Enigma Forced

“Remember, you promised to teach me to drive this big rig when this job’s over. I want to drive freight in this country. But not this piece of crap.”

Annoyed, Toby opened the door into the inferno of the August morning with the sun blazing overhead. The sweat evaporated from his skin as he hopped down and slammed the door. Smoke randomly billowed from the exhaust stack on top of the cab. He walked around the building to the front door with a view of the regular gas pumps. Toby noticed a few cars were there, but no one was outside refueling. He decided folks must be inside enjoying the cool air. Turning his attention to the paper, he oriented his map to make it a quick conversation.

He started to push the door to enter. Inside, a hand pulled back the door and grabbed hold of Toby, yanking him into the store. He fought to keep his balance, but his worn boot soles slid him into a display rack like a skater on ice. Several items plopped to the floor with resounding crunches. Then, there was stillness. He felt the jarring pain from a solid object banging on his head. His knees gave out as he crumbled to the floor atop several chip bags that exploded from the impact.

A demanding man’s voice with a Mexican accent growled, “Stay down on the ground, motherf*****.”

Toby’s hand reached for his injury as he tried to move into a sitting position. He saw the revolver rising and felt the blow smash down on the same spot.

Toby expelled. “Oof,” then he grunted. Lying on his right side, he peered through his eyelashes, but everything seemed blurry. His head pounded, so he shut his eyes, hoping to ease his pain. He heard the voice again.

“Diego, I got another one. What’s taking you so long?”

A second accented voice came farther away, echoing as if in a closed area. “I told you not to use names, stupid! You just created another problem. It’s bad enough the cashier can’t open the damn safe. Now these people know our names, Chico.”

“Sorry.”

“Never mind; get his wallet, too. We’ll take all the money we can, including anyone who stops in before we leave.”

Toby figured Chico pulled him up by the armpits and waved his gun. He shoved Toby toward the edge of the checkout counter. Toby noticed several folks sitting near him and holding their knees. They gave him a quick look reflecting fear before hiding their tear-streaked faces against their chests.

“Gimme that wallet from your back pocket, mister. Then sit down and shut up,” Chico demanded.

Toby’s vision cleared enough to see Chico’s hand waiting to receive his wallet while he pointed his weapon to the floor toward the others. Without thinking, Toby grabbed the man’s wrist and yanked hard, slamming him into the corner of the counter and knocking out his breath. Toby recognized he stood half a foot taller, so he continued pulling and shifting the tension to keep the man off balance. Chico fought like a ravaged coyote and swung his revolver over, delivering two rounds in deafening rapid succession. Toby released his hold on his killer, falling dead with blood rapidly pooling on the floor.