Glory

I get to indulge in a little fiction from time to time. I do love it so…

Malcolm Mabry’s was a hard life. It is invariably difficult being a 12-year-old boy. Testosterone is a toxin, and it is painful building up that initial tolerance. And then there was Misti.

Misti was his 15-year-old sister. She was mere weeks away from her sixteenth birthday. Then she would be able to drive. Misti reminded Malcolm of this fact constantly, quietly infuriating him. Despite the three-year age difference, he was hands-down the more responsible of the two.

The Mabry kids were homeschooled. That brought its own challenges. Malcolm’s parents held fairly traditional values. They didn’t even have cable TV. Malcolm spent his free time exploring the wilderness and drawing. He likely could have been content with that had Misti not kindly pointed out how secluded, mistreated, and put upon they both were. Her attitude was corrosive.

Both kids had friends through church, but most of those friends went to real school. As a result, they seldom had anyone over. They lived twelve miles from town on a secluded farm. They called it a farm, but it was really just a big stand of timber. They had considered chickens, but Misti had put her foot down. She was not going to live in a place that raised chickens. Malcolm’s parents weren’t exactly sold on the idea, anyway, so they let her win that one.

Malcolm’s mom was a disciplined woman. They did school according to a rigid daily schedule. That meant starting early and running late. The farm was their playground, science lab, and food source. They harvested game in the woods and caught fish in the pond that served as their backyard. They didn’t need wild stuff to live—Malcolm’s dad had a good job. However, his parents wanted the kids to have those skills. Misti pushed back at absolutely every opportunity.

The past Christmas had been epic. Malcolm had gotten a rifle—a Ruger 10/22 with a Tasco scope. He was thrilled to get it. Misti got a cell phone. It was a hand-me-down from her mom, but it had service. That phone was Misti’s ticket to freedom. She lived on the accursed thing. Malcolm’s parents consoled themselves with the realization that it was going to happen eventually anyway.

Every day, they ate lunch, did an hour of math, and then took a break. Misti invariably spent hers on her phone. At 1:30 sharp, Malcolm took what he called an explore. He would slip into his mud boots and wander the farm, just being a boy. An hour later, he came back sweaty and tired. That was the point.

He had done this for years. When he was a little kid, he carried a knife, the edge of which his dad had ground down in the workshop. When he got a little older, he graduated up to a BB gun and then a pellet rifle. Ever since Christmas, he had been authorized to pack his .22. Malcolm’s dad had been in the Army and impressed upon him what a weighty responsibility this was. Malcolm took that responsibility seriously.

Malcolm and his dad hunted together with some regularity. He had already killed two deer, a turkey, and a bunch of squirrels. His mom called squirrels tree rats and reviled them on principle. However, they still ate whatever they shot. Malcolm’s dad would not tolerate anything less.

Malcolm once came home boasting of having shot a turtle. His dad listened patiently to the story and then gently explained that taking life was a big deal and something that should never be done frivolously. The point was made without bruising Malcolm’s feelings unduly. From that point forward, he only shot stuff he would eat or venomous snakes. Venomous snakes were always fair game.

Malcolm’s dad was at work, and his mom was in town buying groceries. When the school clock read 1:30, Malcolm was rabid to get outside. Misti’s company had become extra-tiresome. His explore was incongruously both invigorating and exhausting. After around fifty minutes, he broke through the treeline surrounding his house and was surprised to see an unfamiliar vehicle.

There was a beat-up white van parked some twenty yards from the house with the back doors askew. Malcolm had left the garage door open. More curious than alarmed, he watched as a tall man with a shaved head emerged from the garage carrying his dad’s chainsaw. The man put the saw in the back of the van and then went back into the garage. Moments later, he emerged again, this time carrying his mother’s microwave.

That’s when he remembered. This same man had shown up unannounced at the front door the week prior, claiming to be a handyman. Malcolm’s mom had sent him on his way, rightfully claiming that they had no work for him. However, that evening over dinner, she admitted that the guy gave her the creeps.
Malcolm, for his part, had no idea what to do. Then the man came out again. This time, he was carrying Misti.

Malcolm could see that his sister was struggling. Her hands and ankles were bound with black duct tape, and there was another piece over her mouth. She looked terrified.

He saw the man toss Misti roughly into the back of the van and reach to close the back doors. Malcolm dropped down onto one knee and formed a support with his left hand against a sapling, just as his dad had taught him. The boy steadied the rifle and studied the scene through the scope.

Malcolm’s heart was leaping out of his chest, but he was a hunter. He knew how to manage that. He could now see the tattoos on the man’s bald head clearly. For the briefest, tiny moment, the man stood erect and motionless after shutting the van doors. Malcolm placed the crosshairs over his ear, raised the sight about two inches to account for the distance, punched off the safety, and squeezed the trigger.

There was no noise. For a moment, Malcolm thought the gun had misfired. However, the big man crumpled behind the van as though hit with a sledge. Malcolm snapped the safety back on and pulled himself to his feet before tearing down the hill toward the van, the man, and his sister.

Malcolm would later explain that everything had unfolded too quickly for much conscious thought. The local sheriff sympathized. A week later, Malcolm Mabry was the most famous 12-year-old on Planet Earth.

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