"Everybody on the ground now!" Trevor shouted from behind his ski mask, waving a shotgun at the previously unsuspecting bank goers. The air filled with screams and hysterics as the civilians noticed Michael and Brad, similarly masked, aiming their own weapons at the crowd.
"Everybody just remain calm, do as we say, and nobody gets hurt," Michael explained, moving his sight from person to person. An elderly couple, a handyman, a farmer, and a mother with a baby that couldn't have been more than 6 months. Michael felt a pang of… What, he wasn't quite sure, in his gut as his gaze lingered on the mother and child.
Brad darted forward, bringing Michael back to really as he pushed the last of the crowd, the elderly man, to the ground. "He said on the ground! Are you dumb or deaf?"
"Which one of you is the manager? Which one?!" Trevor demanded, approaching the tellers. There were only two of them, young women, and neither answered, their hands raised and their eyes wide.
Michael stepped forward quickly. In one deft movement he slid over the counter, and brought his rifle up. "Your manager, where is he?" he asked. The teller with the gun in her face trembled violently and pointed toward the back, opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water. "Come on, T," Michael called, motioning with his shoulders as he moved to the back of the lobby. "Sit tight, B, and don't kill nobody you don't have to," Michael ordered, as Trevor came up beside him. They approached a door, with a self explanatory "MANAGER" sign on it and Michael sighed inwardly at their apparent lack of sufficient casing. Should have known he'd be in an office and not with the tellers. At least they'd watched it enough to know when exactly the security guard went for a mid afternoon pick me up. Michael held his rifle in one hand and tried the doorknob in the other.
"Locked," he reported and Trevor approached.
"Back up," Trevor replied, and Michael complied, aiming his rifle at the door. "Rahhh!" Trevor shouted, launching himself forward and kicking down the door. A startled whimper gave away the manager's location and Michael stormed in. Gun first, he rounded the desk and pulled the manager out from under, proceeding to forcibly sit him on top.
"You're going to let us in the back because you don't want to die," Michael told him. A glance down at the desk revealed scattered photographs: a wedding photo, a boy in little league gear and a girl with a pink cowboy hat on a pony. Another knot in his stomach. He must be getting old, fucking indigestion, he surmised. "Right?" The manager shook his head furiously, and Michael pulled him down off the desk. The three walked out of the office and the manager punched in a code on a series of numbered switches before getting a key from his pocket and opening the door to the back.
Michael and Trevor stepped through the threshold to be greeted by the vault door.
"I-I-I don't have the other key t-t-to the vault. I can't open it by myself," the managed pleaded. Trevor glanced back with a wide grin.
"We don't need no fucking key, sugar," he replied as Michael put his gloved hands on the door, looking it up and down, before swinging his rifle back over his shoulder. He put down his backpack and pulled out some sticky explosives, setting them at three points: the two hinges and the handle.
"Back it up," Michael said, and they retreated back over the threshold, taking cover on either side of the door. Michael pulled out his phone and flipped it open. His brow furrowed when he saw he had eight missed calls, but he couldn't worry about that right now.
"Oh, shit," the manager said, and clapped his hands over his ears not a moment too soon, as Michael detonated the explosives.
"Come on, you're helping us," Trevor said, as he grabbed the manager by the arm and dragged him into the exploded vault. They dropped three duffel bags on the ground and began shoveling as much cash as possible into them. "Come on," Trevor insisted, "put the bills in the bags, it ain't that hard, sweet cheeks." The manager scrambled and soon enough the bags were near full.
"This'll have to do," Michael said, shouldering his bag. Trevor threw one of the bags at the teller before picking up his own. "Let's go."
They returned to the main room to see Brad hovering over one of the tellers. "You smell like peaches, anybody ever tell you that?"
"The fuck you doin, B?" Michael asked. Trevor took the bag from the manager and threw it at Brad, who recovered in just enough time to catch it.
"Pick up chicks on your own time, bro," Trevor chided as he and Michael went to the entrance. Michael peered out. It was still quiet. He looked at his watch, they had approximately thirty seconds before the cops arrived. He took a flashlight from his pocket and flashed it into an alley across the road and seconds later, the getaway car exploded through the trashcans blocking the way. Michael wondered if that was entirely necessary or if maybe their getaway driver should have cleared them before.
"Come on, show some hustle," he ordered and the three ran out of the building to the car as it skidded to a halt.
"Move!" Trevor shouted as soon as the doors were closed.
"Go, go, go," Michael yelled at the same time, and the car sped away from the bank, towards the other side of town. They all removed their masks. Michael ran a hand through his hair, airing it out. Trevor had an unfortunate case of helmet hair, his scraggly locks plastered against his head and the back of his neck. Brad's blond hair extended in all directions, begging to shock the next person or object to come in contact with it.
Brad was blabbering about something, buy Michael didn't feel like listening. Instead he pulled out his phone and flipped it open again, opening the call history. Six missed calls from Amanda, and two from one of her girl friends from work.
"Shit," he cursed under his breath.
"What?" Trevor asked from the backseat, putting a hand over Brad's running mouth.
"We in trouble?" Brad tried to ask through Trevor's fingers.
"Nah, it's just - I probably am," he responded. "Hey you guys got this, right?" he asked, and they all seemed to shrug. "Get it to Lester and lay low for a while. Drop me off here," he instructed. Michael got out of the car and shut the door behind him. "Talk to you boys soon," he said, sticking his hands in his jacket pocket and walking off. His breath came out in puffs of white moisture in the cold, but he didn't dare catch a cab, instead walking the remaining miles home in the Blue Path trailer park. He tried calling Amanda but there was no answer. The car they shared, a twelve year old junker sedan, sat parked before the trailer. He dug his keys out of his pocket as he ascended the wooden stairs that led to the trailer he shared with her, the stairs creaked in protest every step he took.
He unlocked the door and took a few steps inside. "Mandy, baby, you home?" he called. The kitchen was empty, and semi-clean, but the dishes stacked up next to the sink formed a small tower. The old television in the corner buzzed, and the snowy particles on the screen mimicked the nasty weather outside. Michael turned it off and went down the narrow hallway, passing the john and spare room. He pushed open the door to the bedroom to be greeted by another empty room.
"Oh shit," he muttered and exited the bedroom, this time turning into the spare room. A crib greeted him, where the old twin guest bed used to be, and a soft plush rug covered the disintegrating carpet. He crossed the room in just two long strides and pulled back the folding door to the closet. "Fuck fuck fuck," he spat and ran out of the house. He got into the sedan and keyed the ignition. It churned a few times, "God fucking damn it, start!" he yelled and the car seemed to oblige, turning over and settling into a vibrating, puttering state. "Thank you!" he breathed, and accelerated out of Blue Path.
The baby bag was gone. The fucking baby bag was gone. Out of all of the days and times for Amanda to go into labor, she does it when he's on a fucking job. Fuck! He wasn't sure if he was actively cursing or if the vulgar mantra was just in his head as he sped towards the only hospital in town, Saint Joseph's. He parked the car in the visitor lot, after he concluded getting towed would be a bad idea in this situation, and ran into the hospital. People sat in chairs in discrete groups, all looking a degree of miserable, and a pair of women sat behind a circular desk. One of them noticed him as he approached, slightly out of breath.
"Hi, uh, my name's… My names Michael Townley," he stammered out of breath.
"Slow down there, champ," the nurse placated, patting the air with her hands. "Take a deep breath." Michael did just that, leaning on the desk. How was he so winded? He just ran from the parking lot to the damn desk, he ran more than that this morning in the heist! Fuck. "There, now what seems to be the problem?" she asked.
"My girlf-my wife she-I think she came here a whi-fuck I don't know. She's having a baby, here, somewhere, I hope," he tried to explain, but the blood was rushing to his face and his ears and he couldn't hear himself talk. His stomach hurt.
"Alright sir, whats your wife's name?"
"Amanda T-Townley," he stuttered again. They were married, they were married, they were married. She'd insisted, and he couldn't argue with a baby on the way.
"Alright, let me look for a second, aha, here it is, yep, she's in the maternity ward right down the hall and up the stairs, Mr Townley," she said, pointing with a smile. "Oh and here," she said and gave him an orange sticker, "put this visitor badge on and no one should trouble you." He nodded his thanks and jogged off. His phone rang as he ran up the stairs.
"Amanda, baby," he answered, seeing the caller ID.
"This is Susan," came the voice from the other end. "where are you?" she asked, no small amount of annoyance in her voice.
"I'm almost at the maternity ward now," he replied, walking down the hallway. One side was made of glass and he could see dozens of squalling babies on the other side. He realized he didn't know where else to go as he approached the nurses station. "Uhh…"
"Room 215," Susan's voice answered his unspoken question and the line went dead. Michael nodded at the nurses, and followed the signs to 215, jogging the whole way.
He didn't slow to knock as he entered and Susan saw him first. She cut him off. "Congratulations, Mr Townley," she said. Her pretty face was pinched and there were abnormal bags under her eyes, "you're a father," and with that she brushed past him.
"Wait, wha-where?" was all he managed out before she turned the corner and disappeared. He turned back to the roomed and walked farther in. Amanda was alone in a hospital gown, hooked up to a couple machines, one of which beeped in synch with her heartbeat.
"Amanda, baby," he called softly, but when he reached the bedside he realized she was asleep. Her pretty face was red and splotchy and her hair was plastered against her forehead and neck with dried sweat. There was a chair next to the bed. Susan must have been using it. Michael pulled it closer and sat down. He took Amanda's hand with both of his and thumbed the hospital bracelets on her wrist.
He wanted to wake her, he needed to know: was the baby okay? Was it a girl or a boy? Height, weight? But he couldn't find it in himself to move. He lowered his head and brought her hand up to his face. "Fuck…" was all he could say.