The Toy Thief

by DW Gillespie

  I shot a squirrel when I was eight. I wasn’t crazy about the feel of it, knowing that, in an instant, it was dead because of me. I didn’t have one of those movie moments where I leaned over it, crying my eyes out. I just stared at the little hole under its eye, wondering how bad it hurt. It flailed for about half a minute, and that was that. Dad made me help skin it, clean it. He had a grill grate that he sat over the fire, propped up on a few rocks. Over and over, he kept turning each half of the squirrel, basting it with packets of barbecue sauce from McDonald’s. It was, without question, the best thing we ever ate out there.

  In those days, Andy liked to stalk through the woods, gun in hand, and search for tracks, trails, signs of where a buck had bedded down the night before. He never actually shot a deer, but he did get really good at tracking them. We were, in a sense, learning about what the world might have been like before the power went on, and for both of us, it was a powerful lesson. Andy especially. As much as he lived for video games, he really seemed to find himself out there, to tap into some dormant, forgotten part of his humanity.

  * * *

  “I went through there,” I said.

  Andy stood next to me, an old, rusted machete in his hand. He had found it behind our shed, buried under a stack of cordwood. I can still remember him swearing up and down that the red marks weren’t rust, but blood. Otherwise, why would anyone hide it? It was a pitiful weapon, likely to split in half the moment you hit anything with it, but it made him feel better just the same. I had dragged him out to the Trails, promising to retrace my steps with him, and even though it was the middle of the day, I felt the need to bring my pocketknife.

  “And you had the bear with you?” he asked nervously.

  “Yes,” I said in frustration. “I already told you.”

  He ignored my tone and kept looking at the wild tangle of trees and ferns. It was dark overhead, the looming clouds threatening to soak us at any minute. The darkness gave the entire place an even more ominous look, as if the creature wouldn’t think twice about leaping from the shadowy thicket to rip us to shreds.

  “You think…it’s in there?”

  I shrugged, not wanting to answer either way. “Dunno. I don’t think so.”

  It was true. I wasn’t just trying to convince myself. The way he responded to light, sound, people. He was skittish, the type of creature that would hide in a cellar, a mausoleum, maybe even a burrowed hole in the ground. Something dark, cool, and musty.

  “You sure about that?” he asked, still staring at the horizon.

  “I’m not sure about anything. I just know it hates people. There ain’t many here, but there are some.”

  He nodded, clearly agreeing with me.

  “I think we’re good. But I also think you’re right. It smelled your bear. It had to pass through here.”

  He swung the machete nervously and said, “All right. Just wait here,” and he marched in.

  “No,” I said, grabbing his shoulder. “We have to at least have some kind of plan or something.”

  He brushed me off. “This is how we make a plan. We have to check things out first. See if we can track it. See if we can learn anything about it.”

  “I know that,” I said, having to step in front of him to keep him from entering the Trails. “But we need…I don’t know…a method or whatever.”

  He reached into his backpack and retrieved a giant grocery bag, which he shook just in front of my face. “See this?” he asked. “This is my plan.”

  I peered in, squinting at the multicolored contents before frowning in confusion. “Jelly beans?”

  He smiled.

  “Yep. Dad’s Easter presents. Haven’t eaten them for probably three or four years. I kept throwing them in one of the drawers in my room. I’ve told Dad a couple times that I hate them, but he just forgets, I guess. Either that,” he snorted, “or they’re just the cheapest thing he can find.”

  The frown on my face didn’t lighten in the slightest. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “Well, he has to save money somehow, and I guess—”

  “No,” I blurted out. “Not how expensive they are. I mean, the jelly beans. How the heck are jelly beans going to help?”

  “Oh,” he said. “They’re markers. See…”

  He took a few steps toward the Trails and dropped one. Then a few more steps, and another jelly bean, then another. Finally, I figured out what he was up to.

  “It’s such a maze in there,” he said. “There has to be some way to mark where I’ve been. And these are pretty damn easy to see. Whenever I start down a trail, a few jelly beans here and there will let me know it’s good to go.”

  “Sooo…we’re like Hansel and Gretel.”

  “If that helps you,” he replied sarcastically. “And who’s we? I told you to stay out here.”

  I glanced around the darkened field and the sky above, billowing with clouds that seemed to grow more impatient by the second.

  “Nope,” I replied. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it together.”

  “Fine,” he said, his voice like a deflating tire. “Just stay close to me.”

  The Trails were as tight, confusing, and awful as ever, and we made our way through the tangle slowly and methodically, stopping every few feet to drop a jelly bean. Luckily, Andy’s bag looked like it held hundreds, maybe even thousands, so we were never in much risk of running low. Before long, we were doubling back on ourselves, the ground lit by the multicolored markers. I’d been in the Trails plenty of times, but I’d never really studied them before that day. There was more to see than I ever realized or wanted to. We weren’t in the wild, not really, as the fields that surrounded the trails were no more than a quarter of a mile away from a home, an easy sprint for a kid. Still, it felt like a desert island, a place so very far removed from the world of authority that it could have been Mars.

  One trail led us to an open grove where dozens of baby doll parts were strung from threads that dangled from the low-hanging branches. I gasped when we stepped into it, certain that this must be the entrance to the Toy Thief’s lair. Then we started seeing the pentagrams carved in the wood, and the truth became clear, though still frightful in its way. This was the work of teens, probably bored metal fans who thought this would be a funny way to scare one of their friends.

  “It’s fine,” Andy said, poking at one of the dead-eyed faces with his machete. “Just wannabe devil worshippers.”

  I wasn’t so convinced, and with one last glance at one of the eyeless heads, I ventured back into the brush. Once, we stumbled across someone’s stash, a hastily covered-up trove that consisted of a single, half-full bottle of brown liquor, a pack of Vantage 100s, and half a dozen Hustler magazines. I watched Andy’s reaction as he placed the cardboard and leaves back into place, and I was certain that he would make a trip back by himself whenever he had the chance.

  “Shit,” Andy said as we rounded a corner, tripping on a loose root. I could see it coming, almost in slow motion – the bag of jelly beans tumbling out of his hands, followed by the inevitable shower of rainbow colors. I must have been laughing, based on the way he turned his red-cheeked face toward me, eyebrows arched.

  “Shut up,” he said, shoveling handfuls of jelly beans into the bag. “Quit laughing and freaking help me.”

  I knelt down, and we both pawed around in the mud. Andy stood up a few moments later, and the candy spilled back out of a hole in the bottom of the bag. Once again, I laughed hysterically as he scooped them into the pockets of his cargo shorts. He was just about to say something back when he cocked his head and held his hand out toward me, trying to shush me.

  “Quiet,” he said, his own voice dropping, and all at once, I heard it too. I locked my hand onto Andy’s shoulder and pressed a finger to my lips. Both of us froze, listening to the sounds of the woods and the strange nois
e that was drifting through it. It was a panting sound, a deep-breathing moan that my mind translated instantly to be the voice of the Toy Thief, no doubt in the middle of killing his latest victim. Andy’s furrowed brow evened out as he listened. Then a half smile rose on his lips. With a single finger, he motioned for me to stay put as he glided soundlessly forward for a closer look. I refused to let him out of my sight, following along about ten yards behind, but Andy either didn’t notice me or didn’t care. Then, all at once, he held up his hand for me to stop, which, for once, I did without question.

  The breathing was louder now, and I watched as Andy peered through a line of trees, out into a small bare patch. From where I stood, I couldn’t see a thing, but Andy was apparently close enough to see it all. He stared for ten seconds, maybe less, and then turned back to join me.

  “Let’s go,” he said almost silently in my ear.

  “What is it?” I whispered back.

  He placed an angry finger onto his lips and then pointed toward the trails behind us, motioning back the way we’d come. I pushed back against him, me being bullheaded for no real reason at all, and the two of us were locked for a brief moment in silent combat. Somehow, I lost my footing and stepped off the trail, onto a dried handful of branches. Andy grabbed my arm, helping to steady me, but it was too late. The crunching echo of branches rang through the Trails like an alarm being sounded, and the steady breathing stopped.

  “The fuck?” an angry voice echoed from the opposite side of the tree line.

  Andy pointed toward the exit and silently mouthed the word, Run. We were off. I didn’t glance back, but I could hear the heavy footsteps behind us, the angry cursing, the promise to catch us and make us pay. I didn’t recognize the voice, not at first, but after a barrage of curses, the voice came into focus.

  It was Barnett.

  I think I’d heard from someone in the neighborhood that his first name was Albert or Alvin. Something painfully uncool. So, after his first stint in juvie at age twelve, he started going by his last name: Barnett. He had always been big for his age, and now that he was seventeen, he was big for any age. He might have been six three or so, but it was hard to tell back then, as short as I was. It didn’t really matter though. If half the stories passed around the neighborhood were true, he could be three feet tall and it wouldn’t make a difference. Being a giant was only window dressing.

  The stories. Jesus, those stories.

  I knew it was him by that point, because I’d been around him on three or four different occasions. You’d forget about him while he was in juvie, or living with his uncle out of state, or shipped off to some boarding school, and then, all at once, there he was again, a giant standing among a group of children on the street corner. We’d be playing hide and seek or capture the flag or whatever, and he’d appear, expecting a welcome from the neighborhood. Why the hell a seventeen-year-old convict-in-training wanted to spend his time with kids ranging from eight to fifteen was beyond me. Now that I’m grown, he might not scare me as much, because I’ve realized that a hardass among children really isn’t a hardass at all. Good luck telling me that when I was nine though.

  So there we were, hauling ass through the woods with fucking Barnett after us. I still didn’t have so much as an inkling as to why the hell he was chasing us, but it didn’t matter. When an elephant ran toward you, you ran away. That was just how it worked. The only good news about all this was that we were smaller, and when it came to the trails, smaller was better. We cut through the lines in the woods, jumping roots, never looking back even as his screams grew angrier and oddly desperate.

  “Andy,” I whined as I sprinted beside him, wondering what could possibly make Barnett so bloodthirsty, but my brother refused to explain.

  “Go!” he yelled just over my shoulder. “Don’t stop.”

  We finally broke through the wall of brush and into the field, the knee-high weeds whipping at my legs as I beat the ground with my tiny feet. We were out, but I didn’t quite know if we were free or not. Being small was good for the trails, but out here, it was hard to say for sure. Barnett was bigger, and he was more athletic than either of us, especially Andy. In a straight shot, I wasn’t overly confident that we could get away.

  I realized quickly that none of that mattered. The familiar footsteps just behind me faded off, and I realized with horror that Andy had stopped running.

  When I turned, I saw him, standing a dozen yards away from the mouth of the woods, machete held to the side, guarding the only way out.

  “Andy,” I yelled, but he didn’t even acknowledge me.

  And there Barnett was, a wall of flesh, shirtless for some reason, wearing nothing but jeans with grass stains on the knees. He towered over Andy, and I realized in that moment that we weren’t dealing with a peer. We were kids, involved in silly kid shit. This was, by most measures, a man, a dangerous thing for kids to reckon with – and the look on his face told us he wasn’t playing any games.

  “The fuck is that?” he asked, his breath catching between words.

  “Go back,” Andy said, ignoring the question.

  “What the hell did you say to me?”

  He took a step forward, and Andy tightened his grip on the machete. It was still, even then, a pitiful weapon, but it was all he had, and he held it with a confidence that I didn’t know existed.

  “What did you see?” Barnett asked, his voice smoothing out, hiding something I couldn’t quite place. There was anger in his voice, but desperation as well, the rage masking something deeper and much more dangerous.

  “Enough,” Andy said.

  Barnett’s hands balled into fists, and he stomped the ground with his boots. He began walking a tiny circle, his feet refusing to sit still as he pulled at the sides of his red hair like a crazy person.

  “I’m gonna kill you,” he said to Andy as he stopped circling and took a step forward.

  “Try it!” Andy screamed. “You’ll have to! Not just me either, but her too. Because we know. We saw. So unless you’re ready to kill me or die trying, then you need to turn around.”

  “Why the fuck would I do that?” he screamed back, his voice containing more fear than anger now.

  “Because that’s the only way we’ll never tell. If you lay a finger on me, she’ll run. The cops will know. The papers will know. The whole fucking town will know. I might be dead, but it won’t matter because they’ll know.”

  Barnett fell down onto his knees and began punching the ground. I didn’t understand, not then, what exactly was happening there, but I did know that Andy had him firmly in some kind of checkmate. Barnett’s fit subsided, and he leaned back up like a man roused from a nap, his hair in messy curls on either side of his head.

  “If you tell,” he said, pointing at Andy, “if I hear from a single person that you told…I’ll find you. I’ll fucking kill both of you.”

  Andy nodded. “I won’t tell. Ever. Now go back in there. Go on. You go your way, and we’ll go ours.”

  It wasn’t until that moment, as I dared to step closer, back to my brother’s side, that I saw an amazing sight. There were tears on Barnett’s cheeks. He wiped them away with a tired hand, skulking into the gloomy dark, utterly defeated. Just as we turned to walk away, the sky finally opened, and the rain began to trickle down, slowly at first, then in heavy waves. We sprinted the rest of the way home, and once we were safe inside, I turned to Andy.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” he said as he shrugged off his backpack and dropped it by the door. I followed him to his bedroom, where he stripped off his soaking-wet shirt.

  “Seriously,” I said. “What happened back there?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said as he used the shirt to towel off his wet hair.

  “How can you tell me not to worry about it? He could have killed you.”

  Andy stepped past me and sl
ammed the door to keep Dad from hearing, and I assumed he was getting ready to spill it.

  “You’re right,” he said. “He could have killed me. And you too. And for a second, I thought he was going to. That’s why you need to let this go.”

  “But—”

  “No,” he said with finality. “I saw something that he didn’t want me to see. That was that. I’m never telling anyone, and you know why?”

  “Andy…”

  “Do you know why?”

  I shrugged. “No.”

  “Because if I tell anyone, even you, he’ll kill us both. That’s all the answer you’ll ever get.”

  Unlike me, Andy had a tendency to keep his word. He never did tell me what he saw through those woods, but I have some hunches. I remember seeing Barnett a few weeks later, hanging around the block with a few of his friends. I watched them from the yard, me pretending to play in the dirt as I spied on them smoking and telling jokes with each other, passing the time until the streetlights came on. He was particularly close with one of the friends, a boy I recognized and whom I pegged as maybe fifteen or so. You could see it in their body language, the way they looked at each other, and I think, on some level, I understood. When I got up to go back inside, I noticed Barnett staring at me. The two of us shared a glance that lasted a few beats too long, but he never said a word. If things had gone differently, I might have been afraid of that stare, might have taken it as a preemptive strike, like him and his boys were casing our house. But I had seen worse than Barnett by then, and I knew there were other things to be afraid of.

  * * *

  “So, I’m thinking we get started earlier tomorrow. If we get at it before lunch, we should have plenty of time to check everything out. I’m thinking we go around the back of the Trails. I’ve never actually been back that far, but I’m pretty sure there’s some—”