The Thief

An entry for Chuck Wendig’s “Must Love Guns” Flash Fiction challenge, should you choose to participate (or simply check out the other, wonderful entries.) 

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Be warned – this is by no means an example of fantastic storytelling, but you gotta write what you know, and being an expert on neither crime fiction nor guns, I decided to have some fun.

George already knew who did it.

The evidence was all there, plain as day: sticky prints on the counter. Mud on the floor. A suspect without an alibi.

Well, maybe he had an alibi, but it certainly wasn’t going to hold any water. Especially not when George was done with him.

Up the stairs he went, creeping quietly so as to not disturb the Suspect. He was there, in the living room. George could hear him. No idea what he was doing, maybe playing Xbox. It didn’t matter. He was guilty. George knew he was guilty, and this time he was going to pay.

The Suspect, on more than one occasion, had gone where he shouldn’t, taken things that shouldn’t belong to him. George wasn’t sure at first, but then it became clear – whenever things went missing, the Suspect was always close at hand. He never had an excuse. Sure, he never fessed up, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t guilty. Lots of guilty people never fess up. Lots of people who don’t fess up get caught anyway.

Once he was safely in his bedroom, he shut the door and locked it behind him. The shotgun was stored carefully out of view in his closet, next to a pair of matching pistols. He considered his options for a minute. The pistols were quick, they had more shots. The shotgun packed more power. A better punishment.

He dug the box of ammunition out and slid two cylinders into the shotgun first, then loaded one of the pistols for good measure. He had a holster for it, and it was a tight fit, but it’d be better than having only one shot, or having to reload. He wanted to be prepared.

It took him fifteen minutes to prepare. He paced his room a few times, picked up and set the shotgun back down again, adjusted the holster at his waist. He was nervous. He’d never attacked anyone unprovoked before, out of nowhere. What if the Suspect was also armed? He could be risking everything.

After the sixteenth minute, he took a deep breath and crept quietly, quietly down the stairs. An ambush could not be a proper ambush if one ambushes with all of the grace and loudness of a herd of corgis after a platter of bacon. One must be careful, calculating.

“What are you doing?”

The voice startled him. He’d been so quiet, and the Suspect had noticed him anyway, just as he’d reached the bottom of the stairs. George froze in his tracks, staring blankly through the rungs of the banister. His sweaty hands tightened around the barrel of the gun as he opened his mouth to speak – not enough, apparently, as not a single sound came out.

“I said,” the voice repeated with agitation, “What are you doing?”

George gulped. He shifted in place for a minute, preparing to speak. Gripped by nervousness, he remained mute, causing the Suspect to make a disgusted face at him. His eyes rolled, shoulders shrugged, and attention was immediately back to the television with a “Whatever.”

Now was the time.

Slowly, with quivering hands, he raised the rifle and gazed down the barrel with the aim and precision of a military sniper. His whole body was shaking as if he’d been plopped down on top of a washing machine smack in the middle of the spin cycle. He could do this. He could do this. He could do this.

George cocked the gun, then counted to three in his head. One, he began with another gulp.

Two… 

He steadied the shotgun, bracing the stock against his shoulder.

Three!

Two shells hit the carpet as their contents went flying towards the target, making successful contact with the back of the Suspect’s skull with a loud thwap-thwap!

“HEY!”

The Suspect turned around and glared as the foam bullets rolled down the back of the couch. George went pale at the sight, his hands stayed on the gun, not yet straying to the other weapon at his waist.

“What was that for?!”

George gulped again.

“You took my sandwich.”

“What sandwich?”

“My PB&J. You ate it.”

The Suspect stared at his brother dumbfoundedly. George stared back. He was shaking so much now he was sure he was going to drop the plastic weapon and it took all he had to keep it in his grasp.

“It’s…It’s gone,” he stammered. “I know you did it. I saw the mud.”

He felt empowered as he explained, more confident now that he was addressing his brother. George was very short, and two years younger than the Suspect. Normally he’d be the one staring down the barrel of the gun, the prime target for abuse. Not today. Today he was standing up.

“I didn’t eat your freaking sandwich,” the brother argued. “I don’t even like PB&J.”

George had not considered this. That was right. His brother didn’t like PB&J. He didn’t even like peanut butter. The thought of his lunch going missing to ghosts or ninjas or whatever else could have crept in unawares saddened him. Here he thought he’d solved the crime, that he was looking right at the culprit, ready to shoot again. But he was wrong.

“Oh,” was all he could muster. He felt ashamed. How was he going to be a great detective if he couldn’t even figure out who ate his lunch?

It was then, thankfully, that a large golden retriever padded up to him for support. He could always count on Maggie to be there when he was feeling down. She was a good dog, and definitely the best friend a boy could ask for. Just her presence in the room made him feel better about the whole thing. It was, after all, just a sandwich.

He was so grateful for her, in fact, that he didn’t even notice the smear of jelly on the dog’s nose as he bent down to embrace her.

He’d find the culprit another day.