The first thirty-six seconds of Elba by E.S. Posthumus, from Unearthed
, are the soundtrack to this snippet. Best imagined as the opening sequence of a movie.It was noisy in the bank; busier than it had been in weeks. The lines were five or six people deep - both lanes in the drive-through had three cars each. It was already 2:15 on a Friday afternoon, and the vault had not been balanced nor either the night drop or the ATM deposits pulled. Only one teller had gone to lunch.
The drive-through teller locked her drawers and her station and crouched to grab her purse from the floor. "I'm going to lunch, ladies," was heard faintly over the din as she pushed through the bullet-proof door between the main teller line and the supervisor's desk next to the exit. It was blessedly quiet outside, though warm in the desert sun, and she shrugged off her overly bright shawl. She held it draped over her arm before her, hand brushing against her abdomen with every step, fingers curving slightly against the faintest swell. Her head bent to her purse, searching for her keys, and the bank exploded behind her.
The shock-wave pitched her forward in a long, flat somersault across the parking lot. She came down hard on her left shoulder amidst dirt and grit and shards of brick and glass and plaster. Momentum rolled her forward onto her back, around to her side, and some maternal instinct drew her in her arms and legs to a fetal position so she rolled onto their sturdy frame rather than her frightfully vulnerable belly. The teller's body came to a rest with her head angled back toward the bank, her left arm bent unnaturally beneath her. Blank eyes drifted over the shattered, burning building as her head rang with silence and her functional arm curled tight around a pain she didn't feel. Her gaze was just as uncomprehending when it landed on her abdomen, and the blood slowly pooling around her.
