The Hellion

by S. A. Hunt

  But the guard kept ogling her ass when he thought she wasn’t looking, and as he spoke to her, his eyes would occasionally flick down to her tits. Maybe there was a point to Mom’s mom jeans, utilitarian granny panties, conservative shirts.

  No, said the Robin in her head. Stop. This asshole’s behavior is not your fault. It is not your responsibility to protect every man-child on the street from his own libido.

  “You was waiting for someone else to leave the shop, to walk through the radio tag gate with you,” he said, “so you could skip out with the stuff you shoplifted and leave the other customer ‘holding the bag,’ so to speak. You realize we got cameras, right? You was in deep shit before you even walked out the door.”

  “Don’t know what you mean,” said Carly, pulling. His liver-spotted mitt was clamped around her wrist.

  “Come on.”

  Tugging her away from the exit, the man walked her through the food court and toward the arcade. Between Fong’s Fun Palace and a pretzel shop was a narrow hallway, and hanging from the ceiling in the mouth of the hallway was a sign: MALL SECURITY. Carly briefly entertained the thought of dropping all her weight on the floor, just throwing herself down and bucking like a maniac, screaming she was being kidnapped or raped or something, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She might have done it two or three years before, but in the intervening time, she seemed to have developed a sense of embarrassment. Besides—and this was the worst part—a strange numbness had overtaken her, and she had frozen, letting herself be led by the hand.

  Motion-detector fluorescents came on with a twee electric blink-ink sound, filling a long corridor with bright light. Five doorways led into other offices: RECORDS, BRIEFING, HUMAN RESOURCES, EMPLOYEE BREAK ROOM, UTILITY, SECURITY MANAGER, CCTV. The mall cop took her into the room marked BRIEFING and left her there by herself. Carly sat at a cold cafeteria table, in one of twelve cold metal folding chairs, and stared at her hands.

  One wall was occupied by a pair of whiteboards, and while one of them was wiped blank, the other one had a litany of names. A moment’s contemplation told her it was the various shops in the mall and who their general managers were. Fire evacuation chart. Shift schedules. Lists of shift duties, radio frequencies, codes. Timeclock with an ID swipe. USERRA poster reminding military veterans of their rights. OSHA papers and other displays droning on and on about safety precautions and procedures.

  She raised her middle finger to the organization chart. Then she raised her other middle finger and panned them both around the room.

  “Fuck everything in here,” she said to herself, twisting in her chair. “Fuck that poster. Fuck that clock. Fuck this inbox. Fuck that outbox. Fuck that fire extinguisher. Fuck whatever that is. Fuck this whole room and everything in it.”

  Yes …

  Someone whispering over the PA system. Carly almost leapt out of her chair in surprise, banging her knee on the underside of the table.

  Her chest tightened as if there were a python under her skin, slithering between her ribs and squeezing them together. She massaged her chest, wincing. What the hell was that? Her eyes shot up to the ceiling and darted around, searching the corners where the dim lights left cottony shadow, but there were no speakers.

  Startling her out of her reverie, the door opened and the security guard came in. “Thanks for, uhh, playing nicely.”

  Does this look like a game to you? thought Carly.

  He sat down in a chair across from her and interlaced his fingers. Carly looked into his face and saw an utter lack of self-awareness in his bovine brown eyes. The corners of his mouth glistened with saliva. “Ma’am, we’re going to sit here and have a nice little talk about what you did today.”

  “Goody-goody gumdrops.” Her heart surged with fear and indignation.

  “You’ll be happy to know since this is your first offense, the manager ain’t goin’ to press charges as long as you give back what you shoplifted. You’d be surprised how many little girls like yourself do this kind of thing in an average year. If they tried to press charges, they’d be up to their eyeballs in nonstop bullshit.” He fetched a deep, deep sigh as if he was the most tired, jaded man on the planet, and gestured toward Carly’s purse with his thumbs. “Anywho, I’d like to ask you right about now to voluntarily cough up the stuff you stole so I can return it. If you’re not willing, that is when I’m obligated to contact the police and—”

  “Okay! Okay,” said Carly, pulling her purse up onto the table. “Okay. Here.” It was actually more of a messenger bag, a black canvas tote with a red medic cross on the cover flap. She upended its contents onto the table.

  “Thank you for choosing the easy way instead of the hard way,” said the mall cop, staring at the array of crap in her bag:

  her cell phone

  a pack of fruity chewing gum

  a GameStop lanyard with keys on it (a key to her school locker, a key to Elisa’s front door, a copy of the key for Isabella’s Kia they didn’t know Carly had, the key to Mom and Dad’s now nonexistent mobile home, a key to the security gate at GameStop, two other mystery keys, and last but not least, somehow she’d ended up with the key to Dad’s old bike La Reina)

  three wrappered tampons

  two condoms

  a half a bag of Skittles

  black lipstick

  a makeup case

  her wallet (her learner’s permit, library card, school ID, a photobooth strip of her mother and herself at the county fair three years earlier, a ten-dollar bill, and a handful of quarters, nickels, and dimes)

  a pack of Camels (only two left)

  a pair of stolen designer blue jeans

  a bottle of stolen aromatic lotion

  a fistful of shitty stolen jewelry

  Carly snatched up one of the tampons and offered it to the security guard. “Here. You could use this.”

  “Don’t appreciate the attitude,” he said coldly.

  “I’m sorry,” she replied, before she even knew what she was saying. “For … for stealing the stuff.” Not for the remark, of course. But for the stuff, yes. Carly pushed the expensive jeans, the gaudy hippie jewelry, and the little bottle of lime-bamboo Seashore Dreams lotion toward him, then scraped the rest of it back into her bag and dropped it on the floor beside her chair.

  The mall cop put the jewelry and the lotion on top of the jeans and folded it into a wad, pushing it aside. “Thanks, kid. You did the right thing. Well, technically, you did the wrong thing, but then you made up for it. Kinda. Anyway—”

  “That mean I can go?”

  “Anyway,” he went on, and licked his lips, stopping to woolgather for a second. “As I was about to say, still got to do something about all this, and in situations like this where the shop manager decides not to press charges and leaves the matter in our hands, the usual course of action is to ban the shoplifter from the mall for a certain period of time. Usually three to six months. If you’re seen on the premises—”

  “What?” Carly stared, mouth open. “Banned?”

  “Now, it’s what we usually—”

  “No, you don’t understand,” said Carly, reaching into her bag and dragging out the lanyard full of keys, holding up the GameStop barrier key, and as she spoke, she became progressively louder and louder. “You can’t ban me from the mall; I freaking work here! I work at the GameStop now! You can’t do that! I’ve only been there for six weeks! I’m closing tomorrow!”

  “Now, it’s— You should—” Mall Cop got flustered, trying to cut in.

  But she was on a roll. “They’re going to fire me! My aunt is going to kill me! Took months to get that job! They’re the only people that would give me an interview! You can’t ban me from the mall! I have to come back! I work here!”

  “Should have thought about that before you decided to shoplift a hundred-and-fifty-dollar pair of blue jeans, honey.”

  Honey. Carly fought the urge to punch him.

  “I need that money.” An embarrassed anger rose up in her s
o fierce, it caused tears to spring to her eyes. She wanted to flip the table on top of him, stab him in the throat with her keys, kick him in the balls. “I need it. It’s the only money I have.” The last word faded into huskiness as her emotions took over and she dropped her face into her hands, sobbing.

  “You should have thought about that. I’m sure you can find something else. Department stores are going to be hiring for the Christmas rush pretty soon.”

  She hated this man so much in this moment, she could wish him dead.

  So she did.

  Her hands clenched into tight fists and she leaned toward him, staring into his face. Wishing with everything she had the man would drop dead right here and now, she growled “Fuck you,” as venomously as possible.

  “Now, that’s not a very nice thing to say.” The mall cop’s expression turned from remorse into a wry smirk. No doubt she had just proved him right in his mind: she would be banned from the premises, and for six months, not three, because, well, because—

  “—You’re an asshole. You’re such an asshole.”

  He seemed to think about it and said, “Yeah, guess my ex-wife would probably agree with you. Look, you’re gettin’ off real lucky here, kid. You could be leavin’ in the back of a cop car, but I’m lettin’ you off with a temporary ban and a warning.”

  Carly grimaced, her lips drawing tight and white over her teeth.

  “I hope you die.”

  She glared into his face, trying to visualize his brain behind it, and imagined crushing his head with her bare hands like a clay pot full of wet sand. Could almost feel the shards of his skull and the cauliflower form of his gray matter squishing through her fingers.

  The mall cop sat back, visibly disturbed.

  “Think it’s high time I called your mother and escorted you and your smart-ass mouth to the parking lot to wait for her to pick you up, to pick you up.” He gathered up the stolen goods and seemed as if he were about to stand up, but he hesitated, still seated, staring down at the bundle in his hands as if he’d forgotten what he was about to do. “You were vrr irresponsibrrr today. You should…”

  A drop of blood hit the table.

  Looking up, the mall cop twitched, and one eye squinted briefly as if to dislodge an annoying fly.

  Blood trickled out of his left nostril, where it filtered into the coarse hairs of his mustache. His head twitched as if he were trying to look to the right but his neck didn’t want to behave, and he kept talking, but what he said was some kind of tongue-tied pig Latin. To Carly’s amazed horror, he sat back in his chair and the entire right side of his face went slack.

  Both upper and lower eyelid sagged, revealing the red and watery flesh underneath his eyeball, and the right side of his mouth sagged in a deep frown. “Whass duss,” he said, mushy and thick. A syrupy string of pink drool slipped out of his mouth and fell on his polo shirt. “Muffa gooba dum.”

  Slowly, gradually, the mall cop leaned to his right and fell over. The chair squirted out from under him with a loud clatter and he hit the floor on his side, the radio popping out of his belt with a squelch of static.

  Carly’s face and hands went as numb as if they’d been shot full of Novocain. She got up and crept around the end of the table. “Are you okay?”

  He lay on his side, his head wobbling weakly on his unsteady neck like an infant. His gaze wandered the underside of the table and the tiles under his cheek, and then his face turned toward Carly and one of his eyes fixed on her, stunned and unrecognizing. The other pointed sideways at the floor.

  Blood pooled on his tongue and welled in his ear. “Grrhhmmaangh.”

  “Oh, my God.” She recoiled.

  She stared at him as he continued to writhe sluggishly on the floor like a dying octopus, his dry lips sticking together, his eyes rolling.

  Did I do this?

  Something was in her hand. She raised it. Between her thumb and forefinger was the key to her father’s Royal Enfield.

  Did some of that rub off on me? Is there still something in this key?

  “Hebbb,” said the mall cop, gagging on the words. “Hebm. Whzzz.”

  Her eyes rose up from the key and fell on the man lying on the floor. Even if she did do this, what the hell did she do? Did she really want him to die? Was he dying? What the hell was wrong with him? Tightness in her chest only grew closer and harder—felt as if a brick sat between her lungs. Her hands tingled like she’d been sitting on them.

  She wrenched the door open and looked out into the hallway.

  “Hello?” she called, looking back and forth. “Hello? Anybody out here? I think this guy is having a heart attack or something.”

  None of the other doors opened.

  Alone with a dying man. She ducked back into the briefing room, where her new acquaintance still lay under the table. “I don’t know what to do,” she told him, wringing her hands. Panic made them shake, and the only way she could think of to make them stop was to twine them together.

  The radio keyed and produced a young man’s high, tinny voice. “Hey, chief—I’m gonna grab a late lunch.”

  “Aight,” said an older man with a deep, dusky timbre. “Let me know when you come back.”

  “Roger.”

  Carly picked up the walkie-talkie and keyed it. Tried to think of what to say. Let go of the button. Keyed it again. “Hey, listen, somebody, there’s a man—one of you guys—he’s in the mall-cop room with the sign that says BRIEFING, and I think he’s having a seizure or a heart attack or some shit.” Searching the front of his shirt for a name, she found only LOCKWOOD MALL AUTHORITY embroidered over his heart.

  “Who is this?” asked the man called Chief.

  “A concerned citizen,” said Carly, blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

  “This some kind of joke?”

  “No joke. He’s a tall guy with a mustache and dark silver hair. Pot belly. Mister, he’s really ffff—messed up. He’s lying on the floor, bleeding out of his nose and ears. You might wanna get in here.”

  “All right,” said the Chief. “Sounds like Deakins. Briefing room, you said? Mall security area?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His voice jiggled as if he were running. “Okay. Stay right where you are, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t touch him or move him. Collins—”

  “Yeah,” said the guy on his lunch break.

  “Got your phone on you? Call 911 for me.”

  “Roger. Already did it.”

  “Good boy.”

  About twenty seconds before these guys came barreling in there, and she had a decision to make. Carly shot to her feet, dropping the radio, and eyed the shoplifted stuff on the table. Two decisions, actually.

  Should I stay or should I go?

  Grab the stuff and run, or leave it?

  She picked up the bundle of stolen clothes but held it at arm’s length in both hands like a dirty diaper. Should I stay or should I go? She even heard the guitar licks in her head: Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun. Plink?

  “Shit.”

  She tossed the stuff back on the table.

  Breathlessly, she threw up a bird finger at the incapacitated Deakins, backing away. “Sorry, mister.” She opened the door again. “I have to beat feet. But hey, I may have just saved your life, and I left that stuff I took, so let’s just call it even-stevens, okay?”

  Across the corridor and back out into the food court. As soon as she reached the end of the little access hallway, Carly did a U-turn into Fong’s Fun Palace and jammed herself between two little boys, grabbing the sticks of a Street Fighter cabinet and rattling them.

  A couple seconds later, keys jingled right behind her as “Chief” came running down the access hallway into the security area.

  “What are you doing?” asked one of the boys.

  Carly rounded on him. “Shut your face.”

  “Why do you smell like a skunk?”

  Turning on a heel, she stalked out of the arcade and through the f
ood court, heading outside.

  “Weirdo!” called one of the boys.

  Carly pushed open the door and charged into a cool, dry Texas evening, where the sunset was a murky pile of reds, purples, and oranges. She tossed her hood up over her head and jammed her hands into her jacket pockets, heading down the sidewalk, ignoring the people walking by, trying to be nonchalant, trying to pretend she wasn’t just standing over a man she may or may not have injured by force of will alone.

  Sunlight brushed her bare shoulders and her fists finally unclenched.

  Oblivious to the black cats coming out of the shadows to follow her, the witch walked home.

  Hidden Track

  Rolling over, the witch-hunter opened her eyes and stared at the red numbers for several seconds before she could decipher them. Three in the morning.

  Some pungent smell hung in the air, heady, smoky.

  Deep, hideous thrumming right next to her face. Robin snatched her pillow out of the way to reveal the Osdathregar hidden underneath, reaching over to flick on the bedside lamp.

  Subtle electricity crackled along the blade. Bone-shaking yet almost inaudible bass emanated from the dagger, rippling throughout the room, causing the headboard to buzz softly against the wall. She turned the pillow over. A cruciform burn-mark was seared through the back of the pillowcase.

  As she inspected the damage, the Osdathregar burst into flames.

  “Jesus please us!” she shouted, running into the bathroom with it before it could ignite the bedclothes. Bare feet on cold floor. She thrust the flaming sword into the shower and turned it on, dousing the fire, and though it flickered at first, it continued to burn even as it was sprayed with ice-cold water.

  Wait—sword?

  She laid it down in the bathtub and sat on the toilet, shaking with adrenaline.

  Yeah, you read that right. Somehow it had become a sword, a broadsword with a thin hilt like one of those kung-fu swords you’d see in movies like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

  Hello there, said a voice.

  Robin sat up and scanned the dark bathroom. “Mom?”