Killer of Giants

the door and waited an eternity for it to slide open. Less than a hundred feet away, Fink sprinted down the sidewalk toward us, followed by an out-of-breath Kyle and Bundy.

  Inside, the convenience store was a world of bright lights, warm air, and the meaty smell of a hotdog cooking in a microwave oven. The clerk gazed down at a small TV, his feet resting on the counter and his hands clasped over his bloated gut. The glow from the TV reflected off his sweaty face and bald head. He didn’t look much like the hero we were about to need, but right now he was the only shot we had. I rushed up the aisle. “Can you help us?”

  Behind us, the sliding door opened and Kyle, Bundy, and Fink stepped in. Bundy scanned the two aisles, checking out the store.

  Kyle approached us, his voice low. “Outside.”

  Breathing in short gasps, Raj grabbed a wine bottle from a display shelf and held it by the neck. “Get back. Now!” He lifted the bottle over his shoulder. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

  Bundy lumbered up to him, yanked the bottle out of his hand, and swung his fist hard. Knuckles cracked against jaw, and Raj stumbled back and collapsed, slamming his head against a shelf as he crumpled to the floor. His eyes closed and his body went limp.

  My heartbeat pulsed in my ears. I stepped back and squeezed my hand into a fist. I wasn’t going to win this, but I’d feel better if I could hurt them just a little. Without taking his eyes off me, Kyle reached into his jeans pocket and took out his switchblade.

  My organs curled up inside me.

  The knife clicked and the blade shot out from the handle. He rolled it in his fingers, gazing at the light reflecting off the knife-edge. Stepping forward, he pressed the tip to my throat and clenched his teeth. “Get outside. Now.”

  My stomach sank and my skin prickled. The clerk stared slack-jawed at a Detroit Tigers game while Raj slept on the floor. Raj’s peaceful expression looked way off for someone who was part way through a beating. I envied him; his lights were out, but he wasn’t as hurt as I was about to be.

  With the blade at my throat, Kyle grabbed a handful of my hair, pulled me into a headlock, and twisted the knife into my skin. Thrashing like a man possessed, I grappled and fought against him as the intense pain stung my throat. The room spun like a bad carnival ride.

  Fink examined the wound on my throat, nodding slightly, and Bundy stepped closer and touched the tip of his finger to it. I strained against Kyle’s wrist as he twisted the blade and pressed harder. The pain turned to searing agony, and a warm drop of blood rolled down my skin. I’d heard somewhere that stress makes people more creative, but right now it was taking all my concentration to not pass out. Gazing down at Bundy’s bloodstained finger, I felt a small flicker of hope. “He has a gun!” I shouted.

  The clerk’s eyes flicked to me, and I pointed at where I figured Kyle’s face was behind me. The clerk smacked his palm on a bell attached to the desk and rapidly dinged it five times.

  A door next to the counter crashed open and a short gray-haired Middle Eastern man stumbled through, clutching a double-barrel shotgun. With one eye wide and the other squinting down the sight, he jerked his aim at Bundy and then at Kyle.

  I was so glad to see that gun that I didn’t even mind being in the line of fire. Kyle released his grip and, without a hint of concern, stepped toward the clerk with the gun.

  The clerk tracked Kyle’s movement with twitches of his shotgun. On the wall to his left, the oven let out a ding, and he flinched and swung the shotgun.

  Boom!

  The oven door flew off its hinges and glass sprayed across the floor. Without hesitating, the clerk pumped his shotgun and leveled it at Kyle.

  Kyle’s expression tightened, and he lowered his knife.

  Behind the register, the bald clerk dragged his feet off the counter and reached underneath it. He rose from his chair and strode toward Kyle, clutching a baseball bat in each hand. He held the bats out wide as he approached, herding Kyle, Fink, and Bundy against a tall stack of spaghetti cans.

  The other clerk followed with the shotgun, his finger shaky on the trigger. “Hands on your heads.”

  Bundy grabbed one of the bats with both hands and yanked on it. The clerk swung the other bat hard into his legs, and Bundy fell to his knees, grimacing and clutching his leg. Until now, nobody had ever started a fight with Kyle’s gang. At least this dynamic duo were equipped for it.

  Not waiting for his turn, Kyle swung his blade at the bat-holding clerk, sending him staggering back with a bleeding gash on his cheek. The other clerk shuffled closer, knees bent, and pressed the shotgun muzzle to Kyle’s chest.

  Behind us, the door slid open and a frail old lady with a walking cane stepped through. A look of realization dawned on her face, and she turned and stepped outside.

  Still gripping both bats, the bald clerk wiped the back of his wrist on his cheek and looked down at the blood smear. With a glance at his shotgun-wielding coworker, he shoved the ends of both bats into Kyle’s chest, throwing him backwards into the stack of spaghetti cans. Dozens of cans clattered onto Kyle’s flailing body. He rolled onto his stomach and shielded his head with both hands. The clerk tossed one bat onto the floor, raised the other high, and took aim as a trickle of blood ran down his cheek.

  I kneeled next to Raj and shook his shoulder. “Wake up!” Blood matted the hair on the back of his head.

  Thud.

  I didn’t need to look over my shoulder to know that Kyle was being brutalized with a baseball bat.

  Raj opened one eye, and I pulled his arms and helped him to his feet. “Come on. We have to go.”

  His brow creased in confusion. “Mom says Santa’s not coming this year.”

  I slung his arm over my shoulder and lifted him across the muddy floor. The sliding door opened and I dragged him onto the sidewalk. All going well, the clerks would keep Kyle and his crew busy for long enough for us to be clear of the area.

  The cold air grazed my face as Raj wobbled, trying to balance on his own. He opened his eyes and squinted at the clouds. Finding his feet, he followed me across the street and into an alley, staggering with each step. The alley led to a side street, which led to another narrower alley. Out of breath and feeling like we wouldn’t easily be found, we dropped onto the concrete next to a dumpster.

  I breathed deep breaths of icy air. ““You okay? Your head looks messed up.”

  Raj coughed and leaned against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. “It feels like someone scraped out my brain with a spoon.”

  “We should get your head checked out.”

  “I’m okay.” He rubbed the back of his head and gazed at the blood on his fingers. “Shit.”

  “It was good of those store clerks to show them some thug hospitality.”

  Raj smiled. “So much for Kyle’s Muay Thai training. I guess they don’t teach baseball bat defense.”

  “I hope they put him in a wheelchair. Or a coma, whatever keeps him away from us.”

  Raj pressed his hand to the back of his head again. “That’s the last time I wanna hear Gordie bitch about getting a ride home with his old man.”

  Dark clouds drifted across the gap above the alley. “Did you hear about Santa?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Word on the street is he’s not coming this year.”

  Raj raised an eyebrow. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Are you stupid?” He rubbed his eyes with his palms. “Anyway, we’re screwed. They won’t even stop if… I don’t even… we’re dead.”

  I climbed to my feet and wiped my hands on my jeans.

  Raj let out a long breath. “How are we gonna get out of this?”

  It was all I’d been able to think about, and I didn’t have a clue. I put my hands on my hips and scanned both ends of the alley. “They keep doing it do us because we let them. We always let them.” A nearby street sweeper rumbled past and faded away.

  “What are we supposed to do?”

  “We have to show them that bad things will happe
n if they keep messing with us.”

  Raj pushed himself off the ground and swayed unsteadily on his feet. “You mean, like a fluffy bunny threatening a grizzly bear?”

  He had a point, but there had to be something we could do. “Let’s talk to Gordie and Allie tomorrow. We need a plan.”

  11. Stage Fright

  I stopped in front of the door to the school building, steadying my breathing in the wintry morning air. Feeling lightheaded from adrenaline, I pulled on the door handle and scanned the entrance hall. Empty.

  The clock above the library door was at 10:06am. I’d skipped first-period music to walk to school while everyone was in class. It was no guarantee of avoiding an ambush, but safer than walking up to Kyle and asking to be beaten to death. I stomped the ice and mud off my shoes and followed the hall. At my locker, I entered the code and swung open the door. Most students filled their lockers with sports gear, candy, and clothes, but all I had was a notebook, a pen, and a small photo of my mom from five years ago, before her hair fell out. A lifetime ago.

  A hand gripped my shoulder, and I recoiled, tensing my back and bracing to take the pain.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Allie put her hand to her mouth.

  I cleared my throat. “It’s okay. I just…”

  “Raj told me what happened. Are you okay? I can’t believe they followed you in a taxi.”

  Still in a state of shock, I stared into her brown eyes.

  A slight smile came to her lips, and she tugged my arm. “Come on, let’s go. We’re cutting