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After Dark Delivery by Damon Yeargame. Published in the short story collection Outsmarted by Free Spirit Publishing. Questions flooded my mind in waves of panic as I sprinted down the long hallway of the Medical Science Building. How long had someone been pounding on the door? Had my boss sent someone to check on me? How long had I been asleep? It was the question about my boss that concerned me the most. The medical science building had a morgue in the basement, which spooked most of the other security guards. I'd been sentenced to it as punishment for breaking a few inane rules. The morgue didn't scare me, though. I saw it as the potential profit center that it was. I began charging high school kids a dollar each to spend five minutes checking out the cadavers. Halloween night alone I pocketed over two hundred and fifty bucks. I thought the scheme was bulletproof, and it would have been had I not began to trust the little bastards. One night I left the delinquents alone with the spirits while I made my rounds. Some smart ass put one of the male stiffs in a compromising position with one of the females and sprayed whipped cream all over them. I don't know how long the two were united in loving eternity. I just know that the only reason I didn't get fired was because my boss couldn't absolutely prove that it had happened on my watch and not during the morning shift. He did tell me, however, that if he caught even a whiff of my being up to no good, he'd make sure the only job I could ever get on campus again was garbage duty in the cafeteria, the one nearest the frat houses. In retaliation I snuck into his third floor office late one night and loosened a few screws on that mahogany chair he was always bragging about. He'd get what was coming to him eventually. Not so much for bawling me out, but for having such an antiquated chair. I mean, who has a desk chair without wheels these days? We got a delivery, a greasy haired man said as I threw open the door. He slouched badly and was wearing a grey workman's jacket that was much too big for him. A white patch that read Mike in blue lettering was on his breast pocket. It's after midnight, I said, still trying to catch my breath. You'll have to come back tomorrow. Uh greasy hair mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as he spoke to the ground. We can't. Why not? See uh he pulled up the sleeves on his jacket which had fallen below his hands. We were supposed to be here this afternoon, and well we're late. No kidding. Come on, man, his voice whined, and then he drew a nervous look behind him. The building had what amounted to a large porch in front of it, and I took a couple of steps onto it. Greasy Hare had a partner. He was leaning up against a column about twenty five feet from where I now stood. The guy didn't move a muscle, just stood there like a mime, a mime with a big black goatee. Sir, I don't have the authority to sign off on this, I said to Greasy Hare. Actually, I had no idea whether I had the authority or not, but I couldn't call the dispatch to check because I'd left my walkie talkie in the room where I'd fallen asleep. Look, you gotta let us make this delivery, Greasy Hare said. Why? What are you delivering that's so urgent? An arm An arm Even though I'd gotten used to the morgue, the thought of a detached limb made me a little squeamish. Where's the rest of it? I asked weakly. I don't know, he shot back, holding up the delivery sheet. See, it's what the order says deliver one arm. He flashed it too quickly for me to make out the scrawled handwriting. Last delivery is at six, I said, trying to sound stern. Please, he whined, grabbing my shirt. I took a step back to break free from his grip. Sorry, he said, glaring at his hand as if to scold it, but we can't bring the delivery truck all the way back here again tomorrow. We just can't. Why not? Again he shot a look at his delivery buddy who was now smoking a cigarette and blowing thick rings into the night air. Well, it's like this, Greasy Hare continued. We uh we dropped off at Good Guys. The stripper club? Yeah, he said. Ever been there? I'm nineteen, I protested. Greasy Hare drooped his head. Then I added, but yeah, I have managed to sneak in there a few times. Well, he smiled, we went in there after work thinking we were done for the day, and well, to make a long story short, we forgot about the arm. You forgot about an arm? Well yeah, he said, picking at a large mole on the back of his neck. It was a long day and we lost track. I sighed. So what you're saying is that you're in deep kimchi with your boss if you don't make this delivery now? Greasy hair nodded. Might even get fired. I motioned for the clipboard. His story explained why he was acting so strangely. Bosses always seemed to be lacking in the good cheer and humor department. You bend a few minor rules here and there, and suddenly you're being threatened with cafeteria duty for a life. What's your name? As I clicked on the end of the pen. Uh Jake. Nice to meet you, Jake. I suddenly remember the name on his jacket. My hand shook as I pointed. The tag says Mike. His face went pale. Oh that. He paused and nodded back at his partner as if to point at him. Well, yeah, I uh I borrowed this jacket from Mike. I dropped the pen to the ground. I can't sign this. You have to come back tomorrow. Just then the silent partner practically jumped off his post and began to walk briskly toward us. Closer and closer he came, pumping his fist as he walked. I stole a quick glance backward. Was it just coincidence that Greasy Hare had positioned himself between me and the door? The partner's face was hard and gnarled, like he'd been in too many fights. I gulped when he got closer. His name tag read Steve, not Mike. I scrambled for the pen and quickly signed the sheet. Then I handed it back to Jake, Mike, Greasy Hair, whatever the hell his name was. So now come and get it, Gnarled Face said. What? Why can't you just bring it here? We're not authorized to do that, Narledface, alias Mime, alias silent partner, said with a sinister smile. You wouldn't want us to break any rules, would you? They stayed about an arm's length away, flanking me on either side as we walked toward the parking lot, keeping the pace nice and slow, as if they were leading me to the gallows. Images of slashed flesh and dismembered body parts from every horror movie I'd ever seen flashed before my eyes. It didn't help that it was pitch dark. Stop worrying, I told myself, it's just a couple of guys making a delivery. Ya, a twitching neurotic and a thug. Whose arm is it anyway? And what happened to this mysterious mite character? Oh God, I prayed, if you get me out of this, I'll never break another rule. When we reached the delivery van, I shut my eyes as an arld face threw the door open. Goes to room three hundred twelve, he said as he thrust a heavy bubble wrapped object into my hand. I could still smell the alcohol on his breath from their escapade to watch the birthday soup ballerinas. To my surprise, whatever was in the plastic wrap felt hard, maybe even wooden. It wasn't cold either. Wouldn't an arm have to be refrigerated? What is it? I asked. As Jake told you, an arm, Gnarled Face said harshly, pulling another cigarette out of his pocket. Mahogany according to the order form. I guess some bigwig on the third floor has a chair that needs some work.
