer and struck the bracket to his right. He didn’t let its refusal to budge deter him from pounding it again and again. The angle was all wrong. It was too close for him to hit it with the power it would need. The clanging was deafening. Anyone within a few stores distance would certainly hear it.

A scent assaulted his nose, causing him to gag and drop the hammer. He choked back vile. He’d never smelled it before, but knew what it was. It was death, decay. Must be a cat or a squirrel that came into the crawlspace to die, but how come he didn’t smell it before, unless this dead animal was approaching, just like that guard he’d shot dead back in the bank. Or was it his own oncoming death he was smelling, like it the Lynyrd Skynyrd song. ‘Ooh, that smell. Can’t you smell that smell?’

He broke into a sweat, the air around him growing hotter and more putrid by the second.

It had to be his imagination that he heard someone laughing in the distance.

“Help!” he screamed, gasping for air that wasn’t there. He groped for the hammer, found it, considered bashing in his own skull to bring death on quicker.

Instead, he hit the bracket.

He retched, but nothing came up.

Something snapped. He thought he’d somehow managed to break a bone, but the pipe suddenly, miraculously, lowered. Stunned, fearing the pipe would realize its mistake and raise, he shot forward, rolling his legs over the pipe, then continuing to roll away from the monster pipe.

He curled into a fetal position and shivered uncontrollably.

What the hell was that? He found that he was crying. He wiped sweat and tears from his face, and looked back at the pipe which was at a slight angle. One of the brackets had snapped somehow.

He could see it! The light was back and on top of everything else, that smell was gone. The air was rich with oxygen, which he drank into his lungs, exhaling the deadly stench.

His stomach hurt, but only a little, and that probably more from being squeezed than from the heat of the pipe. In fact, it probably hadn’t grown any hotter after all. It must have been his imagination.

But the smell wasn’t. As much as logic said it had to have been, he knew that the smell was real. He was trapped and helpless and something had been coming through the darkness to gobble him up!

“What’s happening to me?” His voice cut through the silence. Nothing was right. Everything was wrong. Was this his punishment for shooting the guard? Had he been tossed into a world of chaos?

He lay still, listening to his heart pound in the silence.

For once, he was totally at peace, and he found himself unable to break from it. He couldn’t push on and have to worry about getting past the cops, not when he could lay here and rest.

He wanted nothing more than to lay there silently and sleep where no one knew he was.

So tired. So tired of running. So tired of being chased. So tired…

Ed woke in total darkness, not sure where he was or how he got there. When he recollected the shooting of the guard and his desperate escape, he thought it was a nightmare. He tried to sit up, but the bumping of his head against the ceiling of the crawlspace reminded him that it had been real.

Darkness?

He looked around and managed to spot a trace amount of light to one side. He crawled towards it, and spotted a vent above, and, through it, a twilight sky.

Evening! He must have slept for a good six hours, and they hadn’t found him They didn’t know he was there!

Finally, something was going right!

No, not right, just wrong in his favor. They had to have found the guard. Even if he was still unconscious, they had to figure on checking the ceiling.

Unless they gave up their search. They would only have done that if they figured he was out of the area. If they figured he was long gone, then getting to the ramp shouldn’t be a problem. He had all the time in the world.

Unless that guard wakes up and tells them to check the crawlspace. Then they’d come back and check. No, he had to get out of the area now.

He used the claw-end of the hammer to pry the vent loose, then stuck his head through and peered around. The roof was primarily flat and bare, with a three-foot wall around the edge of the building and a few chimneys and what looked like a stairwell to one side. No sign of cops.

Something seemed out of place, though. The city was too quiet for so early in the evening. The sky wasn’t dark enough for it to be the middle of the night. He expected traffic or rock and roll from the local clubs. In fact, there was nothing except for the wind blowing gently.

He climbed through, then stood and walked along the gravel roof towards Hannaford. Was it really going to be this easy? This wasn’t right, but, again, it was wrong in his favor.

He passed the aboveground stairwell. It probably went down into a store. If only it had been Penelope’s. He wasn’t going to go down it now and call attention to himself. Surely there was a way to get down outside the building, a ladder or a way to jump onto a dumpster.

He passed a brick chimney, probably from a restaurant oven. No smoke. You’d think they’d be cooking dinners about now.

It was like all the stores had suddenly closed down and everyone left Logan all of the sudden. He considered the odd possibility that he was alone in Logan, the one survivor from…from what?

“Hey…” said a voice behind him.

Shit! The cops! He turned and raised the hammer.

It was a woman, and there was no way she was a cop. She sat against the chimney next to a bunched-up sleeping bag, with a novel and a flashlight in her hand. She looked in her early twenties, but homeless. She wore baggy jeans and a University of Southern Michigan sweatshirt. Her hair was brown and stringy, but she looked like she’d be rather pretty if you got her cleaned up.

“Who are you?” he asked. “What are you doing here?” He was glad to see her though, to know he wasn’t alone. And that she wasn’t a cop.

“I…I didn’t see the hammer. You aren’t going to hurt me, are you? I’ll let you have sex with me if you promise not to hurt me. Huh?”

Ed lowered the hammer. “I’m not going to hurt you. In fact, I could use some help.”

“Then throw it over the side.” She motioned with her head toward the wall.

“I can’t. Someone might see. I can’t draw attention to myself right now.”

“Who’d see?”

“Cops, maybe. They’ve got to be…”

“Cops?”

“…looking for me still.”

“Cops?” she asked, smirking.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. I just figured it out.”

“Figured what out?”

“You. I figured YOU out. I think you’ll be okay. How can I help you?” She turned off her flashlight and put it and her novel down.

“How would you like to earn a little extra spending cash?”

“Hey, if you want me, you don’t have to…”

“Nothing like that.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “What’s your name?”

“Ed.”

“Ed? Short for Edward?”

“Edwin, actually. But call me Ed.”

“I’m Rose. Short for Rosemary, but I like Rose better than Mary. Don’t you, Ed?” She pulled her legs close to her body, wrapping her arms around them and rocking in place.

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“I probably don’t look like a rose, or smell like one for that matter, but I don’t feel very ‘Mary’ either. But as I was saying, if you want me, you don’t have to pay me ’cause I want you. I haven’t gotten laid in two years, not since I killed my boyfriend.”

“You killed your boyfriend?” He raised the hammer slightly.

“Yeah. Don’t worry. I’m not a black widow or anything.”

“Why? Why’d you kill him?”

“I found him in the sack with Tanya Aldo, so I put rat poison in his beer.”

“Did they catch you?”

“Nope.” She looked down at her feet. “I wish I hadn’t. I loved him. I wouldn’t have killed him if I didn’t love him. You know?”

“Yeah. I know.” He noticed that she had pretty eyes, a kind of deep brown.

“You ever kill anyone?” she asked casually.

“I’m not sure. I thought I did.”

“Mmmmm.” She nodded, not surprised.

“I’d love to chat, but look, the cops are after me. My car’s parked over on the ramp on Hannaford…”

“Behind Jacobson’s?”

“Yeah that’s right. Level two, south side. It’s a brown station wagon, a custom cruiser, parked so the front end’s pointed out. Would you get it and drive it into the alleyway? I’ll take you with me if you want.”

“Sure. Only if you’ll screw me, though.”

“Okay, but later, all right? After you get the wagon.”

“Deal. Got the keys?” She held out a grimy hand, palm up.

He hesitated.

“What?” she asked. “Think I’m going to take your wheels and leave you here alone?”

Yes, that was exactly what he was considering. What choice did he have now? Go by himself and risk being seen, or have her go and risk having her take off on him. He decided that he’d rather not risk being seen, and gave her his key. “Don’t honk or anything when you get into the alley. Just wait. And if you see cops anywhere in the vicinity of the wagon, don’t go near it or do anything to draw attention to yourself.”

“Aye-aye.” She chuckled, standing and brushing gravel off of the seat of her pants. “Let me have the hammer, Ed.”

“Why?” He pulled it to his chest defensively.

“If I’m the one going down there, then I’m taking something to defend myself.”

“Against who?”

“There’s a whole lotta loonies down there, Ed. Either give me the hammer or I go back and finish my book.”

He reluctantly handed her the hammer, amazed that he was trusting this woman with everything he had, a woman who poisoned her last boyfriend.

“Blood,” she observed, looking at the head of the hammer. “Whose?”

Ed was silent, considering telling her everything, but afraid of her still. If he could trust her with his car and weapon, he could trust her with the truth, couldn’t he?

“Okay, forget it,” she said. “Who you’ve been hammering is no business of mine. How ’bout a kiss for good luck?”

Keeping an eye on the hammer, he put his lips to hers. She put her left, hammerless, hand around the back of his head and closed her eyes. She opened her mouth slightly, exhaling pleasantly. She ran her hand down his back to his rear and squeezed it, then pulled away. “I’ll go get your car.”

“Thank you,” he replied, now knowing she didn’t plan to desert him. “You’re one hell of a kisser, Rose.”

“I know.” She turned and walked across the roof, swaying her hips. She blew him a kiss before disappearing down a ladder bolted to the wall.

Still quiet. Maybe sound traveled funny up here, but he didn’t think so. He considered looking over the edge onto Grand Avenue, but he didn’t want to be seen. Or he didn’t want to see.

He headed to where Rose had been sitting and found a sheet from a newspaper, yellowed with age but legible. He sat on her sleeping bag and read it with her flashlight.

‘Kernan Acquitted in Fatal Shooting’ was the story at the top of the page. He seemed to remember something about a cop being acquitted a few years back. Something about fatally shooting a black youth. He checked the upper corner and saw that the date was two years back. It must have blown up here a while ago.

He looked at the photo of the officer and froze, unable to believe his eyes. Kernan looked like…no Kernan WAS the guard he’d shot dead that afternoon. It was him, no doubt about it. Same hair, same eyes.

He quickly read the article. Kernan was accused of shooting a black teenage boy to death while responding to a breaking and entering. Two witnesses, also black and also involved in the crime, claimed Kernan shot the boy after the boy mouthed off to him. Kernan claimed the boy was rushing him. Kernan had gone to trial with an all-white jury and was found innocent after twelve hours of deliberation. Ed seemed to remember something about the cop quitting the force after the incident.

But what did that have to do with the robbery? Despite no apparent connection, it had to have some relevance. Ed believed Kernan had lied, that he had shot that boy for talking back to him. He also had heard of ex-cops going into security jobs after leaving the force, which might explain Kernan’s job at the bank.

There was some other connection with today’s events. The shooting of the black kid, the shoot-out at the bank, the newspaper being up here. There was a piece missing that was right before his eyes. It explained everything, Kernan’s refusal to die, why the city was so quiet, what had been coming after Ed in the crawlspace. What the hell was he missing?

He read the article again, but had no new revelations. Same story, no insight. Guilty as hell. He checked the other stories. A fatal car crash in Logan, a murder-suicide at the university, a drive-by shooting, something about the hunt for a man accused of murdering his wife. All bad news. Typical for the Gazette.

He read the article again and again before he heard an approaching car in the alley. So sounds weren’t drowned out up here.

The wagon’s horn blasted twice.

“Shit!” He got up and went to the ladder. Sure enough, it was the stolen wagon. He shot down the ladder and hopped into the wagon next to Rose.

“I told you not to honk the horn!”

“Picky, picky.”

“Get us the hell out of here before the cops show up.”

She threw the car into park. “You promised, Ed.”

“Promised what?”

She climbed onto her knees and leaned across him, kissing him and unsnapping his pants.

“What the…”

“You said you would,” she reminded him between kisses.

“Later! Once we’re out of here! Are you crazy?!”

“Yeah,” she replied, reaching across and reclining the seat. She straddled him, unzipping his fly, then putting her hand down his underwear. He hardened quickly in her hand. It had been a while for him, too. “See?”

“Not here, Rose Later, I promise The cops…”

“There’s no cops here, just us loonies.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m a loonie, he’s a loonie, she’s a loonie, we’re all loonies. Wouldn’t you want to be a loonie, too?”

“No! You’re nuts, Rose!”

“Aren’t we all?” She undid her own pants and maneuvered out of them. She wore nothing underneath.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So what happened to me?”

“You really don’t remember? I heard all about it on the car radio on the way here. Four dead in the bank robbery. Media loves it.”

“Gustav? Damn, I hoped…”

“No. Your friend Gustav’s at Logan General. He should be okay.” She lowered herself onto him and moaned softly as he entered her. “The guy you shot…died instantly.”

It felt so good, so heavenly. He wanted to stop talking and just enjoy the moment. He hadn’t had it in so long.

She arched her back ecstatically, and he put his hands under her sweatshirt, caressing her firm breasts, pinching her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.

“Oh…yes…ED!” she screamed.

Ed glanced to his right and saw a man standing outside the passenger door, watching them, enjoying the show. Another street person, a man of about fifty with short hair, a beard, and a bottle of something inside a paper bag. He offered a toast to Ed and chuckled, exposing a nearly toothless mouth. He raised the other hand in salute, showing that he held a crowbar.

There’s a whole lotta loonies down there, Ed. Wouldn’t you want to be a loonie, too?

“No!” he screamed, pushing her off of him.

She slid over onto the other seat. “What’s wrong, Ed? Weren’t you enjoying it?”

“Yes! But I don’t understand! Where am I? How did I get here? Who’s number four?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You said there were four deaths, but Gustav’s alive Stan, Jeffey, Kernan, and who else?”

“You son of a bitch!” She turned and opened the door. She stepped out, naked from the waist down, then leaned back into the car. “All you care about is finding out what happened, and that doesn’t even matter! You can’t even enjoy sex until you find out! You can’t even let me enjoy it! Jesus Christ! You goddamn fucking son of a bitch!” She began to cry, then turned and slammed her door, running off down the alley.

Ed considered going after her, then saw the keys in the ignition. He turned them slightly, and the radio came on. He refastened his pants as he listened.

“…Martin Kernan, a former police officer, apparently began firing on the criminals,” said a female voice, reading from a news brief. “In the shoot-out, police report that all Kernan was killed with three bullets to the chest and all four would-be robbers were struck, three fatally.”

Ed flipped off the ignition, silencing the radio. “She’s got it wrong,” he said. “Only two of them died. I escaped. He didn’t shoot me.”

Yes, he did.

That was the only explanation that made any sense. Kernan died, but came back. So did he.

Rose screamed, a shrill cry that filled the alley and the air around him.

Ed turned around, looking out the back window. He couldn’t see her. He got out of the car. She was still nowhere. “Rose!” He ran down the alley towards the nearest street, hoping to hear a second cry, something to verify that she was all right.

Reaching Abrams road, he saw Rose struggling with someone in the middle of the road, a figure lit by the streetlight above. Kernan!

He had a screwdriver, and Rose held his wrist, preventing him from stabbing her with it. She kicked at him, but he managed to step away from each kick.

“Kernan!” Ed screamed, and the ex-cop looked up at him, dried blood covering one side of his head. Rose managed to kick his ankle and pull free, stumbling onto the street. Kernan looked at her and she tried to back away.

“Come on, Martin!” yelled Ed. “I’m unarmed! Let’s finish this off!”

Kernan lowered the screwdriver, which glowed in the light, and faced Ed.

“I finally figured it out, Rose,” said Ed. “What the connection is between us. We’re all killers, right? You killed your boyfriend. He killed that boy a couple years back. And I killed him. And now we’re all dead and in hell. You were the murder-suicide at the university, weren’t you? The one I read about in the paper?”

“Yes,” she said. “Once I realized I’d killed him, I couldn’t go on. I finished his beer, the one I poisoned.”

“How sweet,” said Kernan, his words slurring slightly. “And here we are, one big happy family, all down here in Hell!”

“No,” said Rose. “Not Hell. Not yet. We get to be here with all the rest of the killers and get to try to survive. We get one chance.”

“So where are we?” asked Ed. “Purgatory?”

“Something like that, but we don’t go to Heaven when we’re through. Once we die here, we go down. We’re in the devil’s playground.”

“Fitting,” said Kernan, laughing. “So, which one of us goes to Hell first? You? Me? Or should all three of us go together?”

“Or we could all go our separate ways and avoid it altogether,” suggested Ed.

“Not in my nature, Man. You sent me here, I’m sending you one further.” Kernan raised the screwdriver and rushed at Ed, growling.

Ed sidestepped, moving in a circle which Kernan joined in with, the two of them facing each other, Ed unarmed, Kernan holding the screwdriver like a knife. They danced about each other, Kernan approaching, Ed retreating.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider dropping the screwdriver and making this a fair fight.”

“A fair fight? Yeah, now that things are in my favor you ask for a fair fight! Where was the fair fight when you and your pals had me four-to-one in the bank? Or when you attacked me with a hammer in the bathroom?”

Ed nodded, having expected an answer like that. Still avoiding Kernan, he looked about for a weapon. He spotted the man he’d seen outside the car, offering Ed another toast from the curb.

Distracted, he didn’t see Kernan coming. Kernan came quick, jabbing the screwdriver at Ed’s stomach. Ed grabbed Kernan’s wrist just as the tip pierced his skin and stepped back, the only way he could think to prevent Kernan from driving the weapon in further.

His foot hit the curb and he stumbled, terrified that Kernan would fall on top of him and plunge the screwdriver into his stomach.

Instead, Kernan resisted falling, allowing Ed the chance to roll away and get to his feet. Realizing the ex-cop wouldn’t be expecting it, Ed attacked. Kernan jabbed with the screwdriver, Ed blocked with his left arm, and Ed slammed a fist into Kernan’s skull where he’d been hit with the hammer earlier.

Kernan shrieked, dropping the screwdriver and grabbing his head. Ed winced, empathizing with the pain Kernan must have felt.

The ex-cop fell to his knees, and Ed backed away towards the alley. He considered going back and grabbing the screwdriver, but he didn’t think it would be necessary.

Kernan got to his feet, tears welling in his eyes. He looked at Ed, squinting as if having trouble focusing, then spurted, “you’re dead!” at the top of his lungs.

“Aren’t we all?” Ed asked.

Kernan ran at him, one hand covering his wounded scalp. Ed turned and fled down the alley, getting into the station wagon and locking the doors seconds before Kernan started trying the handles.

Kernan stepped back and sent a foot through the passenger-side window.

Ed flipped the ignition, slamming the accelerator. The engine caught, but before he could throw it into drive, Kernan was through the window, his legs still dangling outside. He grabbed Ed’s throat in a steel grip.

Ed threw the car into drive and floored the accelerator, sending the car down the back alley towards the First National where it all started. Or ended.

“How’s it feel?” whispered Kernan, his mouth to Ed’s ear.

Ed tried to suck in breath, but there was nowhere for it to go. He felt himself going dizzy almost immediately.

The speedometer rose past twenty, past thirty.

Ed glanced at Kernan out of the corner of his eye. Kernan was gritting his teeth in exertion. All of his energy went towards stopping Ed from getting his next breath.

Ed turned the wheel slightly to the right, towards Kernan. Kernan wasn’t aware of what was coming.

The right side of the wagon slammed into the back wall of the businesses along Grand, crushing Kernan’s lower body between.

He shrieked and released his grip on Ed’s throat. He tried frantically to push the steering wheel the opposite way, but he hadn’t the strength to budge it.

The car bounded off of the wall and Ed steered it back. Sparks flew from the tortured metal. Kernan heaved and vomited blood onto Ed’s right arm, then fell limp.

Ed suddenly saw the dumpster he’d hidden behind approaching rapidly.

He swung the wheel to the left, trying to hit the brake, but missing it. The car hesitated, its tires squealing, then spun suddenly towards the opposite wall. Ed spun the wheel to the right, trying once again to hit the brake, but only slammed onto the accelerator. The car’s rear end slid wide, slamming into the wall. The wagon then rocketed down the alley with Ed fighting the wheel to stay in the center and trying to find the elusive brake.

He hurtled towards a concrete pillar marking the entrance of a drive-thru lane. He glanced at the speedometer. Thirty-five miles an hour. He spun the wheel first one way, then changed his mind and spun to the left, the car reluctantly following. Its right wheels hit the curb before the pillar, throwing the entire right side of the car into the air.

Ed tried to counter with another spin of the wheel, but the car failed to respond, and Ed was briefly aware of the entire world revolving before his windshield as the car flipped. The vehicle groaned as the roof came down hard on the bank’s empty driveway, shattering the windshield and dropping Ed to the roof of the car and showering him with glass. Then everything went black.

Grab…

My…

Hands!

He thought it was his own mind releasing the words, but as consciousness flooded back in, he was aware of Rose’s voice behind the plea. He opened his eyes slowly, and saw her lying on the ground underneath the overturned hood, reaching for him.

His arms hurt. Everything hurt, especially his back and neck. He wondered how bad his injuries were, doubting that there were many doctors here in the Devil’s Playground.

“Dammit, Ed! Grab my hands!” He reached out and she grabbed his hands just as the car started to rock. “Oh, shit!” She dragged him part-way out the windshield before he could move no further. “You gotta help me, Ed!” Tears welled in her eyes.

He nodded. He didn’t think he had the strength to crawl, but he kicked at the inside of the car, trying to find something to shove off of. He looked down and saw the blank face of Martin Kernan covered in blood. He put one foot against the ex-cop’s head, pushing it against the window, and managed to move forward enough for Rose to pull him out the rest of the way.

The rocking hadn’t been the car. It had been the ground beneath the car. He now heard an incredible tearing sound, the sound of streets and buildings being torn apart by something greater than they were. He could see Rose scream, but her voice was inaudible under the thundering din.

She put one arm around him, led him out from under the hood, then pulled him to a standing position. The ground shook beneath them, but Rose somehow managed to keep Ed upright and moving.

“Don’t look back!” she screamed into his ear.

He had to, so he did. He saw a giant crack moving from Grand Avenue through the drive-thru lanes coming directly at them.

It wasn’t an earthquake.

He ran like he’d never run. His entire body screamed for him to collapse and rest, but he ran so fast even Rose could barely keep up underneath his arm.

She tripped and fell. Ed managed two more steps before he stumbled. He tried to get back up, but Rose suddenly crawled forward and pinned him to the ground, motioning for him to look.

The crack was no longer coming. It had advanced under the car, then stopped, though the rumbling continued.

Then the crack opened, and flames shot up from beneath, a bright red eruption rising thirty or more feet in the air, creating a wall of fire that engulfed the station wagon.

The smell returned, the same stench that assaulted him in the crawlspace, except far more extreme, steaming his eyes and nostrils. He plugged his nose, transfixed on the sight before him.

Through the flames, Ed could clearly see the station wagon burst into flames and drop through the chasm, down into the fiery void.

Then the cracks merged slowly, the flames dying. The street sealed once again, without crack lines to remind them of what had happened.

Rose and Ed were alone.

“Oh…my….God,” whispered Ed.

“Damn! My pants were in that car!” She burst out laughing.

Ed fell back to the ground and lay still, hovering on the edge of consciousness, listening to Rose’s laughter fill the air.