Story code: ST-001728
Part 2: Hostile Restraint
The high-pitched ringing in Malik’s ears drowned out the specific words of the two men blocking his path, reducing their voices to deep, aggressive barks. The taller of the two, a man in a heavy beige work jacket, took another half-step forward, closing the final gap between the register’s edge and the bagging carousel. He raised both hands, palms out, in a stance that screamed he was ready for a physical altercation.
Malik’s lungs burned. He tried to draw a breath, but his airway felt entirely clamped shut. The iron weight on his sternum radiated a dull, throbbing ache down his left arm. He needed to get to the floor. If he could just lie flat on his back, maybe the crushing pressure would ease. He let go of the cash wrap, intending to slowly lower himself to the rubber anti-fatigue mat, and allowed his knees to buckle.
Instead of seeing a man collapsing, the crowd gasped. The woman in the pristine coat shrieked again, stumbling backward and pointing a manicured finger.
“He’s going for something under the counter!” she yelled, her voice cracking with hysteria. “He’s got something!”
The man in the work jacket didn’t wait. He lunged across the bagging area, his large hands clamping violently onto Malik’s shoulder. The sudden, wrenching force jerked Malik upward just as his legs gave out. A sharp spike of pure agony shot through his chest. He gasped, a wet, choking sound, and his right arm flailed outward in a desperate attempt to catch his balance.
His knuckles clipped the metal edge of the receipt printer. To the ring of glowing cell phones recording every second, it looked exactly like a wild, uncoordinated punch.
The second man jumped in, grabbing Malik’s other arm. Together, they slammed him back against the steel ridge of the checkout lane. The impact knocked the last remaining ounce of oxygen from his lungs. Malik’s mouth opened in a silent scream. His vision fractured into static and dark, swimming edges. He could feel the cold metal of the register digging into his spine, but it was nothing compared to the fiery vice gripping his heart. He fought to bring his hands to his chest, to rub his sternum, to somehow massage life back into his failing organs.
“Stop resisting!” the first man shouted, twisting Malik’s left arm awkwardly behind his back. The angle strained his shoulder joint to the tearing point. “Just hold still, buddy! You’re done!”
Malik’s eyes rolled frantically toward the crowd, pleading for a single face to recognize what was actually happening. Through the blurry veil of his own sweat, he saw the sea of angry, frightened shoppers. No one was putting away their phones. No one was dialing for an ambulance. They were filming a threat. They were documenting a dangerous, erratic employee having a violent breakdown in the middle of a holiday rush.
Over the cacophony of overlapping voices, the heavy thud of tactical boots hit the linoleum.
“Clear the aisle! Step back, everyone, clear the aisle!”
The store’s head of security, a stocky, red-faced man named Miller, pushed through the wall of spectators. Miller had his hand resting heavily on the bright yellow taser strapped to his duty belt. His shoulder radio crackled with frantic cross-talk from the front office, but Miller ignored it, his eyes locking instantly onto the struggle at Register 4.
“He went crazy!” the woman in the coat screamed at Miller, inserting herself into his path. “I handed him a coupon and his eyes rolled back and he started twitching! He tried to attack me, and then he tried to pull a weapon from under the register!”
“Is that true? Hey! Look at me!” Miller barked, stepping up to the counter. He didn’t look at the excessive sweat pouring down Malik’s face. He didn’t look at the bluish tint creeping into Malik’s lips. He only saw a cashier being pinned by two good Samaritans, actively struggling against their grip.
But Malik wasn’t fighting them. He was fighting to survive. The muscle spasms in his chest were entirely involuntary, violent contractions that made his entire body buck and twist against the men holding him. Every time his body jerked, the men tightened their grip, driving his chest harder against the unforgiving edge of the counter.
“Let him go, I’ve got him,” Miller ordered.
The two men backed away, breathing heavily, their faces flushed with adrenaline. The second they released their hold, Malik lost his anchor. The room tilted violently. He pitched forward, grabbing blindly at Miller’s uniform shirt just to keep from face-planting onto the floor.
It was the absolute worst movement he could have made.
Miller shoved him back with a brutal, two-handed strike to the collarbone. Malik hit the register again, sliding sideways until his hip caught the scanner.
“Get your hands off me!” Miller roared, un-clipping the taser from his belt. The device hummed to life, a pair of red laser dots dancing frantically across Malik’s sweat-soaked polo shirt. “Get on the ground! Do it now! Hands behind your head!”
Malik slumped against the bagging carousel, his vision narrowing down to a tight, dark tunnel. At the very edge of the crowd, an older woman with a stethoscope peeking out of her oversized tote bag took a hesitant step forward, her brow furrowing as she squinted at Malik’s pale, clammy face. She opened her mouth to speak, raising a tentative hand.
“Ma’am, get back!” Miller snapped, not breaking eye contact with Malik. He raised the taser higher, his finger tightening on the trigger. “Last warning! Get on the floor or you’re going to ride the lightning!”
Malik tried to obey. He tried to slide down the side of the counter. But his legs were entirely numb, and the agonizing crush in his chest finally severed his brain’s connection to his limbs. He swayed forward again, unable to brace himself, falling helplessly directly toward the red laser dots painting his failing heart.