Curveball Issue One: Death of a Hero

Part Two: Curveball

Afternoon sunlight streams through the Gothic windows in the bank lobby, highlighting motes of dust swirling through the air. CB stifles a yawn and waits, mostly patiently, in the cavernous room’s only line. It looks more like a church than a bank, and some might consider that appropriate—a church to Mammon, perhaps.

“Here comes trouble...”

CB looks over his shoulder and grins at the smiling, elderly man in the security uniform. “Heya Frank.”

“Back again,” Frank says. “I told myself ‘it’s the third Thursday of the month. That young fella should be in today.’ And don’t you know it, here you are.”

“You know me pretty well, Frank.”

“I know all the regulars.” Frank is obviously proud of this fact. “They never surprise me. Not any more. For example, I’d bet money you’re going to refuse to open an account. Again.”

CB laughs. “That’s money you’d win. Just here to cash a check…”

“Every month,” Frank says. “Just here to cash a check. And you get off the bus to do it! Don’t they have banks where you live?”

“I don’t live in a good neighborhood,” CB says.

Frank grins broadly. “Then you should open an account. Keep your money in the bank instead of carrying it in your pockets all the time. It’s safer.”

“I’m OK,” CB says.

“Well, it’s a new girl today. Just started last week. She’s going to try to talk you into opening an account.”

“Is she now?” CB grins again. “Is she pretty?”

“She’s married.”

“I might let her talk me into it if she’s pretty.”

“You leave that poor girl alone. She’s sweet.” Frank shakes his head, torn between amusement and disapproval.

CB shrugs. “Guess I’ll just cash my check, then. Keep holding out for the girl of my dreams.”

“Girl of your dreams?” Frank asks. “What kind of girl would that be?”

“Depends on what I ate the night before...”

Frank laughs.

The line moves up one spot. CB yawns again, then grins at the woman in front of him, who tries to pretend she wasn’t glancing furtively in his direction. He doesn’t look like your typical bank patron: matted, spiky hair, a day’s growth of beard, trench coat, heavy boots and a Clash t-shirt make him look more like someone intending to rob it.

He briefly considers trying to strike up a conversation with the woman, just to see exactly how uncomfortable he can make her, but he abandons the idea when he realizes that tormenting the woman is getting boring. He sighs, slips on his earbuds, and chooses a random track from his iPod. He closes his eyes, lets the screeching vocals of the Hives surround him, and is completely oblivious when the front of the bank explodes.

The front wall blows inward, showering the patrons with a hailstorm of concrete rock, shards of glass, and a powdery mixture of both. Larger pieces of concrete litter the front of the lobby like man-made boulders; exposed support beams twist out from the intact portions of the wall like bonsai trees.

The line dissolves as people scatter, shrieking and yelling in alarm. Some hide behind desks or booths, others run to the restrooms or look for the back exit. Frank runs to a man half-pinned under a broken concrete slab and tries to push the slab away: he’s too old, it’s too large.