We Deliver
Kevin L. O'Brien
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Text Copyright 2013 by Kevin L. O'Brien
Cover design and typography copyright 2013 by Kevin L. O'Brien
Longdon Decorative font distributed under a charityware license by Roger White
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License Notes
Please consider writing a review for this book on the retailer's website.
If you see any misspellings or typographical errors, please notify Kevin L. O'Brien using one of his online social networks. Thank you.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, including those based on the real world, are either products of the imagination of Kevin L. O'Brien or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Because some ebook platforms do not support special characters, certain words may appear misspelled, but this was done deliberately to avoid the problem of the platforms deleting the characters. Also, the LRF platform used by older models of the Sony Reader does not permit the use of links to external URLs, whereas the PDB platform used by Palm reading devices does not support any form of linking whatsoever.
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Table of Contents
Preface
We Deliver
Bonus Story: Love Triangle
About the Author
Other Books by Kevin L. O'Brien
Connect with Kevin L. O'Brien
Sample Excerpts
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Preface
Aside from being a writer, the one thing I always I wanted to be was a scientist. While I was interested in many different disciplines, my college advisor convinced me to study biochemistry, specifically protein chemistry, because there was a need for such in the pharmaceutical industry (biotechnology was just getting its start then). After I received a bachelor's degree from Purdue University, I enrolled in the graduate program at Northern Illinois University. For the first couple of years I received a teaching assistant stipend, but during the summer of the third year I had to find other employment, so I took a job as a delivery driver for Domino's Pizza.
That experience formed the basis of this story, both in regards to the protagonists' work, and the details of the two college towns. However, the plot itself was inspired by "The Funeral", by Richard Matheson, or rather the Night Gallery episode based on the story. It was also heavily influenced by the Cthulhu Mythos, specifically the ghouls from H. P. Lovecraft's story, "Pickman's Model" (which, incidentally, was also made into a Night Gallery episode). Though I did not experience this particular chain of events, it would not have been unexpected.
In the Bonus Story, "Love Triangle", a woman tells of how she was assaulted one night in a cemetery by two ghoulish creatures, but managed to escape when they fought each other over her possession. She thought she was safe, until they showed up at her house bearing gifts and seeking to court her.
Back to TOC
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It is a curious biological event, but whenever someone enrolls at a university, metabolic changes occur within every cell, creating a nutritional need for pizza and beer. Fortunately, most students revert to a normal biochemistry upon graduation, but some never fully recover.
Pizza is big business in Delasalle, Illinois. There are over two dozen parlors alone, and virtually every restaurant offers pizza in some form on its menu. Yet by far the most popular store is Checker's Pizza. It is a small shop, without a parlor; instead, it bases its entire business on delivery. While other establishments make deliveries as an optional service, at an extra charge, Checker's makes it a way of life, at no extra charge. The owner, Michele Horne, believes that what students want most is dependable delivery right to their door. So, she makes it standard policy to guarantee 30 minute delivery to any spot within the Delasalle or Tamarack city limits, or that order is free.
I joined Checker's as a driver after losing my teaching assistantship because of poor performance. I studied biochemistry at Keekishwa University, and I had depended on the stipend to support myself. Summer was not Checker's best season. With no dormitory students on campus, and relying solely on the permanent residents of Delasalle and Tamarack for business, Michele could afford to hire only a total of five drivers and work only three a night. Business would usually be brisk until 10:00 P.M., but afterwards she always sent one driver home and the other two filled the empty time between deliveries as best as they could.
I remember that particular Wednesday vividly. It had been Checker's busiest night so far that summer, but as usual, orders dropped off after ten. In fact, business became so slow that by eleven Michele sent the other driver home, leaving me to deliver any orders that might come in. None did, and by midnight Michele had exhausted all ideas to keep me busy. So, while she caught up on her paperwork, I simply waited for a telephone to ring.
Typically for central Illinois in high summer, the evening was warm and humid, though not unbearably so. Yet the interior of the store felt intolerable. Michele had turned off three of the four ovens located at the rear of the shop, but the heat from the one still stifled. I stood in the open doorway, seeking relief through any small breeze. Outside, beyond the semicircle of light from the entrance, the night looked absolutely black. The parking lot lights had been turned off a few minutes earlier as the other stores prepared to close. Far across the street, I could see the tiny glow of lights above an apartment front; nothing filled the emptiness between. Even the street seemed deserted of both cars and pedestrians.
I turned around and took a few steps inside, just enough to peer into the office. Michele sat at the desk, a fan blowing her loose blond hair about her oval face. Her long fingers effortlessly worked the desktop calculator as she totaled the day's receipts. Michele struck me as being a pretty woman, let's make no mistake about that, but she stood taller than I did, with virtually no figure. Besides, her husband could have been the inspiration for Bad Leroy Brown.
She paused and looked up at me, her green eyes slightly magnified by her wire-rim glasses.
"I was just wondering if you wanted me to start cleaning up."
One corner of her thin mouth turned upward a little. "What time is it?"
I looked over my shoulder and up at the clock over the door. It had black plastic cards with white numbers attached to a rolodex-style spool. I watched as the minutes spool flipped from eleven to twelve.
She frowned when I told her. I had a good idea of what she thought. Ordinarily she preferred to stay open as late as possible, which on a summer weeknight meant three in the morning. Some of the other drivers complained that it was due to pure greed, but I suspected that, as popular as Checker's was, it was an expensive enterprise to run. She needed these extra hours simply to break even during the summer, despite the expense of keeping a driver that late. She probably compared her accumulating loss against possible profit if a late night rush developed.
"Let's wait and see what happens till one. If we don't get any orders, I'll shut down the phones and you can get started."
I nodded and turned to step back into the doorway--and almost collided with a figure standing right behind me. I didn't hear him come in, which was unusual. I was generally alert enough to know when a customer had entered the store, even while talking to someone else.
"I'm sorry..." I began out of reflex, then I took a closer look.
That night had been too warm to allow a pedestrian to comfortably wear anything other than a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. The person before me, however, had bundled himself up as if for winter. Aside from a pair of rather baggy trousers, he wore a heavy coat that covered him from neck to knees. A wide-brimmed hat sat low over his head, and a meter-long muffler wrapped around his face hi
d everything beneath the nose. I could see only two, deep-set, and very disturbing, bloodshot eyes. His posture looked stooped and bent, as if he was extremely old or crippled, and he stank of mold and loam.
At first I thought he might be a robber, trying to hide both his appearance and a weapon, but he simply stood in the doorway, staring at me, with both hands thrust into the coat pockets. I didn't like the look of him (at least, I assumed it was a "him"). Even so, he made no threatening move, so I couldn't just dismiss him without a reason.
Overcoming what I thought was simply my natural paranoia, I asked if I could help him. His only response was to pull his left hand from the pocket and extend it towards me. That hand had tannin-brown skin, with black,
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