Loser
By: Aaron Meacham
Tags: Short Story, Fiction, Fiction Friday, Thriller, Flash Fiction

Photo by CÔPAL on Unsplash

The store manager startled as Sam Gibson entered the 7-Eleven. Maybe it was the door chime in an empty store in the middle of the night in the small West Texas town. Maybe it was the clamor of the raging summer storm. Maybe it was that Sam, a regular, had his Vietnam Veteran ballcap pulled down beneath the brim of his large black umbrella, obscuring his features.

Sam closed the umbrella and pulled off the ballcap. “Nothin’ to be nervous about, Francisco. Just me.” The umbrella, with its long metal tip and sturdy wooden hook-handle, doubled as a walking cane when not keeping the rain off. Sam couldn’t decide if he was more relieved to step into the air conditioning or to take the weight off his leg.

“Mr. Gibson, you shouldn’t be out on a night like this.”

“I appreciate the concern,” Sam moved to the cooler across the store. “But this’s the first place I thought to come when my power went out. Hot as hellfire, even this late. Thought it was the storm, but there’s a car plowed into a power line down the street.”

“That explains it.”

Sam hobbled toward the counter, a six-pack of Sol Cerveza in one hand and the hook-handle of his umbrella in the other. He gestured to the ATM with its blank screen. There were deep gouges along the side. Someone appeared to have spilled Slurpee syrup on the keys. “Machine’s down?”

“Yeah. It went down around the time that storm kicked up. Thought I could maybe get it back up, you know? But it’s gonna be down a while, I think.” Francisco looked toward the office. “You should head back home, Mr. Gibson. Before it gets any worse. I’ll comp you for the beer.”

“Like hell you will.” Sam set the bottles down with a hard clank on the counter. “You’ll gimme a receipt and I’ll pay you when the power’s back on. Get me a scratcher, too.”

“Mr. Gibson, you know I’m not supposed to — ”

“My leg hurts. I got no power.” Sam placed his palms on the counter. “I’m tired. And you know I’m good for it.”

Francisco sighed, looking around as if undercover cops or gaming officials were watching. “Keep this to yourself, Mr. Gibson. Then you really should get home.” He turned to the plastic display of scratch-off tickets behind the counter.

Sam noticed a gash on the back of Francisco’s head. It appeared to have been cleaned — hastily — it was fresh. “You take a spill?”

Francisco spun around. “What’s that?”

“That cut.”

“Oh. That.” His free hand slowly raised, covering the wound. “Yeah, I fell. Water blew in from the storm.”

“Looks like your luck’s goin’ as well as mine. Maybe I’ll split my winnings with you.”

“You don’t want to jinx it,” Francisco said, handing the ticket over.

Sam pulled a dull quarter from his pocket. “I feel like my luck’s about to change,” he slowly scraped back and forth across the ticket. He pulled the scratched ticket closer, blowing it clean. A devilish smirk crept across his weathered face.

“How much did you win, Mr. Gibson?”

Then a sound. A familiar sound Sam Gibson could pick out within the thunder and downpour of a monsoon. He was transported back to his patrol through impenetrable green jungle dense with danger. And that sound. The sound of a hammer being cocked.

“Don’t be shy, sir.” An unfamiliar voice snapped Sam back into the moment. “In fact, why don’t you just hand it over and I’ll take a look.”

A wiry man emerged from the office. He wore a stained tank top, revealing a mottled bruise across the exposed part of his chest. His right hand held a pistol that wobbled from Sam to Francisco and back.

Sam’s eyes scanned around. The stranger. The ATM. Francisco. “Francisco, what’s goin’ on here?”

“Shut up!” the man stumbled closer. His jeans were torn near the shin, stained with blood.

“Please, let him go.” Francisco put a hand out. “Mr. Gibson, I didn’t want you involved in this. He’s already — ”

In slow motion, Francisco staggered backwards and collapsed.

“I warned you,” the man stumbled to the counter, peering at Francisco on the floor. “Keep your mouth shut and move people along.” He turned to Sam. “Now give me that ticket, old man, unless you want the same.”

Sam stared at the spot where Francisco had been standing behind the counter, then slid the ticket into his back pocket. “No.”

The man cocked the gun again, moving toward Sam. “Must be a lot of money if it’s worth your life.” He held his left hand out. “Last chance, pal.”

Sam braced his weight against his back foot and thrust the ferrule of his umbrella into the wound on the man’s leg.

The man let out a scream, discharging a stray shot as he slumped to one knee.

Thrown off-balance, Sam fell to the tile with a crack. His left arm went numb.

“You’re dead now!” The man fired, hitting Sam in the left shoulder.

Sam breathed heavy and swung the umbrella again, knocking the gun away and onto the counter.

The men fumbled on the floor, struggling for their footing. The man flopped forward and kicked the umbrella free, falling on top of Sam. In the clumsy scuffle that followed, the man fixed his hands around Sam’s throat, squeezing hard.

“You picked the wrong hill to die on, mister.”

Sam struggled to free himself. His lungs burned. Vision blurred. Was the storm picking back up? Typical for the peak of the monsoon season. The looming darkness of the thunderheads followed by the change in pressure. Then a flash and a familiar sound and the man slumped to the floor.

Francisco was propped against the counter, the gun trained on the man’s body. “You all right, Mr. Gibson?”

“Must be my lucky day.”

“So how much did you win?”

The pressure equalized inside Sam. “Oh, it’s a dud. Just tired of losin’.”