Mimes Page 2

  Exhaustion tugged at him. Adrenaline overload. His body had hummed with it since the mime tried to open his door and he stared into its gaping maw.

  "I'm not going back out there," Joseph whispered.

  He turned to walk out of the office.

  A hand grabbed him from behind and crunched down on his shoulder. Joseph cried out and whipped around, fists clenched.

  "Whoah!" Harvey said. "Sorry, man. Didn't mean to--"

  "Get your fucking hand off me," Joseph said in a shaking voice.

  Harvey raised his hands in the air. "Sorry, Joseph."

  Joseph felt the exhaustion tug at him once more. "I'm not going."

  "I'll pay you triple, Joseph. You're the only driver left."

  "What?"

  Harvey's lip was quivering. "Alan came back, parked his truck, and left. He quit. Roberto is gone and so is Chris. I can't get anyone to come in!"

  "I don't--"

  "Please, man. Please help me! I'm going to lose everything."

  "Did Alan say anything?"

  "No."

  Joseph smiled. "You're lying, boss. What did he say?"

  "Something about mimes."

  "Mimes."

  Harvey stared down at the floor. Joseph's fingers clenched and unclenched. Alan had seen them too. Roberto had as well. And Chris? Had he seen them before he disappeared?

  "I'm going to go and find Chris," Joseph whispered. He walked to Harvey's desk and pulled open the bottom shelf. A large revolver gleamed in the overhead lights. Harvey had shown it off dozens of times.

  "What are you--"

  Joseph grabbed the butt and jammed the pistol in his slacks. "Bullets. As many as you have."

  "But--"

  "You want me to drive, I drive with this. Else I ain't going."

  Harvey opened his mouth, then closed it again. He brushed past Joseph to the desk. He opened another drawer and pulled out a white box. "50 shells."

  Joseph grabbed the box from him. "You load one of the trucks. If I find Chris, I'll drive."

  "But, what if--"

  "If I find Chris, I'll be back."

  He turned and headed out of the office. The warehouse was silent as a tomb.

  "Joseph?"

  "Yeah?" Joseph opened the door to the truck and climbed in.

  "What the hell is going on?"

  He stared at his boss. Harvey's demeanor was so unlike his usual angry, spiteful self.

  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

  "Mimes?"

  Joseph pulled the weapon from his pants, flipped open the cylinder, and checked the chambers. It was loaded. He slammed it back into the pistol and put it on the passenger seat.

  "Like I said, you wouldn't believe me."

  Joseph closed the door and started up the truck. Harvey's nose wrinkled at the smell of exhaust. Joseph pointed to the rollup warehouse door. Harvey nodded and hit the wall switch.

  The rectangle of steel slowly disappeared as the door slid upwards on its tracks. Darkness replaced it. Joseph hit the lights, put the truck in gear, and drove the truck from the warehouse.

  He checked the side-view mirror as he pulled into the empty street. Harvey was standing by the wall, a look of confusion frozen on his face.

  *****

  Without having to stop for deliveries, Joseph was able to cover ground quickly. As he drove down the nearly deserted streets, his eyes scanned for the lurking mimes, or whatever the hell they were. At each stop light, his right hand drifted from the stick-shift and touched the gleaming silver pistol on the seat.

  Both doors were locked. He'd checked them several times, even going so far as to pull on the handle through the open window while he drove. The door didn't budge. Closed windows. No entry to the cab through the locked doors. He had a pistol. He was as safe as he could possibly be.

  He headed into the dead stillness of mid-town. The bars were closed, streets deserted. He'd only seen a single car and that was heading toward the freeway.

  The truck's gears ground as he downshifted at a stop light. He rolled down the driver side window two cranks and put his ear to it. Silence. No dogs barking, no birds chirping. Nothing.

  A shiver rode down his spine. Joseph cranked the window up and put the truck in first gear. The sound of grinding metal made him wince. The light turned green and he pressed the accelerator. The truck shuddered as it went through the intersection.

  He turned at the next one. Chris' last delivery should been to Herra Groceries. Joseph had dropped off supplies there before and he knew the drill. Deliveries in the rear by the loading dock. This time of night, the store would be closed. If he didn't find Chris here, he'd have to start traveling the streets in a widening box. It could take hours.

  The parking lot wasn't empty. A pickup and two compacts were still nosed into the narrow spaces near the grocery store. The strip mall was the size of a city block and the parking spaces were few and cramped. Joseph nudged through the gap for trucks and slowed.

  As he passed the mall facade, his eyes saw the old bullet holes that had hardly been repaired since the 90s gang wars when the area had been a shooting gallery. The truck crept forward until the loading dock area became visible.

  Another large panel truck was parked ass-end in. "Gillians," Joseph muttered. It was definitely the missing truck. He shifted to reverse and killed the ignition. A short concrete wall separated the loading dock area from the next street. If he had to get out fast, he'd have to go back the way he came in.

  The other delivery truck was the only vehicle at the dock. Bright light flowed out of Herra's storeroom rollup door. From this close to the side, Joseph couldn't see into the store room, only its edge.

  While he kept his eyes fixed on the open area, his right hand searched the seat until it found the reassuring revolver grip. With the weapon in hand, he checked the side-view mirrors ensuring all was clear. His heart hammered in his chest. The exhaustion he'd felt earlier at the warehouse had dissipated, replaced with electric fear.

  He took out the key and pocketed it. With a deep breath, he popped the lock on the door and slid out of the cab and to the concrete.

  His heavy work boots crunched on a detritus of broken glass and gravel. With slow steps, he moved to the loading dock's lip. He jammed the revolver in his waist and used both hands to pull himself up onto the dock's edge.

  When he was up, he pulled the revolver out and kept it at his side. He listened for a moment, but heard nothing. The city was silent, the loading dock even more so. If not for the steady thrash beat of his heart over the hum of the air conditioning units, he'd have sworn he'd been stricken deaf.

  He took two heel-toe steps, stopped, and listened. Nothing. He repeated the movements, all the while looking for shadows against the light. When he reached the storeroom's edge, he paused. The fear was crushing. He didn't want to see inside the room, didn't want to look. "Chris," he whispered.

  Joseph raised the revolver by his ear, muzzle pointing to the sky, and peered around the corner. The large shelves that started at the floor and rose high toward the ceiling were wrecked. Crushed bags of Farina four, ION wafers, and Trahanas littered the floor, ground up in pools of blood.

  He swallowed a jet of bile. A gray Gillian's Delivery Service uniform sat in the largest pools of blood. Chris' clothes. But no Chris.

  Joseph walked into the room with slow steps. The lake of blood quivered in waves on the concrete. He did his best to step around the crunchy remnants of Greek pasta and cookies. One of the shelves had been knocked over and its surface was covered in long, bloody smudges.

  He clenched his fist around the pistol butt as he headed toward the door that led to the grocery. The mottled and scarred white door was streaked with crimson handprints. Joseph put his hand out to the doorknob and cringed at its tacky metal surface.

  He took a deep breath and swiveled the knob. The door opened with a squeal. Joseph winced as he peered into the darkness.

  Three shapes stood at the front of the sto
re. Even from the street lights outside, he could make out the horizontal stripes on their shirts. They didn't acknowledge his presence.

  Joseph pointed the gun at them, opened the door wider, and checked both sides. The store was empty except for the three. He returned his stare to the figures and cocked his head. The one in the middle seemed less colored than the others. The white stripes were almost flesh hued and his skin wasn't as pale as the other two.

  As his eyes adjusted, he noticed a slight discoloration on the middle one's shoulder and drew in a deep breath. The shape was marred but he could still make it out-- a marine corps tatt.

  "Chris?" he whispered.

  The three figures turned as one. Joseph screamed.

  The Chris-shaped thing's mouth was split at the sides as though cut by a dagger. Its eyes were burning coals on a field of black. Its smile jittered. It raised its hands and drew a shape in the air. The others followed suit and then they were walking toward him.

  Joseph thumbed the trigger. The revolver's bullet-crack was deafening. The two mimes covered their ears, but the Chris-thing only winced and continued walking. Joseph aimed the weapon and fired again. A hole appeared in the thing's forehead. It stumbled and then fell to the floor. Joseph turned and ran.

  His boots hit the blood slick concrete near the loading dock. His feet went up in the air and he landed on his back. Crimson splashed in the air and rained down on his face. He rolled over, slipped again and tasted blood. Joseph raised his head and stifled a scream.

  The Chris-thing stood in the doorway. Black fluid dribbled from the bullet hole in its forehead. It opened its mouth and a black and blue tongue flicked out between its yellowed teeth. Joseph rose to his knees. The pistol was still clamped between his fingers. He pointed the weapon at the door and fired again.

  A hole appeared in one of the flesh-colored stripes. More black fluid dribbled out, but the Chris-thing kept walking toward him.

  Joseph gained his feet, turned and leaped off the loading dock. He hit the concrete, nearly lost his balance in the gravel, and limped toward the truck. His left hand fumbled in his jeans pocket for the key. His fingers grasped metal and he pulled. The key came free.

  Gravel crunched. He whirled. The Chris-thing and the other mimes had dropped from the loading dock. Bushes rustled. He turned his eyes and watched as five dark shapes dropped down from the wall between the strip-mall and the street beyond.

  He jammed the key in the door lock and twisted. The lock clicked open and he jumped into the cab. He shut the door just as the first mime reached the truck. It smashed an arm into the metal.

  Joseph put the key into the ignition, slammed on the clutch and turned the key. The truck coughed, sputtered, and then the engine caught. He looked up and watched in horror as two mimes crawled up on the truck's hood. He hit the accelerator and the truck jumped backwards.

  The two mimes on the hood slid forward to the windshield, their fangs bared and fists punching against the glass. Webs of cracks appeared with each crunch. The truck squealed as it jetted out of the parking lot and into the downtown street.

  As the truck cleared the building's side, Joseph turned the wheel hard to the left. The two mimes slid off the hood and out of sight as the truck rattled and groaned. He brought the truck to a stop, put it in first gear and mashed the pedal to the floor.

  He roared through three stop lights without a pause. As he came to the next intersection, he noticed the sidewalks were stuffed with figures. White faces stared at him as he passed.

  Joseph ground the gears as he up-shifted. "Five minutes, five minutes, five minutes," he repeated in a monotonous drone. Five minutes to the warehouse. Five minutes to safety. He and Harvey could hole up, load up, and get the hell out of the city.

  He caught movement in the side-view mirror. A rush of shadows poured out of the previous intersection. They were running after the truck. Joseph turned right at the next light, then a left, and another right. Each turn brought him closer to the warehouse, and each turn resulted in another group of figures falling behind him as he moved further into the warehouse district.

  His headlights picked up the white stripes of figures running on the sidewalks. They filled the street ahead. Joseph gritted his teeth and floored the accelerator. The mimes jumped out of the way of the truck at the last second. All but one. Just before his truck connected with the body, he saw its face. It was Roberto's.

  Blood and gore flew from the grill and spattered across the windshield. Joseph screamed but kept driving. The truck roared as he pushed it to 60.

  Two more blocks, he said to himself. Steam and smoke rose from the hood. The truck's speed began to slow. He jammed the pedal down, but the engine refused to respond. He was losing power. He stared at the side-view mirror. Crowds of the things were a block behind him, maybe less.

  Half a block from the warehouse, the truck's engine died. He threw the vehicle into neutral and coasted. The sign, "Gillian's Deliveries" was lit up in broken neon letters. He'd never thought it looked more beautiful.

  As the truck slowed to a walking pace, he leaped out and rolled. It continued down the street and swerved to the right. Joseph rose from the concrete, bits of gravel and broken glass embedded in his cheek. Blood welled from the wounds but he didn't notice. He took a look behind him, and began to run.

  The warehouse sliding door was open. He ran inside, hit the close button and waited. The rolling door seemed to take forever as it slid in its tracks. His view of the outside world dwindled from a huge square as it became shorter as the door lowered.

  He could see them. Black skin, white stripes, coal black eyes. Some were stained with blood, others looked as though they'd been painted. All of them flashed teeth from mouths that were too wide to be human. He aimed the gun at the door and waited.

  The heavy steel finally closed off the world with a bang. From the other side, he heard the sounds of hands and feet punching and kicking. Shivering with adrenaline, he turned.

  The warehouse still had two trucks. Harvey had put half a load in one. The other was empty. He scanned the boxes inside the first. Cornmeal, crackers, cheese, canned meats.

  "Perfect," he said. Joseph pulled the door down, closed the latch and then locked it. "Harvey?"

  His voice echoed in the warehouse. The banging on the door was louder now. He didn't know how long it would hold.

  "Harvey? We have to get out of here!" he yelled.

  There was no response.

  A lightning bolt of pain wracked him and he doubled over. When it subsided, he raised his head and stared into Harvey's black eyes.

  The Harvey-thing was smiling. It stood less than six feet away.

  "No," Joseph groaned. He raised the pistol and pulled the trigger. A black hole appeared in its impossibly white face, but the smile merely widened. The tip of a yellowed canine was visible at the edge of its ruby red lips. He continued to pull the trigger until the pistol clicked on empty chambers.

  The Harvey thing had fallen to its haunches, hands over its ears. Joseph stepped backwards until he was up against the truck. The mime rose. Black liquid flowed from its face and chest. The thing's smile was wider than ever. It raised a hand toward him and pointed.

  "No," he moaned.

  The thing pointed to itself. It laughed in silence.

  A bolt of pain hit his chest. He cried out and the sound was a muffled gurgle. The world was becoming bleached, the colors draining from everything around him. Joseph stared down at his white hands and tried to scream. There was no sound.

  About the Author

  A writer, podcaster, and software architect from Houston, Texas, Paul Elard Cooley has been writing since the age of 12. In 2009, he began producing free psychological thriller and horror podcasts, essays, and reviews available from Shadowpublications.com and iTunes.

  His stories have been listened to by thousands and he has been a guest on such notable podcasts as Podioracket, John Mierau's "Podcast Teardown," Geek Out with Mainframe, Shadowcast Audio, an
d Vertigo Radio Live. In 2010, his short story Canvas and novella Tattoo were nominated for Parsec Awards. Tattoo became a Parsec Award finalist. He has collaborated with New York Times Bestselling author Scott Sigler on the series "The Crypt" as well as contributed his voice talents to a number of podiofiction productions.

  The Black, his Amazon Horror Best-Seller, debuted in September 2014, published by Severed Press. The second novel in the series, The Black: Arrival, was published in May 2015. The third installment is expected on Halloween 2015.

  In addition to his own podcast, he is a co-host on the renown Dead Robots' Society writing podcast.

  For more information about this series, as well as current and upcoming projects, please visit Shadowpublications.com or join our mailing list.

  Contact the author:

  Email: stories@shadowpublications.com

  Twitter: twitter.com/paul_e_cooley

  Facebook: facebook.com/paul.e.cooley

  Other Works by

  Paul E Cooley

  The Black

  The Black

  The Black: Arrival

  The Black: Outbreak (4th Quarter 2015)

  Fiends Collection

  Fiendlettes--4 Stories from the Fiends Collection

  Tattoo

  Closet Treats

  Garaaga's Children

  Legends of Garaaga

  Daemons of Garaaga (September 2015)

  Tony Downs

  The Hunt

  After Image

  Dark Recesses

  Mimes

  Lamashtu (1st Quarter 2016)

  Mimes

  By

  Paul E Cooley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.