"Walter. Pay attention, Walter."
The words came to Walter as though over a great distance, lost to the pounding of his pulse and the ringing in his ears. He hung limply, his arm twisted up at an odd angle. The vice-like grip that clutched just above his elbow was all that kept him from collapsing onto the cold, hard ground. His eyes fluttered open and he had to blink many times to get the water clear enough so he could see. The floor was darkened with drops of something, a tiny Jackson Pollock painting of red on white. Another drop hit with a splat and his lip quivered at the sudden loss of the blood's weight. More welled up to replace it.
The air tasted and smelled like copper, it was thick on his tongue and made it hard to swallow. He breathed through his nose as best he could and made a whimpering sound.
"Come on man," the voice said. It was young, raspy, and impatient. "Open the fucking register, Walter."
"I think..." he started, but the act of speaking made his jaw flare with a pain that had only been a dull annoyance before.
"Don't speak, Walt. Your jaw's probably broken. Just open the register."
The hand released him and Walter hit the floor with another whimper. He rolled slowly onto his side, then back, and blinked at the fluorescent light bulbs overhead. They were the long and thin kind of bulb, the ones that turned to powder when shattered and were a bitch to remove. One was broken and the fixture was hanging with one side lower than the other. The ceiling tile above it had been displaced, he couldn't figure out why.
"Walt!"
A figure came into view, leaning over to obscure the lights. He was wearing a leather jacket and a red hood, a bandana covered the lower half of his. All Walter could tell was the person was male, pale, and had blue eyes. Not much to go on in a Watch report, he thought.
"Come on man, don't make me break something else. I don't got time for this shit . Get up," the would-be robber leaned down and grabbed Walter by the scruff of his work shirt and hoisted him up onto his feet. Walter was surprised to find that when standing, he towered over the young man by several inches. He was broader shouldered, too, but the young man had manhandled him with apparent ease.
"Cash register. Now."
Blinking several times, Walter turned. The world spun as he did so and he had to grasp the edge of the counter to keep from falling. He started punching some keys on the cash register with fat fingers and blinked over at the empty store. Another man was lying in one of three aisles, face down and unmoving. Half of the shelving had been knocked over and the floor was littered with packets of beef jerky and chips.
The young man beside him grunted impatiently and then the register chimed and spit the till out. Walter was shoved aside and the robber came up to start snatching up all the bills. When he was done, he slammed it shut and turned to leave.
"How do you know my name?" Walter asked despite the pain in his jaw.
The young man turned to face him, his blue eyes went cold. Slowly, he approached until he was standing right in front of Walter. Though he was shorter, he seemed to tower over the man. Walter felt his tongue grow thick, his mouth went dry, and he gulped.
"You're wearing a name tag, man," the young man said with a laugh. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the roll of stolen bills. He fished out a twenty and stuffed it into the pocket of Walter's work shirt, then he turned and stepped out from behind the counter.
"Thanks, Walt!" he said cheerfully. The door chimed merrily as he stepped out.
The words came to Walter as though over a great distance, lost to the pounding of his pulse and the ringing in his ears. He hung limply, his arm twisted up at an odd angle. The vice-like grip that clutched just above his elbow was all that kept him from collapsing onto the cold, hard ground. His eyes fluttered open and he had to blink many times to get the water clear enough so he could see. The floor was darkened with drops of something, a tiny Jackson Pollock painting of red on white. Another drop hit with a splat and his lip quivered at the sudden loss of the blood's weight. More welled up to replace it.
The air tasted and smelled like copper, it was thick on his tongue and made it hard to swallow. He breathed through his nose as best he could and made a whimpering sound.
"Come on man," the voice said. It was young, raspy, and impatient. "Open the fucking register, Walter."
"I think..." he started, but the act of speaking made his jaw flare with a pain that had only been a dull annoyance before.
"Don't speak, Walt. Your jaw's probably broken. Just open the register."
The hand released him and Walter hit the floor with another whimper. He rolled slowly onto his side, then back, and blinked at the fluorescent light bulbs overhead. They were the long and thin kind of bulb, the ones that turned to powder when shattered and were a bitch to remove. One was broken and the fixture was hanging with one side lower than the other. The ceiling tile above it had been displaced, he couldn't figure out why.
"Walt!"
A figure came into view, leaning over to obscure the lights. He was wearing a leather jacket and a red hood, a bandana covered the lower half of his. All Walter could tell was the person was male, pale, and had blue eyes. Not much to go on in a Watch report, he thought.
"Come on man, don't make me break something else. I don't got time for this shit . Get up," the would-be robber leaned down and grabbed Walter by the scruff of his work shirt and hoisted him up onto his feet. Walter was surprised to find that when standing, he towered over the young man by several inches. He was broader shouldered, too, but the young man had manhandled him with apparent ease.
"Cash register. Now."
Blinking several times, Walter turned. The world spun as he did so and he had to grasp the edge of the counter to keep from falling. He started punching some keys on the cash register with fat fingers and blinked over at the empty store. Another man was lying in one of three aisles, face down and unmoving. Half of the shelving had been knocked over and the floor was littered with packets of beef jerky and chips.
The young man beside him grunted impatiently and then the register chimed and spit the till out. Walter was shoved aside and the robber came up to start snatching up all the bills. When he was done, he slammed it shut and turned to leave.
"How do you know my name?" Walter asked despite the pain in his jaw.
The young man turned to face him, his blue eyes went cold. Slowly, he approached until he was standing right in front of Walter. Though he was shorter, he seemed to tower over the man. Walter felt his tongue grow thick, his mouth went dry, and he gulped.
"You're wearing a name tag, man," the young man said with a laugh. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the roll of stolen bills. He fished out a twenty and stuffed it into the pocket of Walter's work shirt, then he turned and stepped out from behind the counter.
"Thanks, Walt!" he said cheerfully. The door chimed merrily as he stepped out.