Donald
The conversation with Dexter did not go how Donald was expecting. Even when he was angry, Dexter was always calm. His voice barely wavered and his face always had a relaxed expression. Anyone who doesn’t know him would think that he was emotionless, but you take one good look at his eyes and you would see something completely different.
Dexter’s eyes always showed what he truly felt. It was like his eyes were the window to his emotions. When he was angry they seemed to glow with fire, when he was sad it was like looking at raindrops on a window during a rainy day. So when Dexter yelled at Donald, he had no idea how to react.
After explaining to Freya about Dexter's reactions, she dragged Donald out of the house to buy Dexter a new phone as an apology. Of course, she conveniently spent all her money on costume materials the day before so they would be using Donald's money to purchase Dexter’s gift. Though it was still 6 in the morning so the only store open was Circle A because Circle K wasn’t good enough for Autumn Sky, Virginia and neither was 7-11.
Seriously, it was the strangest thing. You could drive all over Autumn Sky and never find a convenience store other than Circle A. As to how this knockoff company managed this was beyond him, as well as why they hadn’t been sued for trademark infringement. Not only was Circle A’s name one letter different than Circle K, but the logo was exactly the same red and white design except it was the @ sign instead of a k inside of a circle.
It wouldn’t surprise Donald if Circle A was owned by one of those Chinese knockoff companies that stick wolverines head on the body of a yellow power ranger and this was their way of testing the waters in America before going all in.
So there they were, inside Circle A arguing over whether Donald would be paying for their slurps-a’s. The significantly worse but significantly cheaper knockoff of Slurpees that Circle A made.
“For the millionth time Frey, I will not pay for you’re slurpee,” Donald said.
“But you agreed to pay for this!” Freya complained.
“I agreed to pay for the gift we were gonna get Dexter,” Donald said. “I did not agree to fund your sugar addiction. You’re fat enough as is.”
“Excuse me! I'm not fat! Just heavy set!” Freya exclaimed, genuinely offended.
“Your 225 pounds and I'm 145!” Donald exclaimed. “Being over 200 pounds means you are overweight! Therefore you are fat!”
“Well, I’m six foot one, and your five foot seven!” Freya said.
“What does height have to do with this?” Donald questioned Freya.
“There is a direct correlation between height and weight!” Freya said.
“Not this again…”
“It's true! Do you think a person who is six feet tall can be 75 pounds or something!”
“Yes, they can!”
“Ok that might be true,” Freya admitted. “But it wouldn’t be very healthy!”
“HEY!” the store clerk said. He seemed a bit old to be a clerk. Gray hairs were mixed in with his black ones and his short mustache was the color of salt and pepper. “Are you guys going to buy something or just yell at each other?”
“NO!” “YES!” Freya and Donald snapped in unison.
“Could you at least argue outside? You’re disturbing the other customers,” the clerk asked.
Donald looked around the store. The shelves were half stocked, the drink machines were half empty and the freezer only had a half-eaten pint of ice cream in it, but there was not a single person other than him and Freya in the knockoff Circle K.
“What other customers?” Donald asked. “There is literally no one else here except you, me, and my sister!”
“Yeah, she's gone,” The clerk said noticing Freya had run off with the knockoff slurpee.
“Oh god damn! She dined and dashed on me again!” Donald growled. Letting out a sigh, Donald reached for his wallet in defeat. “How much for an extra large strawberry slurpee?”
“It's called a slurp-a,” the clerk corrected.
“I don’t care what the knockoff is called. Just how much does it cost?” Donald said.
“I don’t know, let me check,” the clerk said as he began tapping on the electronic touchscreen register. After a moment the screen facing Donald displayed the price but froze as it began to display the numbers. Meanwhile, the clerk waited patiently with his hand outstretched, gesturing for the cash.
“The screen froze,” Donald said.
“Oh, in that case, it’s-”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Everything in your wallet,” A voice growled interrupting the clerk.
Donald spun around to face a man in a black ski mask pointing a very large revolver at his face.
“Hey man, point that weapon at someone else,” the clerk said with a shaky voice. “The dude’s got no money and I don’t think you want to blow a face of a teenager.”
“If he’s got no money, then what were you ringing him up for?” the robber asked.
“He’s a cousin of a friend. I was gonna let him off with an IOU and pay out of my pocket,” the clerk said.
“Alright, then give me everything in your pockets and the register!” the robber demanded.
“Okay, just a moment,” the clerk said as he pulled out a key. However, in his nervousness to open the register, the key slipped from his hands and fell on the floor. “Ok, don’t shoot, but I need to go pick up the key from the register off the ground.”
“What kind of register needs a key?” the robber asked, his voice liaised suspicion.
“The crappy kind that doesn’t stay closed,” the clerk answered.
“Alright, just do it nice and slow now,” the robber said after a moment of consideration.
The clerk nodded and slowly lowered to the ground, his forehead speckled with sweat. His eyes darted up and down from the robber to the key on the floor.
“Wait, he glancing at something underneath the counter, not the key,” Donald thought. “What is he planning?”
BANG!
Just as the clerk's head disappeared the plastic-coated plywood counter exploded from the inside out sending shards of wood and plastic everywhere. Donald dove to the side as the robber howled in pain. Whatever the clerk did, the robber's arm was bleeding profusely and a large chunk of his forearm was missing. The clerk popped over the top of the counter with a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun in hand. The right barrel still smoking from when he shot it through the counter.
He aimed at the robber, but before he could get a second shot off the robber was pulling the trigger on his large revolver.
BOOM!
An ear-shattering explosion rang out as the robber shot the clerk in the chest. Blood splattered everywhere as the bullet from the hand cannon ripped through the clerk like he wasn’t even there. Ears ringing, Donald crawled away as fast as he could, too scared to stand up in case the robber tried to shoot him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the robber take off his ski mask and scream something, but all Donald could hear was a high-pitched ring. The robber had a clean shaved face, his hair blond hair was all ratty and messy, and judging from the size of his pupils he was high.
The robber didn’t bother to take the money behind the counter, instead, he just ran. Leaving a trail of blood behind. As soon as he was gone, Donald rushed over to the clerk. Not bothering to check his pulse Donald pulled off his jacket and pressed down on the wound in a desperate attempt to keep him from bleeding out.
Donald tried to scream for help, for someone to stop the fleeing robber. But no matter how loud he yelled he heard no sound. Just the constant unending ring in his ears.
“Why did I just stand there? WHY DIDN’T I DO ANYTHING!” Donald shamed himself. “If I had tried to do something he would be fine! Godamn it! He saved my life! I can’t let him die! There’s so much blood! There's gotta be a way to keep him alive!”
Donald's brain was filled with nothing but the sounds of him screaming at himself for not doing something more. He couldn’t focus, but he needed to keep his hands pressing down on the clerk's wound or he would bleed out. He had to save him, he owed him that much.
He could see flashing lights out of the corner of his eye. Help was close, he just needed to keep him alive a little longer. Now all he had to do was wait for the paramedics to save the clerk.
Suddenly, firm hands wrapped around his arms and tried to gently pull him off. He could hear the hum of speech in the background but the ring was still too loud so he couldn’t hear what was being said. Then with a firm tug, someone yanked him off the clerk.
“NO!” Donald screamed as he tried to force his way out of the steel grip holding his arms. “He’ll bleed out if I don’t help him!”
“Hey! Hey!” said the man pulling Donald away. He was dressed in a dark blue officer uniform with a kevlar vest over his shirt with a golden shield on his chest. “Stop struggling or you’ll hurt yourself!”
“No! He’s dying! I can’t leave him there!” Donald protested.
“Hey, listen to me! Listen to me!” The officer said spinning Donald around to face him. “He’s dead. There’s nothing you can do!”
Freya, moments earlier.
Freya waited outside by her father's car, watching the sun rise drinking the strawberry slurpee knockoff Donald so kindly “bought” for her. Or more accurately, the slurpee Donald is currently buying for her. She would have put it back after Donald refused to buy it, however, when he called her fat she decided to teach her half-brother a lesson. Donald was a nice guy, but he tended to say the first thing that comes to mind when he was frustrated. The best way to teach someone manners was with consequences for not using them.
Now one could say that it was her fault for stressing her brother out, and that person is obviously an only child. It is the job of a sibling, younger or older, to piss off their brother or sister. Isn’t that the whole point of siblings to begin with? To piss each other off so much that when the time comes to finally leave for college you’re out the door before your parents can even say goodbye? Screw all that crap about protecting one another. Conflict is the cosmic reason for siblings' existence.
BANG!
BOOM!
The explosions of what sounded like large fireworks emanate from Circle A then everything went quiet.
“SHIT!” someone exclaimed. Followed by a flurry of slurs and curses as a man exited the store. His arm looked to be coated in some sort of red syrup as he stumbled toward a beat-up truck holding the largest revolver Freya had ever seen.
“Not syrup. Blood!” Freya realized with a shudder.
“STOP HIM!” Donald screamed at the top of his lungs as the beat-up track hastily pulled out of its parking spot. “SOMEBODY STOP HIM!”
Before Freya realized what was happening, her body was already moving. She dropped her slurpee and sprinted towards the rapidly accelerating car as it was pulling out of the parking lot. Moments before the truck sped out, Freya leaped on the hood. Limbs sprawled out like a spider as she landed on the hood.
The driver cursed as he swerved to avoid a car. “GET OFF!” he exclaimed as he slammed the brakes. Despite its sudden stop, Freya's grip held firm on the sides of the hood. She may be on the heavier side but that doesn’t mean she was weak.
With his good arm on the steering wheel, the driver slammed his foot on the gas as he gritted his teeth while struggling to raise his hand cannon.
BOOM!
The first shot missed Freya by a mile. The bullet shattered the windshield covering Freya and the driver in shards of glass.
BOOM!
The second shot clipped the hood by Freya’s foot. She wasn’t sure if it was out of fear, bravery, or sheer stupidity, but Freya didn’t let go. Choosing to keep her head down and pray that the driver was too injured to use his gun.
BOOM!
Freya screamed in pain as the bullet grazed her thigh. Her grip failed her and she began to slide off the hood of the car. The sounds of cars honking were deafening as the car drove down the wrong side of the road. She dug her nails underneath the metal of the hood causing the cold metal to dig into her fingers, stopping her before she fell off the car.
As Freya's feet dangled inches from the asphalt a jolt of electricity traveled down her spine to her fingertips. Over the honking of cars and the screech of tires, Freya heard a hissing coming from under the hood.
BOOM!
The left side of the hood, inches away from Freya’s arm, exploded. Something black shot straight through the metal hood at the speed of a firework and disappears into the early morning sky. The emergency brake on the truck suddenly deployed and the whole vehicle came screeching to a stop. By some miracle, Freya managed to keep herself from falling off until the truck came to a complete stop.
Her strength gone, Freya flopped onto the asphalt. Her heart pounded in her chest like a drum. It was thumping so loud that she felt like her heart was about to explode out of her chest. The driver cursed and exited the vehicle, narrowly avoiding another car as it took off his side view mirror.
Rage in his eyes, the driver stumbled over to Freya and aimed his gun at her head.
"What did you do?" he roared. "What did you do to my car!"
"I didn't do anything!" Freya said as she tried to move away.
"Bull! I made sure my car was in perfect working order just for this!" he screamed, pulling back the hammer on his revolver. "It doesn't matter, you won't be a problem for me ever again."
“No, please!” Freya said holding her hands up in defense.
Click!
Empty, the driver had wasted all his shots on Freya. In the distance, she could hear the sounds of police sirens rapidly approaching. “Goddamnit!” the driver exclaimed. He turned his back to Freya and ran away, leaving her shocked and scared in the middle of the street.