Calculated Risk

7:13 p.m., Nov. 20 - Ft. Worth, Texas

There were eleven bodies covering the pattered maroon carpet.

One row of six, one row of five, all in the lobby so that everyone could see. Everyone being the concerned parties: Shane and Dale from within the bank, and the police from outside the bank, peering in through the glass.

The negotiators had just left the front doors, trying to work out a deal with Shane. Dale had stayed back with the hostages so that there would be no attempts at heroism from the unfortunate souls who had needed to make a financial transaction that particular afternoon. Dale had tried to plan the heist at a time when hostages would be available, but not over-abundant. Eleven was just fine with him, though he knew odd numbers put Shane on edge.

Shane wouldn't let the negotiators into the bank, nor would he take off his black ski-mask to talk. He had communicated by holding responses written on Xerox paper up to the glass. Dale liked the idea, but it nagged at his curiosity only being able to hear half of the conversation.

"How many hostages do you have?"

"Has anyone been harmed?"

"What are you demands?"

"If we do, you're going to have to release one hostage to show you're willing to work with us."

In between each muffled inquiry, Shane would scribble without delay, and slap the response up to the door. With each slap, the eleven bodies on the floor twitched uncomfortably.

Though still quite alive, Dale considered each hostage a "body." It ensured not only that the captive were listening, but made it easier to not think of them as real people. Internally, however, he had no intention of harming them, save for a rug-burn goatee from lying face down on the floor for so long.

"Get them up," Shane said when he returned.

"Up? Why?" Dale asked from under his black ski mask.

Shane looked to Dale's eyes, sternly.

"Get them up. We're moving to the vault."

Dale nodded and began to move the hostages to the vault one by one. Getting the vault open was the first priority when the heist began hours ago. It took only some shouting and a wave of Shane's shotgun to get the job done, but the cash within wasn't their final goal. After robbing a bank, a police confrontation was inevitable, and Shane wanted to make sure it was on his terms. This was fine by Dale, who knew that the amount they could demand for eleven safe hostages was more than they could hope to find in any one vault.

Nine bodies were in the vault and two were to go when Dale bent down and pulled on the shoulder of a rather large man in a business suit.

"Come on, buddy, let's go," Dale said.

The large man swung around quickly, bringing his elbow across Dale's jaw with full force. Dale flew back and then down, for what felt like much further than five feet, ten inches. The other remaining hostage -- a petite woman in jeans -- leaped into action, throwing herself at Dale's back. She wasn't very strong, which she seemed to realize quickly. She instead attempted to bite at Dale's ear. The pain was sharp and immediate, but before she could clamp down fully, a rubber-soled black boot snapped into the woman's forehead and sent her flying from Dale's shoulders.

Dale heard a crunch and looked up in time to see the butt of Shane's shotgun return the large man to the ground. The man squealed in pain: the preceding crunch the sound of his wide-set nose breaking.

"You wanna try some more funny stuff? Huh?" Shane hollered. The large man had both hands over his face, and his collar was beginning to absorb the blood streaming from beneath them.

Dale could hear faint sounds of commotion from outside, and knew the police had seen. He could feel their shadows cut through the evening sun, but didn't bother to look. He grabbed at his ear slowly, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Both bled lightly.

"You alright?" Shane asked him. Dale nodded. "Alright, then. Bring that bitch in here."

Dale looked to his second attacker. She was unconscious. Dale huffed, pushing himself to his feet, then bent down and swung the body into his arms.

Shane had left the other hostages behind in order to defend Dale, but none of them had dared make a move when they saw the ferocity of Shane's reaction. When he pushed the large man to his ass, two other bodies came to the man's aide.

"Don't fucking touch him," Shane ordered. "Let him bleed."

They slunk away from the man resentfully.

Dale laid the unconscious woman by the vault door and moved to close it behind them.
"Hey. Hold on," Shane said. He pulled Dale with him just outside the door and leaned in to whisper: "I told them they have two hours."

Dale looked through the slits in Shane's mask.

"And then?"

"And then...we kill a hostage."

Dale's eyes widened. "What, Shane, we can't--"

"Do not use my name! How many times do I fucking tell you?" Shane sighed emphatically, calming himself. "Don't worry. They'll see our demands are met." Shane stepped into the vault. "They don't want blood on their hands."

"Yeah," Dale muttered under his breath. "Neither do I."



One hour and fifty-five minutes later, Dale's stomach lurched.

Despite the dry cool of the room, everyone was sweating. Those with watches checked them compulsively, often just seconds apart. He and Shane hadn't told the hostages that one of them was to be executed -- there had been no more attacks -- but it seemed the unconscious woman had been playing dead. She was the only one close enough to the door to hear Shane give the news, and word had spread at a whisper to every shivering soul.

Thirty minutes prior, the police had cut the power to the bank, which was a curious decision to Dale. Of course it made things less comfortable for him and Shane, but it also made things less comfortable for the bodies, and they certainly weren't in charge of available amenities. Shane had split the last of the coffee with Dale forty-five minutes ago, a gift that Dale's nerves soon abhorred.

"Where the fuck are they?" Shane mumbled to himself. The silence of the room ensured that everyone heard.

"Maybe I should go out and check--" Dale began.

"No!" Shane stopped pacing and turned to Dale. "They have their instructions. If they're waiting for me to break, if they're waiting for me to change course, then they have another thing coming."

Dale looked down at his watch. One minute.

"Alright," he heard Shane mumble. "Alright, it's time."

"What? No, there's still one minute--"

"Well, let's not be late, then! Come'ere--" Shane grabbed the petite woman in jeans by the collar and dragged her to the center of the room. She screamed immediately, and the effect was viral. Whether they wanted to or not, all the other bodies began screaming along with her. The wails bounced back and forth off the metals walls so that eleven sounded like hundreds.

Shane leveled his shotgun and lined his sights, though at that range he could have hit a sunflower seed from a squirrel's mouth. The squirrel notwithstanding.

"Don't you move!" Shane shouted as the woman attempted to crawl away. She froze, staring down Shane's barrel. "Time."

Dale breathed heavily.

"Time, Dale!" Shane shot a glance at Dale.

"It's...it-it's time! But come on, Shane, let's think this through! We can't just go on killing people, we at least have to see what the hold up is."

Shane sights relaxed, but not his posture. Instead, he stepped over the girl in a march toward Dale. Without warning, he pressed the gun up to Dale's cheek. Dale didn't dare move.

"What. Did. I. Tell. You. About. Using. My. Name?" Shane asked, the spacing between each word more pronounced than the last.

Dale stammered. "I...I...I'm sorry, Sh--I'm sorry. But--"

"But?" Shane said sharply.

"But you just used mine -- Jesus, put the gun down!"

"I..." Shane relaxed his gun once more. He turned away without looking Dale in the eyes. "I'm sorry."

Dale sighed and looked around the room. All twenty-two eyes were fixated upon him and Shane, taught and unblinking.

"But this isn't a discussion. We came here to get what was ours, and we're going to get it. The authorities have to know that they're playing by our rules, and not the other way around. Don't you understand?"

Dale nodded slowly. Shane nodded once back and made his way back in front of the petite woman on the floor, which immediately re-initiated the cacophony of screams. This time, though, Shane's back was to Dale.

Dale heard the deep click of Shane loading the barrel, even through the wails. "Shane, I still don't think we should--"

The explosion from the end of Shane's gun reverberated through the room and trampled over the screams like bulls through a red alley. The room was silent in its wake as everyone surveyed what had been done. The petite woman was dead without question this time.

Dale expected the screams to start again, but they didn't. Only a few sobs. He was staring down at her when he felt hot metal in his hands.

"I'm going to tell those sons of bitches where we stand. And if they want to ignore our demands again, then another one's gonna die every hour." Shane had pushed his shotgun into Dale's hands. Dale finally looked up, away from the dead woman, and nodded slowly at Shane.

Shane went to the vault door, wrenched it open, and left.

Dale slumped to the floor. He couldn't believe what Shane had done. No, what he had done. What he had allowed to happen. Everyone else looked away, but Dale couldn't pry his eyes. The purple knot on her forehead from where Shane had kicked her earlier. The splatter of black blood, ripped skin and cotton where just moments ago had been her chest. He forced himself to encounter his mistake. His sin.

A tear formed in the corner of his left eye, but he sucked it back. He wouldn't allow the rest of the bodies, those still living, to see him any weaker than they already had. As he pushed himself to his feet, he could have sworn he saw something that wasn't possible.

The petite woman had blinked. His gaze snapped to her face, scouring it for more movement. After a moment, Dale convinced himself that he had seen nothing. He was tired, stressed and saddened. He wouldn't allow himself to become delusional as well.

That was when he decided he was through. So much planning, so much time...but he wouldn't be a part of murder. He would march out, turn himself in, and hope that Shane would forgive him. No money was worth this, he thought.

Dale left the hostages behind. Half were too upset to notice, and the rest still too scared to make a move at his back. As he approached the black of the glass front doors, Dale slowed from a confident march to cautious tip-toe.

There were no lights.

No police.

Shane stood before the doors where Dale stopped in bewildered silence.

Dale peered into the dark, trying to spot something. Anything. He slowly wrapped his fingers around the cold handle of the door and pushed. Before he let himself through, he dropped the shotgun to his side.

After two more cautious steps, it dawned on Dale that this might be a trap. He was surprised, suddenly, that Shane hadn't stopped him from going through the first set of doors. Before he could look back, there was a slam against the glass from outside. It was a police officer...dying. His skin was serrated and his tongue was visible through the gaps in his in his cheeks. His clothes were bloodied and ripped. In Dale's estimation, the man already looked dead. But there he was, propped upright and oozing against the glass.

With spastic haste, Dale turned and pulled back through the first set of doors. Shane was gone.

"Shane? Did you...?"

"Dale," Shane said. "Dale, where is my shotgun?" Shane backed out through the vault door shaking his head involuntarily. Dale found the shotgun on the floor and picked it up in time to meet Shane's outstretched hands. Shane immediately shouldered and cocked the weapon.

"What's wrong?" Dale asked.

"That bitch I just shot is up--up, moving around!"

"Up? You mean she's not dead?" Dale mustered, hopefully. He moved back toward the vault.

"Of course she's dead, I shot her in the chest! Now she's up and--she was biting another hostage!"

"Biting...?" Dale mumbled.

In his final steps toward the vault, Dale could now hear the screams that the thick metal door had suffocated. A hand reached out from the small opening and slid to the ground, bloodied and stiff.

Dale glanced over his shoulder back at Shane, who steadied his gun as best he could, but shivered all over, his wayward aim on the entrance to the vault. He had never seen Shane so afraid.

"Look out!"

Dale didn't have time to react. For the second time that day, the petite woman was hanging from his shoulders. He began swinging wildly, trying to remove her.

"Well I'll be god damned..." Shane muttered.

The petite woman swung back her head. The blood from her cole slaw chest smeared against Dale's back and her arms twitched strangely across Dale's face, knocking off his black ski mask. Her head was still purple from Shane's kick, but the wound was pronounced by her moon-pale skin and glowing white eyes.

Dale screamed and reached back, but couldn't pry her from his shoulders. She was too strong.
"Her eyes..." Shane hesitated...then, snapping to: "Stop moving, god dammit, or I'll put a round through you!"

"I'm...trying!" Dale gasped.

The woman swung her head back again, coming forward for Dale's ear. This time -- in one slow, methodical sinking of her jaws -- she bit the ear clean off. The echoing screams of the hostages in the vault could not compare to Dale's squawks of horror. Before Shane could get a clean shot, the man with the broken nose stumbled from the vault.

His movements were slow and rigid -- perhaps from loss of blood.

"Don't you come any closer!" Shane shouted, temporarily swinging his aim away from his friend. "I said stop!"

With one hand to his missing ear and the other holding back his assailant, Dale watched as Shane let loose a shell. He hit the large man at the left elbow. His arm swung there for a moment, before falling free. His slow pace, however, did not become slower.

"What the hell..."

"SHAAAANE!" Dale screamed as loud as Shane had ever heard anyone scream. He looked down to see the pale, petite woman pulling flesh and bloodied muscle from Dale's neck. "Shane..." his voice faded as he collapsed to the floor. Shane hesitated no more. He fired another round at the woman and she flew back from the force.

"Dale...Dale, come on now..." Shane slung his gun into one hand and slid to his knees beside his partner. Shane glanced up at the one-armed businessman, still in pursuit, before flipping his friend onto his back.

Dale was dead.

"Ah, dammit..." Shane sighed. "Ah, no, no, no. Not like this, not like this." Shane re-tightened his grip on his shotgun and in one motion cocked the weapon and pushed himself to a stand. Ker-thump, ker-thump, ker-thump. Shane fired three cartridges into the lumbering business man, who took each blast as a soft spring breeze. His pursuit still did not slow.

Shane reached into his pocket and fumbled for more shells, then popped open his gun to reload. When he looked down at his hand, re-emerging with the shells, he saw the petite woman on the floor. She was getting up. Without even time to curse, two more bodies emerged from the vault, moving as strangely as the man who had just taken four rounds without so much as a complaint.

Shane fired more frantically now, rotating targets, hoping for any contact that might slow them. After one last bam and an empty click, Shane knew he was out of ammunition. He had come for a battle, but hadn't planned for a war. He dropped his gun and turned for the exit. One more body stood in his way.

It was Dale. The side of his head and neck glistened black and red from his bite wounds, but the bleeding had stopped. His eyes were now overcast, matching those of the petite woman.

"Oh, Dale, no. It's me..." Shane pleaded. Dale swayed, Shane's words ineffectual. "It's me, Shane." Shane began to sob. "What's my name, Dale...What's my na--"

Dale lunged at Shane, jaws poised. Shane fell backward, where the large businessman was waiting to catch him. Shane pushed himself out of his grasp and into the patterned maroon carpet. Shane wept as Dale's fingers sunk into his arms, teeth into his shoulder, and four more lumbering bodies fell upon him.