120 Seconds

"120 Seconds" is the short story upon which I based one of my first student films. It was written by me on March 21, 2000.

The two men sat facing each other with a small table and a revolver between them. Byron Crowe and Russell Thorn may might as well has been playing poker, as they already had the table for it and each already wore a countenance of stone.

"It's almost six." This was Russell. His voice came across short and crisp, the anger dripping from his tongue. He was the more jovial of the two men.

"Give it a moment. I rather like the idea of waiting until we've only got two minutes left... two minutes to decide our fate." Byron's words were like ice. His rage was deathly calm but unmistakable.

"I don't appreciate your irony, Byron."

"Really?" Byron smiled a little. He liked the idea that Russell was uncomfortable at this given moment. 'It serves you well you cowardly fuck,' Byron thought.

"So there's no other way?" Russell strained with all his might, and succeeded in repressing the grin that wanted to come to his face. He allowed himself one gentle flex of his left leg to reassure himself for the umpteenth time that night that the heavy metal object was still strapped there.

"Didn't hear you come up with any ideas for the past two hours."

Russell held his tongue. He knew that in the end Byron would get upset. Would get very upset in fact, but there was nothing that could be done about it. His mind said it at the same time his mouth did: "Alright, this is the way it has to be."

And then silence descended on the room again. It was a large empty storage room. What little furniture adorned the room was in a bad state of disrepair, and the now bloodstained carpet would need to be replaced. The room was empty save for the table and two chairs at which Byron and Russell sat, a wall full of crates containing time forgotten paperwork, and the bodies of the five men Byron Crowe had gunned down when he saw them in the room.

At present, the two men sat examining Russell's watch. It was an old pocket-watch that had always kept perfect time. It ticked closer to the immortal hour, which for these two men was six in the morning. That was their witching hour. That was when one man would be saved in his own death and the other would suffer the consequences of failure.

"Alright, two minutes." Russell looked down at the gun and then over at his partner. "Wanna go first?"

Russell started to reach for the gun, when all at once Byron's hand shot up and snatched it from the table. "Don't mind if I do." Russell was slightly taken aback, but he steadied himself after a moment. "I'm blaming you if I go back."

Before Russell could respond, Byron pulled the trigger.

120

"But one of us does have to go. Those are the rules Byron, one of us does have to go." Russell was only slightly shaken. The gun had not gone off. The first chamber had been empty.

Oh, don't worry about that. In about two minutes we're both leaving this room. The lucky one just gets to do it in a body bag, like those poor bastards."

Russell began to smirk a little. "They weren't supposed to be here any more than we were."

"Weren't they?"

Russell didn't bother to reply with words. In one smooth motion, he reached for the gun, snatched it away from Byron, aimed at his partner, and pulled the trigger.

Again, the chamber was empty.

Don't look so glum, Byron. You'll get another turn. Maybe," Russell said as he handed the gun over. "Just remember whose idea this all was."

Don't forget whose gun this is," came the harsh words as Byron thumbed back the hammer. "And more to the point, don't forget whose bullet this is. I don't have to share it."

Just like always we've got a deal." And of course he was right. Byron wasn't the type to make an idol threat and Russell didn't know why he had done it. The two were bound together and there was no way either of them could break this deal. It simply meant too much. And if there's one thing Russell was sure of, it was that Byron Crowe was a man of honor. Byron wouldn't have said the same thing in return, and Russell knew it.

"I hope you burn in hell," said as he pointed and squeezed the trigger once again.

The third chamber had been empty.

Keep the door open for me if you get there first," Russell spat. "Two chances left, and under a minute to go. If you've got a miracle now's the time to put it to good use."

"Only miracle I need is a .44 caliber slug in the head. Now do it." He slid the weapon back across the table as if he were a card dealer passing Russell his draw. "If I had a miracle I would have avoided this whole mess."

"If you're still blaming that on me, you might as well forget it. It's not my fault that the door didn't stay open. I warned you about that." He picked up the gun and held it gingerly for a moment. "And it's certainly not my fault the records aren't even in here."

"I'm not the one who forgot my gun."

Russell didn't reply before he pulled the trigger again.

One more dull snap. "The next one decides it all I guess," said Russell. He was on the verge of saying more, but stopped. 'I didn't need my gun...' he thought to himself and smiled.

"There's no more time to drift." But this time Byron wasn't so sure his partner had been drifting off. He'd been working with Russell for a long time, and known him even longer. It had been years in both categories, almost a decade and a half in the latter. He knew when Russell was losing his concentration and... when it was just shifting. He was thinking something, that much was certain. But what?

Byron took the gun without saying more and somehow knew that he was just about out of chances. The two men hadn't thought they'd run into anyone, but he brought his gun anyway. Sure, the more you carried on a job, the more you were liable for, but a gun? He couldn't believe Russell wouldn't bring one. 'At least this'll shut him up if it reports.' He aimed, and pulled the trigger one last time.

Byron had won, the fifth chamber was empty. The last bullet would belong to him. He smiled as he turned the weapon back over to Russell.

Russell took the heavy firearm and cocked it for the last time. As he did so, his nervous leg flexing habit prompted him again. Gently flexing his calves he felt the light pressure he knew was the knife he had tucked into his boot earlier on. Byron had always hated knives, he considered them messy and slow, but this one could have been Russell's salvation.

He leveled the weapon and stared coldly into his friend's eyes as he aimed between them knowing he would be in hell just seconds after he dispatched Byron.

"I win." An insane smile crossed Byron's face. "As long as, when I asked you to check the last round, you didn't palm the bullet, right?"

Russell returned Byron's idiot smile as he took the gun from him. "Oh, it's loaded all right. I'm certain about that."

"I still blame you," were the last word Byron Crowe had ever planned to say to Russell Thorn, but he never got the chance. He never even got past "you son of" before Russell cut him off.

"I was never going to lose," Russell whispered fiercely, and half a second later the secret of his boot knife, the only salvation left in the world, died with him.

Before his partner's body had even begun to fall to the ground Byron was screaming with rage. He didn't hear the time-lock door open up behind him. He was shifting his focus from the smoking tear at the top of Russell's head to the brain matter splattered on wall behind it.

Byron didn't see destiny come into the room to take him. He saw only blind rage at Russell's cowardice in avoiding the fate they knew anyone living man in that room would suffer.

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