Pop Tarts and Lock Boxes

In the corner, slumped into an armchair, I watch as Ruth, Alex, and Daniel prepare to leave the house. Daniel slips on a pair of blue knit gloves, a pair that his mother sent him for Christmas. Alex laces up his work boots, boots he bought when he wanted to build a shed in the dirt out back. Ruth lifts up her unbuttoned flannel shirt and tucks a handgun between her T-shirt and her jeans. Jeans covered in paint from when we painted Alex’s shed. 

“You sure you can’t come?” Ruth asks. 

I shake my head slowly. “I’m way too sick. I’ve felt awful all day.” Since last night I’ve felt tired, nauseous, and hot. I want to go to sleep, but the nausea and the sweating keeps me up. 

“Feel better,” Daniel smiles as he opens the heavy front door. “We’ll get back as soon as we can, but I don’t know how long it will take.”

With that, Ruth grabs the ski masks from the table beside the door and all three of them file outside. I listen as Alex ignites the engine and starts down the long gravel driveway. 

I sigh loudly in the silent house. It’s only 5:30. The sun set half an hour ago. It will take them about fifteen minutes to arrive.

Feeling peckish, I will myself to stand up and trudge to the kitchenette in the corner. I rummage through the cabinets above me, looking for something to eat. A blue box of Pop Tarts sits hidden in the back. I take it out and remove the last two Pop Tarts. On my way to the couch, I stub my toe on the leg of the armchair and wince. The pain subsides slowly as I collapse onto the couch. I reach for the remote beside me and switch on the television.

The evening news is on, and the reporters discuss the recent fire of a building in town. I watch mindlessly, barely absorbing the information. Just over twenty minutes later, loud fanfare interrupts the weather report and the words ‘breaking news’ cover the screen.

I smile weakly, knowing what they’re about to say. 

“This just in,” the reporter begins. “What appears to have been a bank robbery has now turned into a hostage situation…” 

The reporter continues talking, but gets drowned out by a ringing in my ears. “Oh no, oh no!” I sit up and clutch my hands to my head. “Those idiots! I knew they couldn’t do it without me!” As the one who keeps things under control, I have prevented no fewer than six hostage situations. Of course I’m the only one who got sick from last night’s dinner. My heart beats quicker as I turn up the volume to hear the report.

“... Three of the four criminals who are believed to be responsible for the recent string of bank robberies across the state are inside the bank. Police at the scene report that they are all armed. We will now show footage from the scene.”

I gasp and raise my hand to my mouth. Through the front window of the bank, Ruth is clearly visible in her red flannel shirt and jeans. She points her handgun at a man and orders him behind the counter. I squeeze my eyes shut and say, “Please don’t kill anyone.” I hope Ruth hears me somehow. I open them and watch a police officer give an interview.

“The group, comprised of two women and two men, have allegedly stolen over $30,000 in the last eight months,” the officer says. “They get in and out of the bank in less than ten minutes with about $5,000 each time.”

I glance towards the bedrooms at the back of the cabin. The money is hidden under the floorboards, about $15,000 in each room. The money is safely stowed away in lockboxes. We all know the combination and take a little money whenever we need it.

Returning my attention to the television, I see Alex and Daniel quickly run in front of the door. I start nibbling on my second poptart. I don’t listen to what the newscaster is saying, I only pay attention to the grainy footage from outside the bank.

Suddenly I begin to feel nauseous. I lean over and rest my elbows on my knees. Covering my eyes with my palms I take deep breaths and hope the feeling goes away. I focus on my breathing and drown out the noise around me. Just as I begin to feel better, my peace is interrupted by the sound of gunshots.

My eyes dart up to the screen. My heart pounds as the police burst into the bank, followed quickly by EMTs. “Oh God! No!” I shout, not understanding what just occurred. I wasn’t paying attention; did Ruth, Alex, or Daniel shoot a hostage, or did the police shoot one of them? Either way, it’s bad.

My fears are confirmed as Ruth and Alex are led out of the bank in handcuffs. Daniel is still inside. I watch, frozen in place, as Ruth and Alex, their ski masks removed, are led to a police car. 

“What’s the name of your accomplice?” A reporter asks, shoving a microphone into Alex’s face. 

Alex glares into the camera. I feel him staring into my soul as he responds, “Eleanor Francis Clarkson.”

Moments later, Daniel is removed from the bank on a gurney. As he is loaded into an ambulance it hits me like a ton of bricks. The police are coming for me. If Alex would rat me out, he would almost certainly tell them the location of our house in the middle of nowhere. 

I stand up slowly and turn off the television. Alone in the silent house I can almost hear the lockbox calling for me. I know what I have to do. 

I rush into the bedroom I shared with Ruth and pull out the dresser drawers. I load up my backpack I keep under my bed with everything I own. It barely fits inside so I steal Ruth’s bag too. 

The bags are packed and sit on the bed beside me. I kneel on the wooden floor and stare at the dark boards beneath me. One is engraved with a miniscule dollar sign. I breathe heavily from all the commotion while I think of how to pry up the boards. I was never the one who removed them. 

“Knives!” I shout as I scramble for the kitchen. I yank open the top drawer and curl my fingers around the handle.

I wedge the knife under the floorboard and push down on the handle. It takes a second but the board comes loose. I toss it to the side and pry up the others surrounding it. As soon as the hole is large enough I grasp the handle of the box and lift it onto the floor. 

Taking the backpacks with me, I sprint for the door, despite my ailments. My car sits in the driveway, a thin layer of dust and dirt covering it. I set the lockbox on the floor, the backpacks in the passenger seat and turn the key. 

Moments after I pull onto the main road, two police cars come around the blind curve. I smile in the rear view mirror as I race towards my new life on the run.