Allen stuck his foot our and kicked the door open as forcefully as he could. The heavy wooden door opened but still slowly. Without a word Allen stormed into the office at the same time ripping open his shirt and pulling the tire iron out. Brockford was sitting on the loveseat on the left side of the room. His cheeks were as red as usual. He wore a full dark suit and a bright red tie. Across from the loveseat was a coffee table and then a sectional. Eric, the bastard who was there when his arm was broken, was there sitting on the couch as well sipping some kind of coffee.
As he stormed into Brockford’s office they both stopped what they were doing and looked at him. Eric turned his whole body towards him but Brockford only slightly turned his head. He looked bothered, but not the least bit concerned that his employee had a tire iron in his hands and looked to be unhinged.
“What the hell did you do with him?” Allen’s voice sounded high, almost squeaky.
“Who?”
“RICH! Rich. WHAT DID YOU DO WITH HIM?” He screamed at Brockford and as he did he slammed the tire iron into the ground. It made a loud clunk sound as the metal hit the wood.
“I’m sorry. Who?” Brockford’s voice was that of intrigue, almost like he had never heard of Rich before. He still had not rose from the loveseat. He hadn’t even turned towards him. It was just his head slightly looking over his shoulder at Allen like he was some kind of pest that needed removed.
“You son of a bitch. You know goddamn well who he is!” Allen felt the blood rushing throughout his body giving him strength, giving him energy. The slamming of the tire iron into the ground felt good. He imagined slamming it into Brockford’s arm. Giving him the same treatment that he got.
Brockford got up from his love seat and started walking towards Allen. “You want to know where Rich is? You want to know where that piece of shit is?” Allen took a step closer to Brockford raising the tire iron as he did so. His sole focus was Brockford. He didn’t even care about Eric. He just had to get Brockford.
As Allen and Brockford stepped closer and closer to each other another person entered the room. Through Allen’s manic anger he didn’t hear that someone come in through the open door behind him. He didn’t hear them quietly walk up behind him. He didn’t hear them raise the sledge hammer. “I’LL TELL YOU WHERE HE IS,” Brockford screamed at Allen. His neck and cheeks jiggled in unison with each other. A triangular shaped vein pulsed in his forehead. Beads of saliva and sweat flew off his face towards Allen.
It was then that Allen felt the presence behind him. He turned as quickly as he could only to be struck on the head by the sledgehammer.
--
Allen woke up with the back of his head throbbing. He was on a hard and cold surface. He tried to get up but his legs wouldn’t move. His arms were frozen in place as well. When he opened his eyes the glare of the sun hit him. He was outside… somewhere. There were noises all around him. People were talking, machines were running.
After some time his eyes adjusted to his surroundings and he realized he was in a construction zone. There were cranes, tractors, bulldozers, and everything else around him. Some were running but most of them were idle sitting there like giant statues. There were a few large multi-story buildings around him. They weren’t finished and all Allen could see were their steel structures rising up into the skyline. They looked like bizarre metal skeletons.
He was face down in the dirt and mud. There was no grass or vegetation here just the cold wet dirt. Less than a foot in front of him the dirt and mud ended abruptly. There was some kind of drop off, or hole, that was dug into the ground. Allen couldn’t see to the bottom but it looked like the beginnings of a building’s foundation. There was no cement yet just an empty muddy hole.
His arms and legs were bound with some kind of rope. Every time he tried to free his arms the rope rubbed and burned against his skin. His heart raced as he struggled knowing that he was hurting his arms and legs but not caring. He had to get out of there. All he remembered was walking into Brockford’s office screaming at him. The rest of it was blank. He just woke up here bound and tied. Brockford had to be nearby. The wound on his head pulsed and throbbed.
In his struggle to get free he writhed and wiggled and unwittingly moved closer to the hole that was in front of him. He could see into the hole now and it looked to be a straight drop-off of fifteen to twenty feet. There laying in the middle of the hole was Rich… or what was left of Rich. He was face down in the dirt and wearing the same outfit that Allen had seen him in the previous night at Tanner’s. There were pools of blood around his chest and waist. The cast that he wore had been torn off and thrown aside like a used towel. It’s white color had been tainted by the mud and dirt and turned a dark brown. Allen watched and stared at Rich from the top of the foundation. He watched for any sign of movement, any sign of life but there was nothing.
“You wanted to find Rich? Well here you go!” Allen felt a boot hit his side and then kick him into the hole. He screamed as he toppled over the side. His bound body fell the twenty feet to the bottom like a rag doll. His back hit the ground first and as it did he heard something loud pop just below his ribs. Immediately the wind rushed out of him as he screamed in pain.
Allen turned his body the best he could to look up to where he once was. The sun was setting now but he could still see one of the figures standing on top of the hole looking down at him. His silhouette was unmistakable. It was two to three times the size of anyone else there. Allen screamed and it was unlike any other scream he had heard from himself before. It was primal. There was fear in it but also rage. Pure unadulterated rage. If he could have seen Brockford’s face he would had seen him smiling.
“Family is forever Allen, even in death,” Brockford said in a neutral voice. Brockford raised his right hand up in the air and then made a come to motion to someone that was out of sight. A second later he started laughing and then Allen heard what was coming. The tell tale beeping started almost instantly. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. It was the beeping of the cement truck backing up towards the hole. Every beep it came closer. Beep. Beep. Beep.
He first saw the spout of the cement truck creep over into view like some kind of long slide. Then with each passing beep more and more of the truck came into view until it eventually blocked out the setting sun entirely. Both Allen and Rich were shrouded in shadow. This foundation would soon be a tomb.
He tried screaming but it was met with deaf ears. The only ones there, the only ones nearby, were Brockford construction workers and they were all bought and paid for. The spinning hydraulics of the cement tank made a whirring sound as it loomed over them. He tried to wiggle his way out of the way of the truck but every move that he made lit a fire in his middle back like he was being stabbed over and over again. Something had broken. Something had ruptured. His heart raced. His hands trembled. How would he get out of here?
Without warning, a latch was released and the cement began to lazily roll down the tube towards them. Allen screamed as he looked up at the tube that floated over them. The cement moved like lava, slow moving but purposeful. A minute later the first batch of cement landed with a plop onto the foundation floor. Then more, and more.
As Allen struggled to move out of the way he watched Rich’s body slowly succumb to the pile of cement. It reminded Allen of those movies where someone slowly drowns in quicksand. The last thing that he saw of him was a tuft of black hair on the back of his head and then just like that he was gone replaced instead with the gray neutral color of cement.
“Don’t worry Allen, you’ll be joining him soon.” Brockford laughed again. “We were sure to dig this hole extra deep to accommodate for the extra cement we’ll be using today. Isn’t that right boys?” All the men standing on the edge of the hole next to Brockford laughed almost as if on cue.
This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. The despair of the moment began to wash over Allen. There was nothing he could do. There was no way that he could get out of this. He was layin
g on his side as the cold of the cement began to crawl towards him like a slow moving river. Again, he tried to crawl away but his legs refused to work.
When it touched his right arm and head it felt cold almost like an ice pack. Resigned to his fate he stopped fighting and laid there in the hole unmoving letting the river slowly overtake him. He turned his head away from Brockford, from them. It was his last act of defiance. He prayed. He asked for forgiveness. But his true last thought, the last thought before the cement over took his mouth and nose was that of his old retail job. The old job that he had only a short time ago. How he missed that job.
The End
Sledge Author’s Note
First of all I should state that this story is fiction. All of the characters, the company, even the city are all fictional. Anything related to the real life is purely coincidental.
With that being said, the idea for this story came to me after reading Stephen King’s ‘On Writing.’ The book is rather short but in it King explained why he loved writing and what has helped him and other authors be successful. One of the people that he mentioned was the author John Grisham. Grisham found success in his first bestselling novel by writing what he knew. After all, he was a lawyer so why not make your main character a lawyer as well? The logic made sense to me. Of course you can always write outside of your boundaries but some of the best work is from firsthand experience as Grisham can testify to.
When I wrote this novella I had been in the corporate world for nearly ten years. While that may not sound like much the mere fact that I’ve been sitting in a cubicle for ten years is depressing… to say the least. If I’m lucky enough to live to one-hundred ten percent of my life has already been spent sitting in a small room with no windows slaving away at a computer. Like many of you, I want to enjoy life. I want to explore. I want to go outside and get lost in the woods for an entire day. But, instead of all that I come into work every morning and leave every afternoon after sitting in the same spot for nearly nine hours. The cycle repeats itself day in and day out with no end in sight.
This story came to me from my corporate experience. Now, obviously there is no one in my office running around swinging sledgehammers at others but the setup of the corporate office, the presentation of it, and the overall feel of it all stemmed from my experiences and memories of work. I’m sure most offices are the same no matter where you go in the world. The lines of cubicles, the offices on the side walls, the big important people in the corner offices, and don’t you forget the most important office of the Chief Executive Officer. On top of all that there is this feeling that I’m sure most of you have of being trapped. Being trapped in a job. Even if the job is tolerable that feeling still persists. We would all rather be doing something else. We would all like that dream job. There are only a handful of people willing to reach for it, willing to change things in their favor. I hope to be one of them soon.
Thanks for reading,
Alec John Johnson
Stung
Alec John Johnson
Chapter 1 - Docks
It was six in the morning on a Friday in the middle of January. Just east of Miami on Dodge Island, Emilio was leaning against his forklift finishing a cigarette. His head ached, and the feeling of last night’s liquor still sat in his throat. He just had to get through today. After today, the weekend awaited, and he could recover. It was funny, he knew that he would end up regretting going to the bars last night but still, somehow, he found himself there until one in the morning. By the time he finally made it home and into bed it was nearly two. He could deal with the sleepiness, it was the hangover that was the issue. Even just standing there propped up against the forklift he could feel his head pound in rhythm with his heartbeat.
After a few minutes had passed, he spit the cigarette out of his mouth, lifted his foot, and then stamped it out. He let out a sigh, and walked over to the closed shipping containers that were stacked neatly in a row. He had to open and empty each one before he was done for the day. He stared, unblinking, at the locking mechanism of the first container. With a shake of his head he reached his hands forward and slid the locks open. He then gave the doors a good yank and they flew open with no resistance.
The sun wasn’t up yet so the only light Emilio had to work with was the dim overhead lights at the dock. It didn’t help that a slow moving fog had begun to descend on the area as well. He stared into the container for a few moments, not really knowing what he was looking for. There were pallets of boxed product stacked two high and two wide that were taking up the entire container, top to bottom. As Emilio stared into the darkness, he heard a faint buzzing sound, like that of a bee or a nearby fly. Almost as soon as he heard the noise, it was gone. He stared for a moment longer and then turned around and walked back towards his forklift.
He was one of the first ones here this morning and the docks were still quiet. The sound of the forklift’s engine roaring to life caused his head to pound even more than it already was. The forklift’s engine idled for a few seconds and then suddenly shut off without warning. Puzzled, Emilio sat in the driver’s seat for a moment trying to figure out what had happened. Then, like a light bulb being turned on, he knew what the problem was. He laughed to himself as he hopped out of the driver’s seat and walked around to the back of the vehicle. He reached up to the propane cannister that was mounted on the back of the forklift and turned the dial. Then he moved back to the driver’s seat, climbed in, and started the engine. This time when the engine came on, it stayed on.
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying his best to control his headache. He didn’t think twenty-nine was too old to be out all night but this morning was quickly proving him wrong. He opened his eyes, switched the forklift to drive, and then hit the gas. With surprising efficiency he unloaded the first four pallets out onto the dock. These four all shared the same packing slip, so he stacked them back to back so that they would be ready for the carrier. The faster he got this done, the faster he could go home. Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all.
It was as he drove his forklift deeper into the container that the buzzing sound came back. Although this time there was no mistaking that the sound was there. Emilio could even hear it over the forklift’s engine and the hydraulics of the forks being moved up and down. He put the forklift in neutral and took his foot off the gas. He sat there halfway in the container staring into the darkness trying to find a source of the buzzing sound. It didn’t sound like one or two flies, no this sounded like a swarm of some kind. Emilio stood up slightly and leaned his head forward through the forklift’s front cage. All that came back was more darkness. Whatever it was it didn’t matter. He had to unload the pallets before the carriers started showing up. The last thing he needed was a traffic jam of trucks all waiting on him.
With the forklift switched back to forward Emilio raised the forks to remove the top left pallet. This pallet had stacks of cardboard boxes that were all neatly shrinkwrapped with plastic. When his forks were in position he raised them slightly to hook the pallet and then began to pull back and out of the container. As he left the container the buzzing returned louder than ever. The sound seemed like it was everywhere, surrounding him. He whipped his head back and forth trying to identify the source but his ears deceived him. He couldn't see anything either. The damn fog shrouded the docks in a permanent darkness. He could barely see the overhead lights. The headlights on the forklift didn’t do much either. They only cast a dim glow that failed to penetrate the fog.
He sat there frozen in place not knowing what to do next. The sound still surrounded him and grew intenser and louder with each passing second. As he sat there he felt something begin crawling across his left forearm. Panicked, he looked down at his arm that was gripping the steering wheel. There just above his wrist crawling up his arm was an insect that he had never seen before. It must had been three to four inches long. It looked like some bizarre cross of a hornet mixed with a locust. It was nearly solid blue, with the except
ion of brilliant green stripes across its abdomen and head. The green was so bright that it reminded him of those frogs that you see in the Amazonian rainforest… the poisonous ones. At the end of the insect sat a large and terrifying pointed stinger. It’s sharp point stared back at Emilio like a dagger waiting to stab him.
His heart began to beat faster. The pounding headache of his hangover had vanished. The grogginess of the morning was gone as well. His mind and body felt electric. He raised his right arm as slowly as he could. He thought about smashing the bug with his gloved hand but decided against it. It was too risky. What if he smashed it but somehow that damn stinger still stuck him? What if whatever was in that bug got into him? No. No, he would swat it away. It was the most logical.
His right hand reached closer and closer to the unsuspecting bug. The insect was now crawling up his arm and was nearly at his left elbow. When his right hand was only a few inches away Emilio readied himself to swat the intruder away. He took a deep breath, held it, and then moved his right arm as fast as he could. The back of his gloved hand hit the bug and threw it away from his elbow. The angry buzzing came back almost instantaneously. Emilio got up from the forklift and practically fell out onto the ground in his haste to escape. He had to get out of here. He didn’t know what these things were but they sure as hell didn’t look friendly. Who knows what country they came from? He had to get to his car and close the door.
Close Your Eyes: A Horror Story Collection Page 9