Herman’s Junk Shop

By Vanessa E. Howard

The arrow ripped open my pant leg, slicing into my thigh. Leave it to the Mythic Mafia to get all theatrical with their weapon choices.

“Are you hurt, sir?” the girl beside me asked.

“Shut up and run,” I ordered.

We raced around a corner. Well, she raced, and I limped.  We ducked into a shadowed doorway. When the archer passed us and moved on to another street, we crept out and broke into a run again.

McGregor, Texas, was practically deserted at this time of day, which meant not as many civilians in the crossfire. That was one thing about Small-Town America. Fewer hiding places but less collateral damage.

“We just need to get to Herman’s,” I said between the gasps I tried to hide.

“Herman’s? The old guy? With the junk shop?” The girl was a fellow Office of Concealment trainee named Kylie who wasn’t even supposed to be in the field yet. I’d been saddled with her just this morning because she showed “surprising promise.” She showed frustrating inexperience, in my opinion.

“Yes,” I growled. “Now stop asking questions so we can escape.”

The friendly folks chasing us wanted what was inside the backpack currently bouncing against my spine.

It wasn’t our former operative’s fault they’d gotten wind of its location. Belinda had retired from the Office of Concealment a decade ago and kept the artifact hidden while bureaucrats argued over where it should go. We had never intended for the Apple of Discord to stay in her rooster-decorated kitchen that long. And it had actually been pretty safe in its clear plastic cake keeper. Until a neighbor saw the famous fruit from Greek mythology and innocently mentioned it to a mob wife.

No doubt the Mythic Mafia had plans that involved throwing the apple into crowds and sparking urban warfare to rival the ancient epic battles. The words to the most beautiful were still visible on the apple. Too bad we couldn’t just give it to the mafia wives and let the organization implode. After all, this was the apple that created such a jealous fight between Athena, Hera, and Aphrodite that it started the Trojan War. Mythical artifacts weren’t programmable torpedoes; their unpredictability tended to create chaos in every direction.

A sudden pain stabbed my thigh, and the muscle started twinging with every step. I tried to keep the pace, but my feet moved slower and slower.

Kylie ducked under my arm to support me, and we stumbled on. Engines revved a couple of streets over. They were close.

“It’s next to that furniture place, right?” she said. Now she was gasping too.

“That’s right.”

She pulled me into an alley and shoved me behind a trash can just as a car turned onto the street. The car hit a pothole and bounced by our hiding spot. I pushed myself off the wall. Blood soaked my pant leg. Maybe the cut was deeper than I thought.

We came out of the alley one block from Herman’s. The storefronts offered no cover. We’d just have to run for it.

“You ready?” I asked.

“Let’s do it.”

Maybe she’s not too bad. Gripping my wrist, she hauled my arm over her shoulders, and we took off.

An arrow bounced off a brick storefront, and another sliced through a canvas awning above us.

Kylie started to turn in the direction of the barrage.

“Head down. Keep going,” I snapped. “We’re almost there.”

Herman’s Junk Shop. With any luck, we’d make it to the safe room before the Mythic Mafia caught up with us.

We fell through the door, jangling about a hundred bells hanging above it. Herman, sitting behind the counter with a massive book, gave us one look, reached under the counter for the hidden button, and shoved a bookshelf open to the safe room. Ushering us in, he hurried back to his stool just as the bookshelf closed.

Kylie proved herself further as she expertly wrapped my injured leg with the emergency supplies stashed in the safe room. Only the faintest noises carried from outside as another chorus of doorbells sounded. Likely the Mafia.

The girl leaned her head against the wall. I cleared my throat. “You did well out there, Kylie.” I sounded as crusty as I felt, but she beamed.

After half an hour, Herman opened the safe room and led us out. “I let them search the place a little,” he said in his gravelly voice. “There’s nothing like an eight-thousand-square-foot warehouse full of junk to make a person lose interest.”

I unzipped the pack and handed him the plastic box. He peered at the golden apple. “Ah, these dangerous fruits. They look so harmless, don’t they?” He smoothed his mustache. “Ask Helen of Troy about apples.”

We followed him down the crowded aisles. Junk of every conceivable variety overflowed the shelves and tables. We passed three other apples. Herman pointed them out. “Newton’s apple. William Tell’s. Snow White’s.”

He pushed the box onto a shelf behind a rusty oscillating fan and a beautiful 1980s black boom box.

Herman motioned us around a pile of rolled carpets. A golden sheepskin caught my eye.

“Is that—”

“Can’t talk about it. Want a Dr. Pepper?” Herman asked.

Fair enough. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Kylie stopped in the aisle. “Wait. Wait. We just got shot at by crazies with arrows so we could leave it right there? Out in the open?”

I smiled. “Herman is the best operative the Office has ever had. He’s never lost a piece.”

This was always the fun part with newbies.

“We give him the artifacts,” I went on, “because the best place to hide an object that can destroy the world is right in plain sight.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Vanessa E. Howard writes primarily fantasy for young adult and middle grade. She has been a newspaper reporter, magazine writer, and college composition teacher. A member of the Flash Fiction Magic writing community and ACFW, she is also a homeschool mom and co-op teacher. She has been published by Spark and Havok and has upcoming publications with Twenty Hills and Nightshade. Ms. Howard lives with her family in Central Texas.

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