This Is How You Die

by Matthew Bennardo

  “I don’t think that’s nice,” Bradley said automatically.

  Izzy waved her hand like she was shooing away a fly.

  “Like Osama, right? Brown? So if he’s supposed to be Arab, then how come his face is all white like that?”

  Bradley shrugged.

  “Because he’s always wearing makeup, trying to make himself look like the rest of us.”

  “Your dad and his friends must have been—” Bradley was about to say drunk, but Izzy was sensitive about that, and he stopped himself. “Wrong,” he finished.

  “No way,” Izzy said. “And I’ll tell you what else. Some guy has to bring Mr. Al-Zahrani his groceries. I’ve seen it. Mr. Al-Zahrani never leaves his apartment. Because he’s in hiding.”

  “How come your dad thinks he’s in hiding?”

  “Because one of the guys at the card game,” Izzy said, “his kid was selling cookies, and he was taking her around door to door. Well, towelheads love chocolate, you know, because they don’t have it where they come from. Not like ours. It’s all bitter over there. So Mr. Al-Zahrani bought some chocolate cookies, and when he took out his wallet to pay, the guy got a look at Mr. Al-Zahrani’s cod card. And you know what it said?”

  Bradley leaned farther over the counter and shook his head.

  “It said Execution by Beheading.”

  Bradley exhaled, long and slow.

  “No way,” he whispered.

  Izzy nodded.

  “Mr. Al-Zahrani’s real name isn’t Al-Zahrani,” she said. “It’s… let me think… it’s Mohammed… Mufarrij, I think. Something like that. He’s on, like, the FBI’s most wanted list and everything. Hiding out in this country. Though I guess it’s not gonna do him any good, right? Because in the end—I mean, just look at his card. At some point they’re obviously gonna drag him back to his own country, Afghanistan or wherever, and…”

  Izzy slowly traced a fingernail across her neck.

  “They say he’s got a fatwa on him.” The way she said the word made it sound like fat-wad without the d.

  “What’s that?” Bradley asked.

  “It’s, like, when their priests or whoever don’t like you anymore, they make a law that anyone can cut off your head and they won’t get in trouble.”

  “Why don’t they like him anymore?” Bradley asked.

  “Who knows,” Izzy said. “All those towelheads are always fighting about everything. It doesn’t matter. What matters is his cod card. Think about it. Execution by Beheading. I’ve never even seen a real Execution card before. Not even in pictures.”

  The awesome possibility that such a card was so close began to spill over Bradley like a brilliant sunrise. He actually felt warmer, thinking about it. An authentic Execution card would be amazing enough. But Execution by Beheading—those practically didn’t exist, especially in the developed world. That was a serious, serious card.

  “So you want to steal his card?” Bradley asked.

  Izzy shook her head. She was grinning again and her eyes twinkled with the light spilling through the balcony door behind Bradley. She tucked her hair behind her ears with a gesture that made Bradley’s insides feel like gooey warm batter and leaned close enough that he was breathing her flowery smell.

  “I want his blood.”

  Bradley wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

  “You what?”

  “His blood,” Izzy said. “Three syringes of it. Your dad’s a cop. He tests blood, right?”

  “Right.”

  “He’s got a machine here in the apartment? Vials?”

  “Sure.”

  “Three syringes of Mr. Al-Zahrani’s blood will make three cards,” Izzy said. “One for your collection, one for mine. And we’ll sell one to Kip Steinmiller for a small fortune. After we let him squirm for a couple days.”

  Bradley was so shocked he actually pulled away from her.

  “That’s sick!” he said. “That’s gruesome.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, I mean… what are you, a vampire?”

  “If we just steal his cod card,” Izzy said, “what have we got? One card. You want to cut that in half and share it?”

  “But taking his blood?” Bradley said. “Making a bunch of cod cards for the same guy? That’s worse than counterfeiting money. That’s so illegal—”

  “You want to get Kip?” Izzy said. “Or do you want to let him walk all over us all the time? If we each have a cod card and then we let him stew for a while and then we tell him we can get him one too—we’ve got him by the balls, Bradley. He’ll pay anything we want. He’ll do anything we want. He’ll probably let me squirt him with another juice box.” She laughed.

  Bradley thought about it. Izzy was right about the money, at least—Kip would pay big time for an Execution by Beheading card. And considering the fact that Bradley and Izzy had barely been able to pool enough cash between them to buy lunch on the last camp field trip, they could use it.

  There might be other benefits, too, Bradley thought. If Izzy thought Bradley was brave enough to go through with something like stealing a guy’s blood to make new cod cards…

  “How would we get the blood?” he asked.

  Izzy rubbed her hands together like a cartoon villain.

  “Cookies,” she said.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Like I told you,” Izzy said, “chocolate is catnip for those people. We dress your little brother up like a scout and take him to Mr. Al-Zahrani’s door and say we’re selling cookies—”

  “Boy Scouts don’t sell cookies,” Bradley said. “They sell popcorn.”

  “You think Mr. Al-Zahrani’s gonna know the difference?” Izzy said. “So anyway, my mom’s got these pills that help her sleep. They really knock you out. I figure we crush a bunch of those into the middle of some Oreos, give Mr. Al-Zahrani some freebies, like samples, and wait till he conks out. Then we take his blood and get out of there.”

  “Where do we get the needles?”

  “The syringes? My mom’s a nursing assistant, remember? She’s got cases of them.”

  “You know how to use them?”

  “Only since I was two years old.”

  Bradley sat thinking, sipping his Kool-Aid.

  “Wait,” he said suddenly. “Mr. Al-Zahrani will remember we were there.”

  “So?” Izzy said. “He won’t know what happened. He’ll think he nodded off and we got bored and left.”

  “But what if he suspects something? Like, what if he finds a needle mark or a bruise or something?”

  “What’s he gonna do?” Izzy said. “Call the cops? He’s a terrorist, remember? We should be calling the cops on him. My dad and his friends say there’s like a million-dollar reward out for the guy. They’re talking about turning him in.”

  Bradley stared into his cup.

  “Three syringes,” he said, as though tasting the words.

  “Yep,” Izzy said. “We feed the blood to your dad’s machine, it spits out our cards, and we join the ranks of the rich and enviable.”

  Bradley laughed. Sometimes Izzy had such a funny way of saying things.

  “So what do you think?” she asked.

  Bradley met her eyes.

  “I think I want to be rich and enviable.”

  She grinned.

  “Beauuutiful. And your little bro? You think you can get him on board?”

  “Do you think we need him?”

  “We better include him,” she said. “We’ll be doing this before your folks get home from work tomorrow. We can’t just leave him alone.”

  Bradley nodded.

  “We can keep him on… what do they call it?” Izzy said. “Keep him on a need-to-know basis.”

  “Right,” Bradley said. “Need-to-know basis.”

  “Which reminds me,” Izzy said. “I better go get him that Fudgsicle before your mom gets home. We want to keep him happy.”

  “You ready to go?”

  “Matthew’s still getting d
ressed,” Bradley said.

  He stood aside so Izzy could come in. Then he shut the door behind her.

  “You got everything?” he asked.

  Izzy took the plastic Mickey Mouse bag off her shoulder. She dug out two packages of Double Stuf Oreos, set them on the counter, and pulled back the plastic flaps.

  “See if you can tell which ones have the pills,” she said.

  Bradley studied the cookies for a long moment.

  “They look the same,” he said finally.

  Izzy tapped the cookies on the left.

  “Really?” Bradley said.

  Izzy nodded.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Mothers can always tell their twin babies apart, can’t they?”

  Izzy stuck her hand into her bag again and pulled out three thin syringes.

  Bradley’s stomach knotted and flipped.

  “Empty vials are with the machine,” he said. “I checked. But you’re doing all the blood stuff.”

  “Of course. I’m the vampire, right? Just keep Matthew occupied so Nurse Feratu can do her thing.”

  Bradley laughed. Izzy stuffed the syringes back into her bag as Matthew came in, adjusting his khaki shorts.

  “I hate these shorts,” he said. “They don’t fit anymore.”

  “Have some cookies,” Izzy said.

  She took three Double Stuf Oreos from the package of untainted cookies and gave them to Matthew. He munched them happily.

  “I like playing Cub Scouts,” he said.

  “Here are your order forms,” Izzy said.

  She removed a sheaf of papers from her bag and spread them on the counter. Matthew stood on tiptoes, peering at them, licking the filling off half an Oreo cookie.

  “These are great,” Bradley said. “Where did you get them?”

  “Online,” she said, shrugging. Then, to Matthew, “Now, when the customer opens the door, who are you and what are you doing there?”

  Matthew squinted. His eyes rolled up.

  “I am with Cub Scout Pack 5589, and we are selling… cookies…” He licked the rest of the filling off the Oreo, still thinking. “We are selling cookies to benefit the troop! Can I offer you some free samples and also how many boxes can I put down for you?”

  “How many boxes can I put you down for,” Izzy corrected. “Other than that, letter perfect.”

  She clapped Matthew on the shoulder and handed him the package of cookies with the pills in them.

  “Now, you offer him a sample from these cookies, and these cookies are for customers only, okay?”

  Matthew nodded.

  “You are not allowed to eat these, understand? No sneaking any. If you want any cookies, you just ask me. I have special ones set aside just for you.”

  Matthew nodded again.

  They left the apartment and took the stairwell down to the second floor. Bradley felt more nervous than he could remember ever feeling about anything. His heart was thundering, his stomach performing acrobatics.

  You don’t even have to do anything, he told himself. Matthew will do the talking, Izzy will take the blood. All you have to do is keep Matthew busy after the old man falls asleep and you’ll be rich.

  The thought of that rare cod card and the money they’d make from Kip kept Bradley putting one foot in front of the other until—long before he was really ready—the three of them stood before Mr. Al-Zahrani’s door.

  “Okay, Big Mateo,” Izzy whispered. “Do your thing.”

  Matthew boldly stepped forward and knocked. Bradley felt a pang of guilt. He met Izzy’s eyes over Matthew’s head. She kept her expression controlled and masklike, but he could tell she was keyed up.

  This is fun for her, he realized. Bradley himself had barely slept the night before.

  Shuffling noises came from behind the door. It creaked open.

  Mr. Al-Zahrani wore a billowy white tracksuit and a red turban. His brown skin was blotchy white in places. His feet were bare. His glasses were very thick and visibly dusty.

  He peered at them, running his fingers through his long black beard. Then he spotted Matthew grinning up at him and smiled.

  “How can I help you?” he asked. His accent was mild, his English excellent.

  Matthew delivered his spiel flawlessly while Mr. Al-Zahrani listened, his smile growing wider.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Mr. Al-Zahrani said, when Matthew had finished. “Please come inside. Come in. We will discuss business.”

  He opened the door widely enough for them to pass through. Bradley’s heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.

  The apartment smelled sweet and smoky. The furniture was ornate, clearly foreign, and richly upholstered. In one corner, an old, muted television was tuned to CNN; balls of aluminum foil covered the ends of the antennas.

  “Please sit down and be comfortable,” Mr. Al-Zahrani said.

  “Here’s the samples I’m supposed to give you,” Matthew said.

  He set the Oreos and the order forms on Mr. Al-Zahrani’s coffee table.

  “These are for customers only,” Matthew said, peeling back the flap on the package of cookies. “I’m not supposed to eat these.”

  “It is very important to have discipline in your business, young man,” Mr. Al-Zahrani said seriously, nodding at Matthew. “Very difficult as well. You must have a strong will.”

  “I do,” Matthew said solemnly.

  Mr. Al-Zahrani took four Oreos and pulled the stack of order forms closer to him.

  “Do you have a pen?” he asked.

  Izzy dug in her Mickey Mouse bag and found one.

  “Here,” she said. “I have others if it doesn’t work.”

  Mr. Al-Zahrani ate all four Oreos as he filled out the form.

  I hope four isn’t too many, Bradley thought. He wondered how many pills Izzy had crushed into each cookie.

  “I think, perhaps, some water,” Mr. Al-Zahrani said. “Can I offer you children a drink?”

  “No, thank you,” Izzy said. Bradley shook his head.

  “Do you have chocolate milk?” Matthew asked.

  Mr. Al-Zahrani laughed.

  “I have what you call Yoo-hoo,” he said. “Do you like Yoo-hoo?”

  Matthew nodded.

  “Come with me to the kitchen,” Mr. Al-Zahrani said, “and I shall get your money and we will also get your Yoo-hoo.”

  Mr. Al-Zahrani stood. He stepped around the coffee table, then stumbled and began to lose his balance. He caught himself and touched a hand to his forehead.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I must have stood too fast.”

  The pills are starting to work, Bradley thought.

  He glanced at Izzy. She was watching Mr. Al-Zahrani intently.

  “Come along, then,” Mr. Al-Zahrani said.

  He led them down the hall to the kitchen.

  Bradley noticed that Mr. Al-Zahrani kept stumbling as he walked. When Bradley’s grandmother was dying of cancer, she’d been taking lots of painkillers. The way Mr. Al-Zahrani moved reminded Bradley of her.

  In the kitchen, Mr. Al-Zahrani went to a row of cabinets and opened one. He peered into it, looking confused.

  “What was I…”

  He closed the cabinet and moved on to the next. He opened the door, gazed inside. Again, he looked mystified, as though he were solving a difficult puzzle.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Al-Zahrani?” Bradley asked.

  The old man tried to nod. But the second time he lowered his head, it cost him his balance. He began to tip forward like a falling tree.

  Alarmed, Bradley started toward him. But before he reached him, Mr. Al-Zahrani’s forehead struck the edge of the cabinet door.

  His head snapped up and he was immediately sober. His eyes were wide. He looked terrified. Bradley felt sick with guilt.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Al-Zahrani,” he said. “Here, why don’t you sit down?”

  The old man touched his head where he’d hit it. He pulled his fingers away and sta
red at them, mouth hanging open. Judging by his expression, Bradley expected them to be covered in blood. But they were clean.

  “Come and sit down a sec,” Bradley said.

  He gingerly took hold of the man’s sleeve and guided him to the kitchen table. He pulled a chair out and eased Mr. Al-Zahrani into it.

  The man was mumbling.

  “What’s he saying?” Izzy whispered.

  Bradley shook his head. “I have no idea. It’s some other language.”

  Mr. Al-Zahrani abruptly stopped speaking. That same shocked expression returned to his face—like a child seeing fireworks for the very first time. Moving slowly, he crossed his arms on the table in front of him, lay his head down, and closed his eyes.

  Matthew glanced anxiously at Bradley. “Is he sick?”

  Bradley looked at Izzy. She was biting her lip.

  “Well,” she said, “we know it won’t kill him, right?”

  She met Bradley’s eyes and traced her fingernail across her neck.

  “Of course,” Bradley said, relieved.

  “The… you know… they’re just doing their job,” Izzy said.

  “Right,” Bradley said. Then, to Matthew, “He’s not sick. He’s just tired. Eating all those cookies made him sleepy. Like too much pie at Thanksgiving. We need to let him sleep.”

  He put a hand on his brother’s shoulder and led him toward the hallway.

  “You can take care of it from here?” he asked Izzy.

  She nodded, reaching into her bag for the syringes.

  Bradley drummed his fingers on the dresser top and glanced again at his mother’s nightstand.

  “I see you looking at that alarm clock,” Izzy snapped. “I’m going as fast as I can.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Bradley said.

  “You want to switch places with me?”

  She unwound another long cord from the back of the machine and plugged it into his dad’s laptop, which was set up on a card table near the bedroom windows.

  In the neighboring room, Bradley heard Matthew squeal in frustration at his video game. He felt a twinge of nostalgia, though he couldn’t say what for—maybe just for being littler, when all your biggest concerns existed in fiction.

  Izzy opened the laptop.

  “What’s the point of having a log-in and password if you just tape it to your computer?” she said.