32 Seconds

… had passed, and no one had said a word. Frank’s cheek was pressed hard against the cold linoleum green and white checkered floor of the Kwik Trip, and his glasses were digging into the bridge of his nose. His eyes were plastered shut, and he shook uncontrollably. Never had he been so scared in his life, and the silence was eating away at him. No one knew what to do. He wanted badly to open his eyes and look around, but his eyelids only allowed him a tiny sliver of vision. The bright flood lights hanging over the pumps outside were shining from the parking lot through the window behind the desk hit the tile at just an angle that it diminished vision even more so. He could only see the face of the girl who had also been in line with him. Her cheek was pressed against the tile and her eyelids were closed so tight, they looked almost fused together. It seemed as though she was rather scared, and by the smell of urine from her person, she probably was. Not two feet from the girl two nervous tennis shoes wiggling back and forth peeking from under a pair of jeans bunched around two skinny, pale ankles, and a clothes pin lying on the ground next to them. Frank couldn’t help but close his eyes as his body shook, trying to suppress a burst of laughter. What a dumb ass, he thought. Then he noticed another pair of shoes. Actually, more like a pair of canoes, they were big enough, and he noticed the tree trunks that were sprouting from them were shaking just as hard as Frank was himself.

Obviously, their owner had just realized the man she had almost crushed was holding a weapon to the clerks head. In a way, though, it made her happy. Well, Bobby’s look of horror made her smile at least. That stupid bastard deserved a bullet through his noggin. Her head slowly nodded up and down stretching and scrunching the mounds of excess fat hanging from her chin, and her smile grew wider, showing rows of perfectly straight, white teeth. Those teeth were her instruments; she needed to keep those chompers in good condition. She started to walk backward, toward the door. “Looks like you have everything under control.”

“Get on the ground!” the kid with the gun screamed, sounding more fearful than under control, and he swung his arm to point the barrel at her face, but the handle slipped, sending the gun flying toward Linda’s head. Her eyes bulged but she didn’t move. She couldn’t move. She had nowhere to move to. The Berretta grazed her cheek and soared toward the floor. When it hit the ground, it went off. Linda felt the searing pain as the little lead bullet bit into the back of her thigh, taking her down like an elephant on tranquilizers.