Healer (The Healer Series) Read Free Page B

Chivalry is not something you see much these days, especially where I work.
    As I enter t he Quickie Mart, the young Asian man who works the cash register most nights nods to me, but continues his conversation on his cell phone.
    I nod back with a smile and head towards the back of the store to grab a Coke, my one true addicti on. I drink one every morning. After I grab my beverage from the cooler in the back, I snatch a bag of Doritos, and notice a very pale, thin lady flipping through a copy of Vogue near the paper section. Reading a magazine at two-thirty in the morning at a gas station in the hood is odd enough, but her black suit is what makes her seem most out of place. Her suit is cut well, accentuating her small frame. Her blonde hair is pulled back tight in a ponytail. She reminds me of the characters in the movie the Matrix .
    I make my way towards the front of the store , watching her in my peripheral vision, when a young, black man stumbles through the entrance, wearing a puffy black coat and beanie. He staggers like he’s drunk, but no one else seems to notice.
    The young Asian man , still yacking away on his cell phone in his native tongue, doesn’t notice the man when he approaches the counter.
    I can’t say wh y exactly, but I watch the man as he stands at the counter, my eyes glued to him. Every hair on my body stands up on end. Alarms ring in my head, screaming danger, but I remain frozen.
    The mocha-skinned man who may be thirty, digs inside of his over-sized puffy coat and pulls out a handgun.
    My amygdala kicks into high gear and slows time to a snail’s pace. In my mind I yell, “ Look out!”, but I’m pretty sure it sounds of nothing, but grunts.
    The cashier i s completely blind-sided when the man shoots him in the leg. He drops his cell phone and yells out “fuck” in his native tongue; at least I think that’s what he says. I don’t know what language he speaks, nor do I know anything other than a little French that I learned in high school, but I think the word fuck might be a standard word shouted in all languages when one gets shot. It would certainly be my first choice word.
    I don’t even realize I’ve dropped my items until I hear them hit the floor. The gunman snaps the gun in my direction and our eyes lock. Running should be my first reaction, but in the brief moment our eyes meet, I recognize something. The panic of the moment shifts briefly as I stare at him, and question him with my eyes, “ Do I know you?”
    His eyes dart to the side awkwardly, then back to me. His jaw tenses and he raises his arm to level the gun in his hand to my face.
    I squint as if this will help me remember where I’ve seen him before and just as I feel like I’m on the verge of figuring it out a shot sounds off. The gunman falls to the ground like a ton of bricks.
    My amygdala must be on a smoke break because that felt like it happened in the blink of an eye.
    The cashier holds a shotgun with trembling hands, his face white as snow, sweat glistening on his forehead. The shotgun must have been hidden under the counter.
    I quickly k ick the hand gun away from the gunman and it skids across the brown tiled floor. The gunman’s eyes are closed and he appears to be unconscious.
    The cashier’s chest heaves up and down, but he remains still as stone, frozen in shock.
    “Call 911 !” I yell.
    My voice seems to unthaw him because he drops the gun and limps behind the counter, mumbling words I don’t understand.
    The odd woman with pale skin watches me, still holding the same magazine, but makes no movement to help.
    I quickly assess the room , trying to determine who is hurt worse. Obviously the gunman is hurt worse, but I decide the cashier who saved my ass a minute ago will get my attention first. I run behind the counter, remove the cashier’s belt, and wrap it around his thigh tightly. His leg is drenched in blood, but using the belt as a tourniquet seems to slow down the bleeding. “Hold this