Life According to the Dead

Zack

Zack was a pretty well-rounded criminal, so a little stealing was nothing new to him. And, like any good American, he appreciated the numerous things a roll of duct tape could be good for. Add that to the fact that Meadford Hardware had lax security and an unreliable system that never failed to disappoint its staff, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what Zack was doing.

He didn't even put a lot of effort into being stealthy about it. He just glanced around to make sure nobody else was in the aisle, slipped the fat roll of tape into his jacket pocket, and sauntered away. Over the years, the hammering in his heart that always seemed to occur when he was shoplifting had died away to a smooth patter, and this time he barely even noticed it. He was out of the hardware store in no time without incident.

Shoplifting. It was weird, in a way, how Zack could murder someone and still not feel quite the same as the way he felt when he was shoplifting.

It's not a roll of duct tape.

The memory always seemed to resurface whenever he did this.

It's two Mars bars.

He pushed it back down.

Two of them, Zack.

Angrily, he kicked at the sidewalk. A small flicker of pain shot through his toe.

His criminal record had started many years before, when Zack was only ten years old. Everything he'd ever stolen, every law he'd ever broken, every person he'd ever murdered – all of it – had started with two candy bars.

Well. Two candy bars and a big brother.

"Freak."

"Stop it!"

"Little freak. Little turd."

Zack closed his eyes.

The kicks came again and again, getting him in the gut, the back, the groin. Marcus still had his shoes on: bright blue sneakers, his favorite. He wore them all the time.

Then he dropped to his knees and started punching him. Every part of Zack's fragile, ten-year-old body was throbbing. His ears rang and his lip and nose bled.

"Marcus–"

"Shut up!" The fist sailed through the air again, catching him in the jaw. "You had to go and tell, didn't you? I'll teach you. I'll teach you not to tell."

"Marcus..." Zack was curled up on the floor in a ball. He was crying.

"Crybaby, freak, wimp, turd." The words hit him like a hailstorm of bullets. "Tattletale, dork, loser–"

"Leave me alone!" Zack tried pushing him away, but it was useless. Marcus, a star football player, had big, muscular arms, like clubs, whereas Zack's were spindly and thin.

"Never do that again, you hear me? Never. Swear it."

"I just–"

Marcus shoved him so hard that for a moment, Zack thought the floor would give way. "Swear it, turd!"

Zack's vision was blurring. "I swear," he choked. "I swear. I won't."

"Good." He paused. "You're pathetic," he spat, his voice scathing, like a knife.

Marcus stood up and kicked him one more time, just for good measure. Zack moaned in agony.

"Stay away from me," said Marcus, stalking toward thedoor, but Zack didn't hear him. He had already blacked out.