by Delaney Peterson
Content Warning
Contains graphic descriptions of violence, murder, and suicidal ideation.
On the mall escalator down to the ground floor, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and faced a teenage boy. He was tall and, standing one step up, he towered over me like a skinny giant.
“You’re not as sly as you think you are, girl,” he said, grinning.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I turned away and he stepped down beside me.
“I saw you. You took that girl’s wallet.” He leaned closer. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”
I didn’t say anything, just walked down the escalator and out the door, my anxiety building. He followed. After a couple blocks, I stopped and turned to face him. “Look, I don’t know what you think you saw, but I didn’t do anything. Stop. Following. Me.”
“Hey, take it easy. I just want to talk. You have potential, you just need to learn a few things.”
I searched his face, but it told me nothing. I noticed his dirty, shabby t-shirt and shorts. “Yeah? What’s in it for you?”
“We’ll make more money if we work together.”
I sized him up. I didn’t trust him, but I was intrigued. “What’s your name?”
“Abe,” he said, and then grinning added, “Honest Abe.”
I could see how he got the nickname. The blonde hair was wrong, but his height and long face were right. “What’s your story?”
“Same as yours, I suppose. Shitty home life, nowhere to go, so here I am.”
I nodded at his succinct explanation. There was no reason to say more.
“What’s your name?”
“Chase,” I said, reading the name off a bank sign behind him. For a moment, I thought he would turn around and look, but he didn’t.
“Well, Chase, what do you think?”
“I think I need to go.”
“Go where?”
“Home.”
“Where’s home?”
“At the corner of none of your and fucking business.”
“Ok, well, think about it. I’ll be in Westlake Park on Friday at six if you want to talk more.”
I stared at him, shifted my weight, and chewed my lip. “Maybe. If I’m not there by six, I won’t be coming.”
“Alright.”
“I have to go.”
“You said that.”
I turned and walked away. He had seen me. I thought I was doing everything right, but I now realized I actually had no idea.
In my reverie, I almost tripped over a pair of legs sticking out on the sidewalk. I stopped and looked at the girl. She was dirty and her eyes were closed. The filth made it difficult to determine her age, but I thought she was not much older than my fifteen years.
I shook her shoulder, but she didn’t wake up. “Hey,” I said, shaking harder. “Are you okay?”
She slumped to the side and I knelt in front of her, leaning in close to check her breathing, which was shallow. I shook her and spoke loudly again, but she wouldn’t wake up. Turning, I yelled at the pedestrians around me. “Someone call 911!”
Some kept walking but several stopped. “On it!” a man called, already dialing.
I stepped back as others stepped in, satisfied that she would get the care she needed.
I looked at the time; 6:30 p.m. The group home had a seven o’clock curfew and was a twenty minute bus ride away. The place locked down like a prison after curfew, so I had no chance of sneaking in if I was late.
I arrived at a locked door, but a security guard always manned the entry. He recorded my name and walked me to the room I shared with seven other girls.
Mrs. Henry waited for me when I returned from school the next day. She led me to her office. “I am told you were out past curfew,” she began coolly, peering down her narrow nose at me.
“Yes, but for good reason. There was a girl on the sidewalk who wasn’t breathing. I helped her.”
“I would think you could come up with something believable, an accomplished liar like you.”
“I’m not lying!”
“Oh, Mabel. Why must you always misbehave?”
“It’s the truth.” But I knew I wouldn’t win.
“Very well. A week in solitary, then.”
“Please, no! And I am telling the truth, I promise.” Solitary was exactly what it sounded like. Kids were allowed out for school and showers, but otherwise confined to a 10-foot square room with a toilet and sink in a closet. We ate meals in the room and were allowed only books and homework to pass the time. The home defended the practice as a way to handle violent behavior, but they covertly employed the punishment in a variety of non-violent situations too.
I did not go easily and once the door closed behind me, I shook it in its frame, hard enough to tear it off the hinges.
“Knock it off!” Mrs. Henry yelled from behind the door, her voice acerbic enough to peel paint.
I dropped to the floor. I simmered, stewed, and punched the wall before collapsing on the bed, sobbing and spiraling. It was all so unfair. Nobody loved me. Nobody even liked me. Eventually, I fell into a disturbed, restless sleep and awoke early.
My knuckles were bloody from punching the wal,l and I stared at them and thought about the futility of it all, finally grasping the depth of my solitude. A lot of the other foster kids’ moms still loved them, but mine didn’t. She made that clear when she moved away while I was at school. I came home to an apartment devoid of Mom and her belongings when I was eight years old. She had been all I had. I wiped away tears, embracing the cold degeneracy that had taken up residence in my guts. I felt ancient in that moment. No one was coming to save me. That was solely up to me.
I had saved up enough money to survive for a little while outside the group home, but it wouldn’t last long. My age was a barrier to all the things I couldn’t legally do yet. But at that point, I would rather have slept in a gutter and eaten insects than stay one more day in that group home.
When I was released from my solitary prison on Friday morning, I left my meager belongings behind and went to school. I kept anything valuable in my school locker because privacy and security were non-existent in the home. I grabbed my stash and headed downtown, securing a room in a hostel on the southern edge, and paid for a week upfront. It was little more than a closet with a cot and a community bathroom down the hall, but it was better than no room.
I left to meet Abe.
My stomach clenched against swirling butterflies when I saw him sitting on a bench. He smiled when I approached. “You made it.”
I didn’t say anything, just sat down next to him.
“I’m glad you came.”
I looked around before answering. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Right to it, huh? Okay, come with me.”
“Where?” My stomach butterflies swirled in a tornado.
“To meet the others. We have a place.”
“The others?”
“Don’t worry, it’s just my crew. Gotta have a crew if you’re gonna do jobs.”
I followed Abe, thinking about the oversized crescent wrench in my backpack, the only weapon I had. I hoped I wasn’t being led to my demise.
We caught a bus and exited a few streets away from my hostel. I pulled the wrench out of my backpack as we moved around the side of an abandoned office building. The windows were boarded and the doors barred. Abe pulled on a board covering a window and it swung wide on hinges. I let him go first and followed, pulling the board closed behind me. Abe produced two flashlights, handing me the smaller one. They threw off enough light that I could see most of the inside. It was full of trash and stank of urine and homelessness.
I followed him to the end of a hall where a piece of plywood was nailed over a door. He knelt next to the door, popped out a panel of wainscotting with a screwdriver he produced from somewhere, and motioned for me to enter. Stepping through cautiously, sweaty and breathing hard, I led with the wrench. Abe followed and pulled the panel back into place behind him.
The space was once a conference room, which now included an eclectic collection of furniture: folding chairs and tables, a car bench seat, and a large truck tire. Boards covered the windows except for a foot of exposed glass near the ceiling, allowing daylight in.
Two teenage boys sat staring at their phones, one draped across the bench seat and the other seated in a folding chair.
“Hilo, Puck, meet Chase,” Abe said.
“Hey,” Puck said from the bench seat, tossing his black hair out of his large, dark eyes and looking directly at me.
I guessed Hilo was native Hawaiian by the look of him and his nickname. “Hey. Abe told
us about you. What’s your story?”
“My story?”
“Yeah, where you from? What are you doing here?”
“I’m from here, and I need money.” I stood near the escape panel, shifting from one foot to the other and not making eye contact.
“Relax, we’re not going to hurt you.” Hilo glanced at the wrench I held. “We want the same thing as you.”
“So, why am I here?”
“Because. Look at you. How old are you, anyway? You look like you’re twelve.”
I sighed. “Fifteen.”
“Well, nobody’s going to suspect you of nothin’. Abe said he saw you lift a girl’s wallet at the mall.”
I shrugged.
“You know the basics, but Abe made you. That was sloppy.” Hilo looked like he was about nineteen and like he’d been on the streets for long enough to know them. He gave me a wry smile.“Lucky for you, we’re good teachers.”
They outfitted me with a bicycle, and we went about picking pockets in crowded places and conning people into giving us their money and valuables. Hilo taught me to distract the target and hide what I was doing. I learned quickly, perfecting my moves and my acting abilities. Soon, we branched out, inventing new cons, and pooling and sharing profits equally.
It wasn’t long before the stress and guilt started to affect my health. My stomach burned most of the time. I ate antacids like candy, lived on bland food, and was losing weight. It became clear I was not cut out for the life of a thief. I wanted to quit, but I needed the cash and now we were finding new and more profitable opportunities. I had no other prospects and no other plan. So, deciding to stick it out for a while longer, I vowed to quit once summer ended, regardless.
We became a well-oiled machine, but as good as we were, the payoff for stealing wallets was not great. People carried less cash than in years past and cashing in on credit and debit cards was dangerous. We all agreed that we needed to diversify.
About two months after I joined them, Puck suggested we target food trucks. Many were cash-only businesses, and they stored the money in lock boxes or bank bags until it could be deposited later. We cased them, looking for the ones that seemed careless and unorganized.
“Hey bitches!” Abe yelled as he burst through the office door, the last one to arrive after we split up on the way back from the gyro truck we had just hit. He was high as a kite and dripping sweat.
Hilo’s eyes widened and he put his hands up. “Keep it down.”
Abe snatched a handful of cash off the table from one of the neat piles Puck was forming.
“Hey!” Puck said, jumping up and trying to grab it back. Abe lifted it out of his reach.“Come on, Abe, just put it back and let us finish dividing it up so we can get out of here,” Hilo said.
Abe looked at each of us, chin high and nostrils flaring, holding the cash above the table, arm straight. After a beat, he dropped the wad. We finished counting and divided it evenly.
Abe’s eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head, leaning away from Hilo as he took his cut, frowning. I was sure he would roll me and take my share given the opportunity. I waited for him to leave, sticking closely to Puck.
Puck and I had grown close over the past few months. He was the best at picking, but I had become a close second, and we had learned to read each other, knowing when the other needed assistance or saw an opportunity. I trusted him more than Hilo or Abe, but I still barely knew any of them.
Abe grew more erratic and paranoid as the days wore on. He regularly accused all of us of holding out on him. The accusations and his drug problem were directly correlated. His appearance began to deteriorate. His normal, rail-thin frame grew even thinner. Sores appeared on his face and his eyes sunk in. As his habit grew, so did his need for cash. His addiction was the elephant in the room that we didn’t talk about, hoping the issue would resolve itself. We should have put an end to the relationship the moment we knew. Hindsight, and all that.
Hilo came around with news that he had found a cash cow. The food truck’s ability to pump out tacos at breakneck speed was outdone only by the Molly they sold both with the tacos and out the back door. Hilo watched them closely for two weeks and estimated they were moving a few hundred pills per day.
We made our move on a Sunday evening, when both traffic and business were light. The workers closed the kitchen, Puck created a distraction, and I snuck inside. Their warehouse was south of downtown. They stored the truck there, cleaned up, and prepped for the next day. Hilo and Abe waited for us there. I texted Hilo when we were close.
Puck took a cab back and waited outside with the bikes. The food truck employees were a man and a woman in their 20s. They blasted pop music on the drive back to the warehouse while passing a joint between them. The sun was setting as we pulled inside the warehouse and Abe’s voice sounded. “Get out of the truck!” The two workers did as they were told. “Hands up. Over there, on your knees.”
I exited. Abe pointed his gun at the kneeling figures. Hilo pulled the chain on the rolling door, and it slid down. I turned to see him securing it.
I went to the driver’s side door of the truck and dug through the trash that littered the inside. I soon found the lock box stashed in the backseat. It was a simple box, requiring a three-digit combination. I knew there were 1000 different possible combinations, and I hopped in, closed the door behind me, and immediately started scrolling through them as I stayed low in the footwell of the passenger seat. I kept constant pressure on the switch as I set the first two numbers to zero and scrolled through zero to nine on the last wheel. Then I moved the second wheel to one and scrolled through zero to nine on the third wheel again. Then I set the second wheel to two and did it again. I could scroll through all possible combinations in minutes. I jumped when an outside door slammed shut, but kept spinning the wheels while peering over the dash.
“Well, what have we got here?” an unfamiliar voice boomed from one of two men who appeared through the side door.
They walked toward Hilo and the kneeling figures. Dressed in black, they were covered in chains, tattoos, and piercings. One sported a mohawk and the other a shaved head. They looked older than they probably were, and both were thin with the telltale sores and rotten teeth of meth addiction. Baldy held a shotgun pointed at the floor and Mohawk clutched a handgun. I wiped the sweat off my brow and dropped down, working with renewed urgency.
200…225…250…
“Who the fuck are you?” Hilo raged.
“We’re just here for the cash,” Baldy said. “Drop your gun and slide it over to me.”
The gun clanked sharply on the concrete floor and skittered across it.
“On your knees.”
300…325…350…
“Where are the others?”
“Well, Abe’s right behind you,” Hilo said.
What the hell?
“I know that dipshit.”
“Puck’s outside,” Abe said. “Where’s Chase?”
400…425…450…
“Did anyone check the truck?” Mohawk asked.
500…
The back door of the truck opened and cupboard doors banged.
The lockbox switch slid to the side and the box popped open on 519. I grabbed the cash and bag of pills from inside with both hands as booted footsteps neared the driver’s side door. I stuffed the bills and drugs in the back of my pants just before the door opened, the spandex shorts under my baggy outer shorts hugging it all to my backside. I spread it out so it wouldn’t bulge, but it was well hidden. Snapping the box closed, I spun the wheels, and shoved it back where I found it. I hopped over the seat and hunched down by the pedals just as the door opened.
Mohawk yanked my arm, pulling me out of the truck like a rag doll. “Wow.” He pushed me toward the others. “I knew you all were kids, but I didn’t know you recruited babies. Where did you find this one? Kindergarten?” He and Baldy roared laughter while he pushed me down next to Hilo.
“Go get the other one,” he said to Abe, who left and came back a minute later shoving Puck in front of him. Puck took his place on his knees next to me.
“Where’s the money?” Mohawk said. His stare bore into the two food truck employees. I read their nametags: Eric and Emma.
“In the backseat. Of the cab,” Eric said. “Passenger side.” He was chubby and wore round glasses. Emma was diminutive and young. Both were sweating and white as a sheet.
Mohawk opened the passenger door and after pawing through the piles of trash, pulled the lockbox from the backseat. He walked over and handed it to Eric. “Open it.”
Eric fumbled with the box for a minute, finally popping it open. Mohawk snatched it back and upended it dramatically.
“Where’s the money?” He dropped the box and turned to Abe. “You said there would be at least twenty grand here. Where the fuck is it?”
“I don’t know.” Abe squeaked, eyes wide as saucers.
“Where’s the money, Taco Man?” Mohawk demanded.
“It was in there, I swear,” Eric whined.
“Well, it ain’t now, so where is it?” Mohawk pointed the gun at Emma’s head. Eric opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, but no sound came out.
“Tell me now.”
He stepped closer and pressed the barrel to her temple. A sob escaped her.
“Tell me now or I paint the pavement with her brains.”
Eric shook his head. “Please. I swear, it was in there.”
I opened my mouth, but it was so dry. I wheezed and closed my mouth again.
“What kind of shit are you trying to pull, Abe? You owe me money, so where the fuck is it?”
Baldy smashed the butt of the gun into Abe’s head. Abe fell to the floor and then sat up, holding his face. Baldy leveled the shotgun at Abe’s head. We all held our breath.
We’re dead. All of us.
“There’s a safe,” Emma blubbered, tears streaming down her face. “It’s in there, but I don’t know the combination.” She pointed through an open doorway leading to a back room.
“Alright, that’s a start,” Mohawk said, yanking her to her feet and pushing her in front of him.
They disappeared into the back room but quickly returned.
“Pretty sure I can drill it open,” Mohawk said to Baldy, hand clamped on Emma’s shoulder like a vice. “Get the tools.”
Baldy left through the side door, returning moments later with a tool bag. He handed it to Mohawk, who pushed Emma back down on her knees and disappeared into the back room. Baldy cradled the shotgun and watched us, mouth pinched in a scowl.
Sweat streamed down my spine, dampened my armpits, and gathered under my breasts. The temperature seemed to rise, and an eternity passed as we listened to Mohawk alternately drilling and hammering the safe in the other room. Finally, metal on metal clunked and a moment later, he called out.
“Jackpot!” He walked back through the doorway. “Gimme a bag,” he said.
Baldy glanced around, went to the cab of the truck, and pulled out a backpack. He upended it, dropping the contents on the floor. He handed it to Mohawk, who took it and went back to the safe, returning a few minutes later.
Baldy let the shotgun barrel drop toward the floor as Mohawk walked over to him.
I noticed Puck reaching for his ankle where a second gun was sheathed. I glanced at Hilo. He saw what I saw.
I shook my head. Don’t do this.
But Puck palmed the gun anyway. I swallowed hard, steeling myself.
Still on his knees, Puck leveled the gun at his hip and fired at Baldy’s back. He stumbled forward, dropping the shotgun and collapsing forward on his face. Before the shotgun hit the floor, Puck was up and turned on Mohawk, firing. The bullet sailed wide and hit the wall behind him.
Hilo launched for the shotgun, and I ran toward the truck, Puck close behind. Mohawk fired at us, but we cut right, and the bullets sailed by. Hilo picked up the shotgun and started to swing around just as Baldy regained his feet and produced a handgun. Hilo ducked as Baldy fired.
Abe stood behind Hilo and the bullet caught him square in the middle of his forehead. Baldy could not have made that shot had he aimed and fired a hundred times. Abe’s brains blew out the back of his head and splattered wetly on the floor. He collapsed, dead, a pink mist hanging in the air. Every one of us froze, stunned and immobile for a moment.
Then the moment passed, and Hilo was up and swinging the shotgun by the barrel like a baseball bat. Baldy’s head snapped nearly halfway around when the butt connected with the side of his face, bone shattering in a loud crunch. He collapsed to the floor, unconscious, probably dead. Meanwhile, Mohawk produced a second gun and started firing at us.
“Motherfuckers!” he screamed, firing from a gun in each hand. Emma saw an opportunity and hopped to her feet, Eric following. Mohawk turned and fired both guns at them and they collapsed under the gunfire. They were still and I could hear Mohawk reloading.
“Oh god,” I croaked, my intestines in knots.
Mohawk turned back to Puck and me, and we rushed around to the front of the truck as he came around the back. Puck fired from over the hood of the truck as Mohawk came around the side. I sprinted to where Hilo stood over Baldy, grabbing the handgun from the prostrate man’s hand as Puck retreated in our direction, out of bullets. Mohawk rounded the front of the truck and Hilo aimed the shotgun and pulled the trigger. It roared and pellets sprayed the front of the truck. Mohawk screamed, lifted both guns and started firing again while he marched toward us.
How much ammo does he have?
“Go!” Hilo yelled, bolting for the side door, but it was too late for him. Mohawk spun wide and unloaded four bullets into Hilo’s back. Hilo dropped.
Puck and I had moved to the side of the truck.
“Hilo’s dead…they’re all dead…oh god. We’re going to die too,” I whispered, tears spilling over and sliding down my cheeks.
Puck looked at me, hyperventilating, eyes wide and pupils dilated. “No. Let’s not die. You have a gun, right?”
I nodded. “Show me how to use it.”
He checked the safety, pulled the slide back to chamber a round, and handed it back to me. “Hang on tight, aim, and pull the trigger.” He grabbed my shoulders and leaned close. “You need to be fierce. Let’s get out of here alive, okay?”
I nodded. Be fierce.
Mohawk appeared in front of us. I tripped over my own feet backing up to get out of the way and landed on my back. Puck fired, the bullet grazing Mohawk’s bicep. Mohawk fired back and it hit Puck square in the chest. He dropped. Mohawk turned toward me, and I lifted the gun, holding it in both hands and squeezing the trigger until the gun locked open, empty. Mohawk opened his mouth to say something, but blood trickled down his face from the bullet in his cheek and he fell forward, dead.
I fought hysteria as I leaned over Puck, sobbing and pressing my hands to the bleeding wound.
“I’m sorry.” My tears rained down on him.
“Not…your fault,” he wheezed.
I held his hand and squeezed. He squeezed back and I tried to think of something comforting to say, but nothing came. His grip loosened and his eyes glazed over. A final breath seeped out of him, and he was still. I clutched his hand, sobbing and grieving, but then I heard sirens and that got me on my feet.
I had to move quickly.
“Be fierce,” I whispered.
Oh, Puck. I unclipped the keychain he kept fastened to his belt loop and pocketed it. I didn’t want the keys, just the scarab beetle keychain he carried with him, needing something to remember him by.
I stepped over to Hilo and rested my hand briefly on his shoulder. “Sorry, Hilo.” Seeing blood on my arm, I stood and looked at myself, horrified to see I was covered in it.
Finding the pile of Eric’s clothes on the ground, I pulled off my blood-soaked shirt, pulled on the hoodie from the pile, and wiped blood off my face with a handkerchief. I retrieved the backpack, wadded up my bloody clothes, and stuffed them in the side pocket along with the gun. Pulling the backpack on and wiping away tears with shaky hands, I walked out the door, avoiding Emma and Eric on the way.
I pulled my hood over my head and hopped on my bike. Cop cars screamed down the street toward the warehouse as I turned right up a side street, unnoticed.
Leaving the bike outside my hostel for whoever wanted it, I went inside. I cranked the water temperature in the shower until I could barely stand it, lingering under the scalding water and scrubbing my skin until it was pink and raw and then collapsed on my bed under the weight of the day. I curled into a ball and hid under a blanket.
Why was I still alive when everyone else was dead? If Puck had not pulled the gun…if we hadn’t tried to rob them to begin with…if only…if…
The guilt consumed me, and I sobbed and grieved, desperate, contemplating ending it all. The darkness gripped me in its icy embrace and the faces of the dead haunted me. I checked the news stories to see if maybe, just maybe, someone had survived, but no.
I wallowed in my room for days, slowly emerging from my despondency and knowing I needed to make a move or I would get caught. I figured my choices were to give myself up and face the consequences, kill myself, or learn to live with it and get on with my life. I thought about Puck.
Be fierce.
Turning myself in would only result in going to jail. The fortune would be gone, I would have nothing, and everyone would still be dead. Killing myself only meant joining the dead.
I forced myself to get up, dressed, dumped the cash onto the bed, and counted it. Three hundred thousand six hundred dollars in variable denominations. Someone was going to miss it, but this money disappeared amidst a massacre.
I was a teenager. I had just been a witness and party to the death of six people. But I had enough for a fresh start. I worked hard to keep it together, reminding myself every time the guilt bubbled up that there was nothing I could do to change it. I vowed to do good, to somehow make up for it. Focusing on each task at hand, not thinking too far in the future, I put one foot in front of the other.
I tossed the bloody clothes and gun in a dumpster on my way to the bus station. Once there, I bought a ticket for the next bus to Portland, where I would formulate a plan.
Sitting in a window seat on the bus, I turned my face toward the sun streaming in, closing my eyes and soaking in the warmth. I wondered if, given some time, I might be able to forgive myself. I had a few hundred thousand ways to help, but thinking about the money neither consoled nor comforted me. I chewed my lip and rubbed the scarab in my pocket with my thumb as the bus pulled away from the station.
“Be fierce,” I whispered.
Delaney Peterson (she/her) has been writing since she could hold a pencil, but life got in the way. Delaney grew up in Seattle and moved with my husband of 15 years to Alger. Soon after, she found her way back to her first love; fiction writing. Delaney joined a Village Books writing group and began working on a novel, continuing to practice and learn. Delaney’s writing leans toward the darker side.