“My tank is gonna shoot,” Steve Emmerich says as he pushes a toy tank forward. A gargling cannon noise explodes from his pre-pubescent mouth. His fingertip traces a shot from the tank barrel to a toy truck. He flips the truck over and dumps five plastic soldiers onto the floor.

“Yer soldiers never miss,” Michael Augustine says. “That’s unrealistic.”

“Of course they never miss. Why would I have them miss? That’s stupid.”

The front door creaks shut below them. Steve hears his mother’s muffled voice say something. Light, rapid footsteps launch up the stairs. Definitely not his mother. The footsteps turn toward his room.             

“You guys’ll never believe what I saw on my way over,” says Albion Winfrey, a boy of about the same age, who enters the room and plops down next to them.

“Shut up,” Steve says in a cold monotone. “My infantry is about to attack.”

“I know, but I’ve got to…”

“No one cares about the turtle that crawled across the path or whatever it is this time.”

“I like turtles,” Mike says. “I saw a snapping turtle last summer. I tried to get it to bite a branch…”

”But it bit yer hand instead and you had a black bruise for a few days. You already told us. B-F-D.”

“Gamera is a turtle,” says Albion. “He can fly around with jets that shoot out when he pulls his feet in.”

“My dad says ‘Gamera’ means ‘turtle’ in Japanese,” Mike says proudly. “So he’s a turtle named Turtle.”

“Yer dad doesn’t speak Japanese,” Steve says.

“I didn’t say he did. He just…”

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Yer dad’s stupid.” When Steve tried to discuss with Mr. Augustine the military strategies he’d learned in a book called Famous Generals he’d stolen from his school library, the old idiot tried to convince him that those were tactics, not strategies. He always tries to act like he knows better just because he’s an adult and a naval officer, but when Steve asked him what he thought of Hannibal’s battle plan at Zama, he confused him with the cannibal guy on TV. So stupid.

Albion fidgets. “On my way over there was…”

“There was what? Someone washing their station wagon? Mowing his lawn? Who gives a shit?” Steve re-positions a few of his plastic soldiers.

“There was a guy lying in a ditch.”

“Oh, wow. A guy in a ditch. Yer such a conversationalist. So what? There’s bums lying all over the sidewalks in the city.”

“He was bleeding.”

“Really?” Mike asks, his eyes wide with sudden interest. “Was he dead?”

“I dunno. I didn’t check.”

“No way,” Steve says with his lip curled up like a cobra about to strike. “Yer just trying to ruin our game because yer lame parents made you go to church while we got to play.”

“No, really. I think he got hit by a car. I was exploring those new houses they’re building and then I heard a ‘thwack’ really loud and then an El Camino peeled out.”

“Awesome!” Mike is almost bouncing out of sitting Indian-style. “Where is he?”

“Only trashy people drive El Caminos,” Steve says. When a purple El Camino with a dragon painted on its hood and a black air freshener with a white bunny head dangling from the mirror pulled into a spot his dad had been waiting for in the parking lot of a grocery store, his dad’s knuckles lost their rosy blush as he squeezed the wheel like it was an insurgent’s neck and growled, Assholes like that are ruining this country.

The three boys step around the plastic soldiers arrayed across the carpet to avoid disturbing the positions during their temporary truce. They run out the door of Steve’s home before his mom can ask where they’re going. They run along a sidewalk in their neighborhood and out past a construction site toward what Steve hopes will be a macabre delight. He suspects that Albion just made the whole thing up, but the prospect of seeing some human road kill is too tempting not to go. They slow to a walk when a severely injured man lying in a ditch comes into view, blood splurted all over his cheeks, his arms and legs twisted in yogic positions.

For a moment Steve imagines running home to tell his mom. He sees all the adults he knows praising him for his heroism. The mayor of Fairfax would give a speech about how great he is. They might even have a parade for him and that beautiful reporter from the local news who has red hair and a body like Rogue’s in that one issue where she wears a bikini after raiding SHIELD headquarters would interview him and pat him on the head and tell him what a handsome boy he is. Except his dad would not. His dad would be disappointed that he helped a dirty hippie who is nothing but a parasite and should be put on an island with all the other scum so they could only steal from each other. If you ever turn into someone like him, I won’t be able to show my face at Langley again, his dad once said about a hitchhiking hippie by the side of the road. Steve picks up a piece of gravel, winds up like a pitcher and throws it at the man’s head. It bounces off his back with no reaction.

“Don’t,” Albion says. “That’s mean.”

“I just want to see if he moves,” Steve says in his most reassuring tone. They approach to within a few feet. Steve picks up a stick and pokes the man like he’s a pile of charcoal at the end of a cookout. A gurgle, a bloody bubbling. The boys jump back.

“He’s still alive,” says Albion.

“Duh, obviously,” says Steve.

“Please.” The man moves one of his arms. “Help.” His gasping speech reminds Steve of William Wallace when he was being tortured near the end of Braveheart. Steve thought it was cool when Wallace hallucinated his dead wife in the crowd just before he got decapitated, though it would’ve been better if she’d been naked. His dad told him that boys who grow long hair are degenerates, but William Wallace grew his long and he was a powerful hero. Wallace didn’t have a mustache, though. This guy is wearing a flannel shirt, not like the tunic Wallace wore, and Wallace wore a skirt, which was queer, but he still looked tougher than this skinny guy in jeans. Also, Wallace would never have worn those ugly Converse All Stars. It’s hard to tell from the man’s apparel, but Steve is now certain that this guy is a degenerate. If he were one of the good guys he would’ve been able to dodge the car when it swerved. Heroes don’t end up in ditches begging for help from kids.

“He wants us to help,” Mike says.

“So?” Steve snaps back. “Are you a doctor?”

“Please.” The man moves his arm again. “Call an ambulance.”

Steve steps forward. “How much?”

“Huh?”

“How much will you pay us?”

The man groans and closes his eyes. He spits out blood and re-opens his eyes. “Twenty dollars. In my wallet.”

“Where’s your wallet?”

“We can get our parents to call,” Albion says. “He doesn’t need to pay us.”

“Back pocket,” the man says.

Steve pulls a wallet out of the man’s back pocket, opens it and produces a twenty dollar bill. “Awesome.” He puts the bill in his pocket, drops the wallet on the man’s wrenched back, and runs off.

“We’ll be right back with the ambulance,” Albion tells the man and runs after Mike and Steve.

Steve flips through a comic book near the entrance of a 7-Eleven. Mike stares longingly at the racks of candy bars.

Albion watches Steve. “Shouldn’t we call now?”

“This new issue is cool,” Steve says. “Storm Shatter rebels against Carnage Commander at his mountaintop fortress. I knew this would happen.”

Mike looks over Steve’s shoulder. “I love it when Carnage Commander uses his Carnage Cannon.”

“That guy’s still there,” Albion says. “You said you would call.”

“I’m getting this.” Steve picks out three more comic books and bundles them under his armpit. “And a few more.” Steve walks over to the nacho stand. “I’m hungry.” He picks up a tray of tortilla chips and pumps liquid cheese all over them.

“Put some ground beef on it too,” Mike says.

“Of course,” Steve says with an extravagant eye roll.

“And jalapeños.”

“Get your own. We’ve got twenty dollars to play with.”

Mike grabs a tray of chips and assembles his nachos.

Albion paces nervously. “I still think…”

Steve walks over to the counter. “I’m thirsty.” The other two follow.

“Can I help you?” asks Meatloaf, a sad sack, who eyes them warily from between droopy eyelids. His fat belly juts out, probably from sneaking too many microwaveable burritos when his Korean boss isn’t looking (the boys call the boss “Hey Buddy” because whenever they loiter, he always says, Hey, buddy, you gonna buy something?)

“Yeah, Meatloaf, you can help us.” Steve places his nachos on the counter triumphantly like when Storm Shatter presented Carnage Commander with G.I. Jerome’s head on a platter.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? That’s what you are.”

Mike tosses a bunch of candy bars on the counter.

“That’s not nice,” Meatloaf says in a moan that sums up his failure to wrench any pleasure out of this miserable world. Some people are just hopeless losers. Steve’s dad told him there’s nothing you can do to help them. From the moment they’re born they start losing. It’s like when their German Shepherd gave birth to a litter of puppies and one of the scrawnier puppies died after a few days. He felt sad at first but it’s just part of nature, his dad assured him. Some people are like that, too. God creates some people strong and a lot of other people weak; the weak ones are there for the benefit of the strong. It’s like when wolves prey on deer. There’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just nature.

“Gimme a grape Slurpee,” Steve says in a commanding tone he learned from watching war movies. “A large.” Someday he might be President. Or at least a CEO. He doesn’t remember what “CEO” means but his dad always says it like it’s totally hot shit. Meatloaf turns to the Slurpee machine churning behind him. Steve also knows from war movies that sometimes a leader should be generous with his troops. “What flavors do you guys want?” Soon they’re eating their candy and slurping their Slurpees around the side of the store.

“When we’re done can we call an ambulance?” Albion pleads. “I bet that guy’s still there.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mike says.

Someday his friends are going to have to learn that life sometimes requires a bit of hard-headedness. Albion, especially. When summer started and Mosby Woods Elementary let out for another glorious vacation, the beginning of fourth grade a threat so distant it might as well have been in the afterlife, Steve’s first day of freedom was ruined when Albion showed up at the Emmerichs’ front door with a big turtle in his hands. They’re common in the pond down the street, but it’s always exciting to see one up close. At least for a few minutes, until he tired of Albion sitting there leaning his head on his hand, watching the turtle do nothing. This is boring, Steve said and picked up the turtle, which immediately retracted its head and legs into its green and yellow shell. What do you think it’s supposed to do? Albion asked. Fly, Gamera! Steve hurled it into the cul-de-sac. It hit the pavement with a loud crunch. Why did you do that? Tears were already streaming down Albion’s cheeks from his hazel eyes as he ran out to retrieve his little broken friend. He was just as whiny whenever Steve shot birds in his backyard with his dad’s pellet gun. If yer not gonna eat the meat, why shoot them? Albion would whine. Because it’s fun, dipshit, Steve would reply. His dad didn’t give a shit, so why should he?

Steve takes another big bite, chews, and stares into the distance. At the age of eight he’s already figured out that he understands the world better than most people do. Even most adults seem pretty clueless. They flail like a bird with a broken wing. Too emotional. His gift could add something to the world, improve it a bit. His mother told him not to be selfish. If stupid people could be shown the truth more clearly, they could become stronger like him. Maybe they don’t have to be like the deer. His noble purpose unfolds before him: maybe some of them can learn to be wolves. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out some coins. “I only have thirty-six cents left.”

“The pay phone only costs twenty-five,” Albion says.

Steve puts the coins back in his pocket. He finishes his candy bar and chases it with a swig of slurpee. “A single play on Pac-Man costs twenty-five.”

“Awesome,” Mike shouts. “I love that game!”

“But you promised him,” Albion says with a hint of tears welling.

“No, I didn’t,” Steve says, his jaw clenched firmly.

“We should call,” Mike says, suddenly serious. “We can get more quarters and play later.”

A turtle waddles out of the nearby woods.

“Each game is three lives.” Steve pulls the quarter back out and holds it up. “I’ll play the first one and any bonus lives if you losers manage to get that far. You can play the other two.”

“I want the second life,” Mike says.

“Well?” Steve turns to Albion. “Do you want the third one or do you want Mike to play it for you?”

The turtle lowers itself to the ground and retracts into its shell.

– Robert Sumner

Note: “Slurpee” was originally published by The Emerson Review in 2018.