Tribble watched as the other kids danced away, taunting him. He didn’t say anything. He had nothing to say. Yet. As the last kid turned and ran, he smiled. That was their last chance. Now, they’d see he wasn’t going to let them trample him. “Just because I didn’t say anything doesn’t mean you’re getting off without having to pay for what you’ve done,” he muttered under his breath.

He turned and headed for home. Before he got there, he detoured through the vacant house a block away. Picking his way through the trash-filled yard, he went around back and, making sure no one was watching as he slid along the back wall, he dropped into the well that went to the basement door. Once out of sight, he slipped into the unlocked door and locked it behind him. Somebody might already be in the house before him, but nobody was coming in after him. Stepping to the side of the door, he waited as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light in the basement. He checked to make sure he was alone, and he checked to see if anything looked like it had been disturbed from the last time he was there.

Satisfied, he followed the route he’d devised to lead him through the trash-littered basement. He climbed he stairs, careful not to brush the sides. He didn’t want to disturb the dust, because that made it easier to tell if someone else had disturbed it. Once he was upstairs, he listened. Still quiet. Glancing around, nothing appeared to have been disturbed from the last time he was here. He was still amazed at how much stuff people left in a house when they abandoned it. Nobody had pillaged this place yet, either. He wound his way through the trash to what had been the kid’s bedroom. Clearly a boy. It looked like they’d left all the toys he’d outgrown in the room. He headed for the closet and found just what he had remembered being there — a super-soaker squirt gun — just small enough to conceal in his backpack, but still with large enough reservoir to hold some water. Or, in this case, diluted ink. He picked up the squirt gun and headed for what had been the office. In the desk they’d left behind was a bottle of red India ink. He took that and headed to the bathroom. In the linen closet, he’d seen a box of medical exam gloves. He stuffed those in his backpack. Back to the kitchen. In what had been the pantry, he found a box of plastic zipper bags large enough to hold the squirt gun. Those things always leaked. He didn’t want to stain his backpack or his books. When he lift the plastic zipper bag box, he found a key. What were the chances? Maybe it would fit the lock downstairs. Then he’d be pretty confident nobody was messing with this place when he wasn’t around. Dare he hope? He tucked everything in his backpack and headed downstairs. He needed to get home. He had stuff to do, and he didn’t want his folks to notice he was late. Once downstairs, he studied the basement door. Deadbolt on the inside with a key on the outside. He peered through the peephole. Coast was clear. He unlocked the door, opened it, check around, still clear. He slid the key into the lock. Nothing. He jiggled it a little, and it turned. Hurray! He stepped outside, locked the door behind him, and pocketed the key. He slipped out of the stairwell and through the yard, emerging on his street, and walking nonchalantly home.

***

Early the next morning, he told his mom he had an early club meeting at school and left in plenty of time to get into position. He’d scouted the hiding place and was confident he couldn’t be seen, but he could do what he needed to do. All he had to do was not make a sound. They’d never find him. Besides, there was a fence between him and where they’d be walking. Even if they could see him, death would be delayed.

Settling in, he tested the soaker for range. He adjusted his position and waited. Hearing voices, he sighted in, three of them walking side-by-side. Aiming for the outside one first, he fired at the back of his head, then the middle one, also the back of his head, and lastly, the one closest to him, and the back of his head. Three quick shots. All hits. Three bullies with red ink on the hair and running down their necks.

By the time he hit the third one, the first two had jumped. “Hey! What was that!” They whirled around. Nothing there. They looked up. Nothing there. The third one yelped, “What was that!” Tribble remained motionless. The middle one brushed his hand along his neck, and when he looked at it, his eyes widened in surprise, “Hey! I’m bleeding.”

“Huh? Where?” His friend, the third one hit, asked.

He showed his hand smeared red, “Somewhere on the back of my neck. Look.”

Both friends looked at his neck. The first one said, “Yeah. It’s red and wet, but you’re not bleeding.”

The third guy asked, “Are there any birds that poop red?”

“I dunno. Are you sure I”m okay?”

“You’re just fine. See? Whatever it is, we got it, too. Let’s get to school before we’re late.”

They all walked off. Tribble stowed the super-soaker and ran down the next block, also trying to get to school on time.

________________________________________________________________________

Thank you for visiting for the April A-Z Blogging Challenge. Today’s entry is a work of fiction. I’d love to hear your thoughts on it in comments — what you liked or didn’t like. Each day will be a little different, so if you don’t want to miss an entry, please enter your email address below, press sign-up, then check your inbox to click the validation link to get these blog posts in your inbox.