Under Angels
by Jace D. Albao (b. 1969)
Just before midnight in the desolate parking lot of a supermarket open later than everything else. I waited with the rucksacks in Mick’s van, kept company by the smells of stale leaf smoke and spilled coffee. It wasn’t more than a few minutes before three stinky men walked purposefully across the parking lot and entered the store through its sliding glass doors.
“Figures,” Pete said. “Everything but batteries.”
Pete and Mick perused Aisle 9 in the back of the uncrowded supermarket near the fresh meats. Like two rats from a pirate ship raiding a junk drawer, they rummaged through racks and shelves of boxed light bulbs, packaged padlocks, extension cords and power strips, egg timers, masking tape, motor oil, pot holders, scissors, and tin foil. Everything but batteries.
“They’re probably up front by the register, brother–”
POP- POP-
Curdled screams came from the front of the store, punctuated by gunshots. Pete’s eyes locked on Mick’s.
POP-A child bawled in horror beneath the sounds of adult shouts and screams. A male’s angry voice resounded louder than the others.
POP- POP-
Three workers in aprons and name tags scurried like startled cats from the front counters, sprinting down the aisles to the back of the store. A heavyset manager with a mustache and wire-framed glasses barreled down Aisle 9 past Pete and Mick.
“The back,” he babbled in a panic. “The back– the freezer– the back– hurry–”
Sounds of deadly commotion persisted at the front of the supermarket, a child’s high pitched hysteria mixing with grown male shouts.
“OPEN IT!!!”
Lips shut, Pete held up a fist and pointed to his eyes with fingers in a V. In a simplified form of sign language, he instructed Mick to go to the back of Aisle 9, down and around to the end of the butcher counter toward the breads, and circle back up to the front of the store from the produce section at the east wall. Mick disappeared without a word as the noise continued at the front of the store.
Pete took stealthy strides up Aisle 9 to the front of the supermarket toward the chaos. The angry male’s words were clear enough to hear above the child’s unending screams.
“OPEN IT, BITCH!!!”
Another male voice, soft-spoken and anxious, pleaded.
“I– don’t even work here–”
“OPEN THE COMPUTER!!!”
“It’s not– it’s not a computer–”
Pete reached the front end of Aisle 9 unnoticed, peering around the corner of a display of potato chips. He looked at what was happening at Register 4.
“OPEN THE COMPUTER OR I’LL CAP YOUR ASS!!!”
A delicate man with jet black hair stood behind the counter at Register 4 with his hands up, his head held at sloppy gunpoint by a stinky man in loose clothes that were way too warm for the evening. The stinky gunman’s two friends stood at the two front doors watching the parking lot.
Pete’s eyes scrubbed the front of the supermarket. What happened here?
A toddler curled himself up against the store’s front wall of batteries, sobbing uncontrollably in what had become a tired moan. A nervous woman, talkative and in shock, stood between the child and the stinky gunman at Register 4. She moved forward, arguing.
“He doesn’t even work here–”
“SHUT YOUR FUCKING KID UP!!!”
The stinky gunman turned with elbow out, backhanding his forearm across the woman’s jaw with a muted crack. She crumpled to the floor next to the toddler, now screaming so hard you could hear a pin drop.
“BITCH!!!”
The stinky gunman turned back to the register counter, pointing the pistol back on the delicate man. Behind the counter lay a store clerk. A woman, mid-fifties, shot thrice, bleeding. The delicate man stood over her, his hands in the air, his eyes closed, shaking his head. He turned to face the stinky gunman.
“Please–”
“OPEN THE COMPUTER!!!”
The stinky gunman held out his pistol stiff-armed like a thug, sideways.
“I– I can’t think–”
“OPEN IT, BITCH!!!”
Pete spoke up.
“Leave him alone.”
Pete walked past the racked magazines and breath mints at the closed Express Lane at Register 1. Grabbing an empty shopping cart from the open floor, he rolled it in front of the woman and child and stood facing Register 4.
“Where’d you learn how to hold a gun?” Pete asked. “You get that from an Ice Cube movie?”
“BACK OFF, BITCH!!!”
The stinky gunman held the gun with both hands, pointing it at Pete, not noticing the delicate man at the counter ducking into a crouch and crawling past the bleeding clerk to huddle with his family on the floor.
Pete walked toward to the stinky gunman.
“Either give me the gun or pull the trigger, son. Your choice.”
The stinky gunman held the gun with frozen arms as he backed away, giving himself a few feet of space between himself and Pete.
“GET ON THE FLOOR, BITCH!!!”
Pete looked down at the fallen clerk and shook his head in disgust. “I think you’re the one who’s going to be on the floor, kid.”
I barked my head off in the van as the stinky gunman’s two stinky friends left their posts at the sliding glass doors. Pulling guns out of their loose clothing, they began walking toward Register 4, triangulating on Pete. Three guns to zero.
“It’s not nice to shoot people and scare children, boys.”
Pete stood with his hands at his sides as the family held their breath. Silence screamed through the supermarket as three stinky fingers shivered on sweaty triggers. I heard nothing but heartbeats and the humming buzz of overhead fluorescent lighting for five seconds.
“Am I interrupting something here, brother?”
Mick broke the silence, emerging from the frozen food section, walking dauntlessly through Register 7 to the front of the store like an unshy latecomer to a party. He looked at Pete, the family, and the three stinky gunmen.
“I see you found the batteries.”
POP POP– POP POP– POP– POP–POP POP POP– POP– POP–
Open fire. Weapons emptied into Mick, the sound of gunfire turning to empty metallic clicks as bullets thudded flatly into Mick’s thick body. Hot lead rounds fell to the cold floor, scattering like bouncing jellybeans at Mick’s feet. The two stinky friends turned as if the the building was on fire, running out the doors to the parking lot. Mick sprinted after them.
The man and woman huddled over the child’s choked screams as the stinky gunman stood still, holding his gun on Pete.
“Still got a round in that thing?” Pete asked, staring down the barrel. “Looks like your homeboys left you stranded.”
CLICK.
Pete grabbed the stinky gunman by the wrist and spun him around, the empty gun falling to the floor. The stinky man howled in agony as Pete snapped his elbow, folding the stinky right arm backwards. With the back of the stinky right hand flat against the stinky right shoulder blade, Pete grabbed the stinky left hand, crushing the stinky fingers like a soft-boiled egg in his grip. The stinky man fell to the floor, wailing like a little girl who’d seen a spider.
“You won’t be hitting anybody for a while.”
Pete kicked the gun away and stood over the writhing stinky man. Lifting up his combat boot, he drove his heel into the stinky man’s knee.
SNAP.
The stinky man squealed in shocked agony. “WHAT THE F–”
“Just so I know you’re not gonna run off.”
Pete repeated with the other leg, driving his thick-soled heel into the floor, snapping the other stinky knee. SNAP. The stinky man’s screams went up an octave as he squirmed on the floor like a lone maggot. Unable to stand, unable to crawl.
“Now–”
Pete put his combat boot on the stinky man’s neck, pressing it into the cold floor. He looked at the family.
“What’s your boy’s name, sir?”
“Yoshi.”
Pete pressed his boot into the stinky man’s neck.
“Apologize to Yoshi.”
The stinky man growled, his cheek flat against the floor, trying to compose words with his stinky tongue.
“Apologize to Yoshi, or I’ll break your head off.”
“SORRY!!! I’M SORRY!!! I’M–”
“Say ‘I’m sorry, Yoshi.’”
“I’M SORRY YOSHI!!! I’M SORRY YOSHI!!!–”
“I’m a very bad man, Yoshi. Very bad.”
“I’M A VERY BAD MAN YOSHI!!! I’M VERY BAD YOSHI!!!–”
“And I’m going to pay for what I’ve done.”
“I’M GOING TO PAY YOSHI!!! I’M GOING TO PAY FOR WHAT I’VE DONE YOSHI!!!–”
Pete lifted his boot off the stinky man’s neck and walked to the fallen clerk, lying in her own blood. He dropped to his knee and took her pulse. Nothing.
“Do you know her?”
Pete looked across the floor past the squirming maggot to the family against the front wall.
“No,” said the father. “We were just picking up a prescription.”
Pete stood up.
“And you saw the whole thing?”
The father nodded. “The three came in, and then this man told her to give him the cash. She just laughed. Must have thought he was joking. This man shot her without warning. No warning.”
Pete walked to the family and took a knee. The mother, hurt but conscious, sat against the wall of batteries, mouth bleeding, consoling her moaning child. Pete took off his old army jacket and wiped the tears from the young boy’s face.
“I’m sorry this happened,” Pete told them, placing his jacket on the boy. “Just remember–”
Mick ran back into the supermarket from the parking lot.
“Everybody okay, brother?”
Mick looked down at the dead woman behind the counter and winced, turning back to look down at the squirming maggot.
“Your friends ain’t gonna be coming back for you. Looks like you’ll need to bum a ride.”
Pete crouched near the family and grabbed a handful of batteries from the front wall. Removing them from their plastic and cardboard packages, he stuffed them into his vest pockets and spoke in a new state of calm.
“You’ll never forget what you saw tonight, Yoshi.”
Pete put his palm on the young boy’s head.
“But that’s okay. Because when you do think of this night, you’ll remember how it made you stronger.”
Pete got to his feet and walked to the squirming maggot, nudging him with his boot. He turned back to the man and woman.
“This guy won’t be going anywhere. Do you have a cell phone?”
“Yes,” the father said.
“Call nine-one-one. The police will be here soon. Tell them everything you saw.”
“But–”
Pete pointed to the ceiling. “It’s also all on video.”
“But–” the father repeated, pointing to Mick. “But they– shot him. How did he–”
Pete zipped the pockets of his vest as Mick walked out to the parking lot.
“We have to go now. When the police get here, tell them there are others in the back freezer.”
Pete slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter of Register 4 as the father pulled out his cell phone and dialed. The mother wrapped up the petrified boy in Pete’s jacket and cradled him in her arms.
“Remember what I told you, Yoshi.”
Pete walked over to the family and squatted down one last time, looking the boy in the eye.
“Remember how it made you stronger.”
To be continued…
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