A Rare Delivery
Brock never took breaks, not when you had one hundred eighty-three packages to deliver. So why stop now?
Lunch was bites of food between stops, with one hand on the wheel and his eyes on the road so the van’s internal camera wouldn’t ding him. And bathroom breaks came courtesy of an empty Aquafina bottle from the day before. Ever since he first wrote down the number from the ‘Drivers Needed’ sign to now, he never regretted it.
After ten years, he knew every shortcut, cut-through, one-way, and almost every dog on the route. Thus, he stayed ahead of his metrics and kept the paycheck coming.
Still, today, something was telling him to stop, just for a little bit.
Brock’s delivery device didn’t even give the town a name, but he knew it was Quimbly because he’d seen it on an address label some years back. Since then, there had never been a reason to notice the place.
Today, it was on his route.
While his van flashers clicked, he surveyed the square. The barber shop, insurance office, and pub all were blackened holes to nothing. Lines of cracked glass spidered outward on the storefront in front of him, and behind it, a faded sign proclaiming “OPEN for business!” The inside was barren, save for a few empty shelves. Probably some kind of thrift store. Above it, the sign read, “Brady’s Second Chance.”
“Looks like he didn’t get a third,” Brock said to himself.
He spied the three boxes waiting near the back of the van he’d worked around all morning. Someone here needed cutlery, a case of Merlot, and a large box from a uniform company.
Puzzling.
He fished the PB and J sandwich from his bag. Was it from yesterday or the day before? He bit in and breathed. He’d never seen anyone on the square itself, but people were always out working the land—women, men, and children. They wore plain clothes, so they weren’t Amish, but they had a sameness about them. Sometimes, they’d stop their tractor or plow to study you, sometimes not, but they’d always notice.
Next to Brady’s stood the Chapel, windowless and white with a singular cross, the color of slate on its spire.
“God helps those who help themselves,” Mom used to say. For the first time, he thought her advice might have also been her excuse for not attending church.
Brock’s device vibrated as a reminder for him to keep up his pace. The work clock never stopped, and you had to respect that.
Knock, knock.
Brock jumped at a sound right outside his window.
“You know, if they’re buying from you, it’s because they have to.” It was a police officer, probably from the county or highway patrol, given his grey uniform. Brock lowered his window and was about to reply when the officer added, cool yet cordial, “You’re ok, my friend. I just wanted to mention that you can’t park like this.”
The van. He’d parked it against traffic on the left side of the road. “Oh, gosh. I’m sorry officer. I was in a hurry and—”
“It’s ok. I’m sure they push you guys hard, so this is a friendly warning.”
“Ok, sorry again. My mom grew up somewhere in the county, but I almost never have a stop here. It’s weird delivering to a place that’s looks permanently closed.”
The officer’s eyes flicked from Brock to the store and back. “Would you happen to have your driver’s license on you? Again, no citation here. I just need to document it.”
“Uh, sure,” Brock said and took out his wallet. Handing his ID to the officer, he said, “I’m sorry, can I ask if you know the story of this town? Like when it died off?”
The officer’s eyes did not leave the license, but he seemed momentarily surprised at the question. His name tag read “BAKER.” Finally, he looked up and handed the ID back. “This town here, might not look like much, but the people feed their own.” His eyes sized Brock up. “They’re real salt-of-the-earth kind of folk, you know the kind who live off the land and lean on each other.”
Officer Baker stared at Brock long enough to make him wonder if his question was more a violation than the parking. Then his face softened and crooked a smile.
“The word is they’re having one of their gatherings this evening. If you really want to know who they are, stop by about an hour after sunset. They whip up a nice meal and turn away no one.” With a full smile, he added, “Even ones who don’t know how to park.”
There was something in the man’s voice, more of an invite than a mere suggestion.
“I think I’ll try officer. Thank you,” Brock said.
Officer Baker nodded, walked back to his cruiser, and drove off.
Brock moved the van, pulled out the boxes, and walked them back across the street.
Taking the delivery confirmation photos seemed pointless, but he did it anyway.
The square swung into Brock’s rearview as he turned to leave the square. It looked like the epicenter of some forgotten plague. Yet somehow, the place did harbor life. He wondered what kind of determination that took.
As he crested the hill, leaving town, a lone farmer stood at his mailbox, watching him approach. As Brock drove past, the man didn’t wave but smiled. Brock pressed the van’s gas pedal.
Later that evening, a freshly showered Brock drove his F-150 toward Quimbly. Getting ready didn’t take long. These days, he only had one pair of jeans and one flannel that fit him.
The lights of occasional farmhouses were no match for the new moon’s oppressive shade. There was nothing wrong with what he was doing, but he couldn’t tell his friends, for this was the first wing night he would miss since his kidney stone, and that was two, no four, years ago. Tonight, he said he had the flu.
Brock’s insides felt hollow, and his eyelids heavy, so he reached into the center counsel and pulled out the bag of Bugles he’d bought earlier in the week between stops. Then he exited the interstate.
He’d always worked fast enough not to get stuck delivering in these areas after dark, and now he remembered why. He might as well be driving on the bottom of the ocean or through a cave it was so dark.
A rattling came from his door. He reached and found a small plastic bottle labeled ‘Energy Shot’ and drank it down.
As he rounded a turn, a buck stood in the center of the road, forcing him to slam on his brakes. It stared at him and then turned to leap into the swaying woods.
Clu-clunk
Another deer jumped into his truck bed and out of it as if in pursuit of the other.
Where in the hell did those things need to be? Brock took a moment to breathe and silence the pounding in his ears. Then he resumed driving. The road dipped down into the gully where his mother was found decades ago. Did he feel something? Yes, sad, as always, but maybe a little relieved that she was in a better place. Something tugged in the back of his mind, a question of some sort, but he pushed it away and drove forward.
As he crested the hill outside town, Brock saw the church’s spire shining like a lighthouse on a black ocean. What appeared bland and ignored by day was alive and hopeful on this night. Reaching the square, he parked, this time legally, in front of the church but saw no other vehicles. Just as he stepped from the truck, a wind whipped through the square and stilled. Muffled voices could be heard, and the air hinted at a nearby fire.
Spotlights pointed upward at the front of the church, the spire, and the handle-less door. There seemed no question as to where to go. Allowing him to be drawn to the light like an entranced moth or lonely human, he approached the door and knocked.
Nothing happened.
The voices were louder here but still smothered like they were coming from a basement.
He knocked again.
Still nothing.
Brock pounded.
The voices quieted.
Then he heard footsteps.
The door swung outward with a groan, revealing a bespeckled man with a preacher’s collar, a black shirt, and pupils to match. The diffused light from outside gave his face a salmon glow.
“Hello,” was all he said.
Brock knew the man was giving him plenty of time to respond, but he still felt rushed. “Yes, hello. I-I am one of your delivery drivers for town and I’ve come by here for years during the day but I always wondered what it was like here. Officer Baker told me to stop by.”
The man surprised Brock by looking like he was about to laugh, only he didn’t. “I’m sorry, sir. What did you say your name was?”
Brock recognized him as the man by the mailbox from earlier that day. “I didn’t, sir, but that’s OK. It’s Brock, Brock Thompkins.”
The man’s face calmed. “Well, forgive my demeanor, Brock. It’s just that guests make me so happy. I’m Pastor Cairn, come on in.”
As if on cue, the minute Brock stepped into the door, the aroma of baking bread assailed him. The pastor led him down a set of steps that turned abruptly at the bottom and opened to an expansive room that was as bright as the night was dark. Oil lamps ensconced on either side of the room, and a healthy fire rippled and cracked from the hearth on the opposing wall.
Two rows of benches ran the length of the room mostly empty save for a few families and couples in the process of sitting down. No one turned or gawked, and Brock let out the breath he was holding.
“Have a seat and have a chat,” Pastor Cairn said. “Wine is being served and fresh sourdough will be out soon. And then we’ll have our speaker, and then our main course.”
A fiddle sang from the far corner of the room.
“Pastor, are you sure? I mean, I can make a donation. This is all too—” Brock struggled for the right word.
“Generous? Brock, you are welcome to think of this as a visit, but we consider it a homecoming. What’s ours is yours.” With that, the pastor flashed a smile, motioned for Brock to sit down, and headed off toward the hallway where teenage girls were bringing out carafes of wine.
“Welcome, sir. Please tell us about yourself.” Brock turned to see across from him a boy sitting between a man and a woman. From the proud look on their faces, the young man had passed a test of manhood by speaking.
“Well, hello buddy. My name is Brock and I’m from just outside of Cleveland.”
“I’m Abel and these are my parents, Frank and Louisa,” The couple smiled at him this time.
“That’s a brave boy, Abey,” the mother said and turned to Brock to speak.
“But not as a brave as—” Abe interrupted.
“Now, Abey let Papa and Mama talk, thank-you,” the father said. He continued speaking before the boy could protest. “Brock, welcome. I know it must be a bit awkward visiting a community of folks you don’t know, but I assure you we’re happy to have you. Can I ask what brings you here?”
“But—” the boy interjected once more.
“Now, Abey that’s rude, let the man speak,” his mother said.
“Oh, it’s ok, ma’am. I’m a delivery driver and I’ve been coming through your town for almost a decade now, but only delivering once in a while and I was curious.”
“Oh? The Book tells us things like this happen for a reason.”
Her words triggered Brock’s memory of his Mother saying the same thing, and he felt a warmth he’d locked away too long.
Brock learned that the family lived on a farm on the south side of Quimbly where they worked the land and sold hand-made clothing and produce. Abel was home-schooled, not through the internet but the honest way through books. Mind you, they could afford to have many of life’s ‘extras’ but chose not to.
However, the couple did not permit the conversation to linger on themselves. They wanted to know about Brock, who he was, and what his dreams were. What surprised Brock was not that they asked about his hopes for the future but that he might have them to share.
Meanwhile, little Abe’s face said he had words wanting to wriggle out of him, but again, his parents tested him, this time to show restraint.
As they spoke, others arrived, couples, families, and singles, young and old, with eyes shining in the room’s glow. The only formality of the get-together was a white button-down shirt that all wore over jeans or a long skirt and boots. Louisa, Frank, and Abe wore them too, Brock noticed for the first time.
Then, it occurred to him that he should apologize for not wearing something nicer. Quickly, they replied, “Heavens no! You’re our guest so we want to look our best for you!”
Soon, with appetites whetted on bread and wine, others approached and introduced themselves.
As the night drew on and the conversations deepened, Brock felt a distinct sense that he had arrived home, or at least a place where people cared, maybe even more than he did, about who he was and what his life had been like up to this point.
Yes, the shirts were a little odd, but maybe they didn’t have the funds for formal clothing. Was that a crime?
They wanted to know more about him, not just his past but his thoughts on the future. Where would the world be in twenty-five years? Would religion survive the onslaught of science? It was like a gathering of proud parents, grandparents, and cousins.
Brock’s bladder reminded him of the wine he’d drank, but he dismissed it.
The children especially liked learning about the delivery truck and how it growled at times and beeped at others as it faithfully hauled more boxes than could ever fit in a sleigh. Brock wondered if his own kids, in due time, would react in the same way.
When he asked about their way of life, they constantly referred back to living in accordance with the Bible, which all of them referred to as The Book. They did not need modern luxuries like cell phones or streamer channels like “the Netflix or that Hullabaloo,” as one of them put it. They had their work, and that was enough. If they needed something from the Internet, they’d call the sheriff, have him place the order, and pay him immediately. Don’t waste yourself on dreams. Work hard and live easy, they said.
Again, Brock’s bladder nagged.
“The washroom? It’s just down that hallway there,” one of them said.
As Brock crossed the room, more eyes were on him, shining in the lamps’ glow and fire’s flicker, and fascinated at the novelty of this newcomer. He felt no reservations about smiling back at them. It was hard not to.
Brock weaved past a couple of servers coming out of the kitchen to his right and then past a door that looked the size of a broom closet on his left. The hall had fewer lamps, but light was enough to illuminate a second door on his right. This one looked like it was made of metal. Further down, he saw a wooden door labeled in white paint “Square” and another at the end of the hall that read “Main.” Nails protruded at intervals on both walls, hinting that photos or artwork once hung there.
Thinking “Main” denoted their main bathroom, Brock opened the door. A cool breeze wafted out of what looked like some kind of tunnel. With no apparent light source, the cave looked like a sideways hole to the bottom of the earth. Something deep within him told him this was not the way to go. He shut the door.
Brock approached the door labeled “Square” and opened it. This door also led into a tunnel, but in the dim light, he could see that it quickly split off to the right and left.
Brock knew the entire county like the lines on his palm but in this church basement, he was lost.
Shutting the door, he walked to the metal door, which felt heavy and cold. He turned the handle and pushed. The room was pitch black, but he felt tile under his feet. This was a good sign. He felt the wall for a switch and found one. It was heavy, but it moved up with a ‘chuck.’
Light flooded Brock’s eyes, and he blinked several times.
When he could focus he found that he was not in a bathroom at all but some kind of storage room, lit with fluorescent lights, with white tiles on the floor and walls. A large steel table stood in the center of the room with chains hanging from the ceiling above it. A rack of what looked like knives and saws was on a far wall.
Obviously, the residents of Quimbly liked their meat. However, the room wasn’t as cold as Brock expected. Perhaps one of the farmers or hunters would arrive with fresh game or livestock ready to be dressed? But how would they bring it in? Through one of the tunnels?
Brock’s bladder reminded him that he didn’t have time for such nonsense. He turned to leave, but with his hand on the doorknob, he noticed something on a nearby bench. Framed photos some of them color, some black and white. There was something in them, something unexpected that pulled at his mind.
The photo at the top of the stack showed five men sitting at a banquet table. Each was smiling and raising a glass of wine and wore a white dress shirt stained in something dark. When Brock looked closer, he noticed some of their mouths seemed to have blood dripping from the sides. However, what was on the table sent a chill so strong through Brock that he nearly urinated himself. A human leg, unnaturally browned, naked, and with entire sections eviscerated to the bone. Only the foot was intact. At the bottom of the photo, handwritten in cursive, was ‘Citizen Williams, 2022.’
The sight was so absurd Brock had to fight off a laugh. His stomach churned, and blood pounded in his ears. Hands shaking, he fumbled through the other photos. Each featured the same men, with Pastor Cairn in the middle, sharing a similar bloody, inhumane prize. Only the dates and names at the bottom of the photos differed. He looked at his cell. No coverage.
Fuck.
Brock stepped to the door, shut off the light, and left the room.
“Citizen Brock! It’s almost time to speak!” Abe cried and tugged at his sleeve. His parents weren’t there.
“I-I need to use the restroom. I’m sorry,” was all Brock could say.
“It’s right there, Citizen, but please hurry. We’re so excited to hear you!”
Brock ducked into one of the tiniest bathrooms he’d ever seen, offering only a toilet, sink, soap, and towel. He managed to relieve himself but then felt a mounting dread. He again heard his pulse rising. The walls of the room seemed to draw in closer. The room thankfully had no mirror because he didn’t want to see his face.
He washed his hands and splashed water on his face.
“Citizen Brock?” said an impatient Abe from behind the door.
Then he clutched the sink and thought. The tunnels. They had to go somewhere, and he could use his phone as a light. He could just blow past the kid and run. Surely, he could make it out before they could find him or do anything, and then he could call 911 when he got outside.
Brock took a deep breath and put his hand on the door handle. His body coiled.
But then, a thought came to him, like a stranger ringing the doorbell during Fallon. A joke. These people didn’t mind tipping back the wine. Those photos had to be staged, and was that really a human foot he saw? How close had he looked? There was no way a society of bloodthirsty cannibals could exist right under the Sherriff’s nose. Hell, it sounded like he’d been here before. Brock’s jaw unclenched, and air eased out of his chest.
He yanked open the door to reveal Pastor Cairn, a tall, expressionless man he didn’t recognize, and the sheriff himself.
“I’m sorry, Brock. I should have mentioned this. The townspeople would like you to say a few words for them. Surely, you wouldn’t mind?” the pastor said. The men were close enough to seize him. Close enough even to bash his head against the hallway wall. But they made no move.
“Uh, yeah sure. Like—”
“Just tell us what you’ve learned over your forty-three years,” the Pastor said, clamping a bony hand on Brock’s shoulder. The men began leading him back to the banquet room. As they walked, Brock felt, in his gut, the sensation of being on the edge of something steep.
“My boy, you’re shaking,” the pastor said, “Is everything ok?”
“Public speaking. You know,” Brock said and added, “Scary.”
“Well, there’s nothing to fear here. This is what you’d call a kind crowd.”
As they entered the room, Brock noticed that all the townspeople, even the children, were now wearing white dress shirts similar to the men in the photos. A wave of cold washed over him.
The pastor walked him to a small podium on the other side of the room in front of the banquet table. On the podium sat a large book open to a page somewhere in the middle.
The other two men sat down, and then he spoke. “Citizens of Quimbly, as you know, we are honored to have Citizen Brock return home just in time for his Wisdom Serving. It’s not often that one of us returns to the heart, so when they do, we cherish it. So, without further adieu, Citizen Brock, please share the lessons you’ve learned in your forty-three years.”
The pastor stepped to the side, and Brock stared at a room full of expectant eyes.
He struggled to speak, yet inside had no loss of words. He’d told no one his age.
After a decade of beating time by proving he was faster, he found himself praying for more like each second was a gift.
Then his mother’s advice sprung into his mind, and he said it aloud. “Whatever you do, just keep going.” She was elated when he took the delivery job. Finally, her son had a direction.
The faces before him remained rapt and unchanged.
“I—uh. I always worked hard, and I, well, I didn’t give up when my job got hard, you know, I just kept going. I never knew my dad, but when my Mom died, it was really tough to keep getting up and—”
“Tell us more about Citizen Lana,” a woman in the crowd said.
Brock felt his insides implode slightly. “W-well, my mother she,” Brock began to speak, but pieces came together in his mind quicker than words. He hadn’t told them about his mother, and she grew up on a farm outside of Medford, but she never said where, and her body in her car burned beyond recognition, the officer said.
“She was a proud woman. Proud but very loving, she—” Brock began. All eyes were on him. Even the kitchen was silent, save for a faint tapping sound.
Brock looked down to see his hand shaking against the top of the podium.
Officer Baker?
Did he check the names on all the photos he’d just seen?
Brock looked down at the book and saw scripted at the top of an otherwise blank page,
Citizen Brock Thomkins
November 11, 2025
9:42 pm
Brock looked at his watch. Twenty-two minutes from now.
An image of the blades on the wall flashed in his mind. Somehow, he knew they’d just been sharpened.
“Brock,” Pastor Cairn spoke, “it’s ok. Take your time and reflect. When you are done, we will record your wisdom in the book for future generations. It is the greatest honor we can bestow.”
Brock stared at them for another long moment, feeling the room’s hungry, hot breath wash over him. Air began to leave his lungs and he felt part of his mind shutting off.
With a crash, he threw the podium over and sprinted for the door.
He had no time to look at them or to think so he ran.
Hands brushed him but none of them caught hold as he made it to the exit door and began bounding up the steps two at a time. Voice raised behind him as he burst through the door and into the cold night toward his truck. Thank God he’d left it open.
Brock felt for his keys, but they weren’t in his pocket, but he had a spare somewhere, he knew.
The church door slammed open, and two men emerged, followed by the Pastor. They all advanced toward Brock.
Brock felt the visor for his spare key. Not there.
He ripped open the glove box and jammed his hand inside. No. God damn it.
He felt under his seat, and the key was there.
Thank God. He jammed the key into the ignition and turned it, causing the truck to roar to life.
“Gentlemen, leave him be,” the Pastor said.
Brock caught one last look in the man’s eyes and expected to see the livid soul of a demon, but instead saw nothingness, no expression like a life stretched to forever and lived solely in the dark.
Brock’s faithful F-150 chewed gravel and flung it as it leaped onto the road. He didn’t have to think of how to get home. His hands just knew.
Seconds later, as Brock approached the hill to leave town, a police cruiser lit up behind him and began its banshee’s wail. But Brock didn’t stop. As his truck dipped into the valley, he felt a tightening in his chest, which quickly began to blossom into pain radiating down his left arm.
Brock pulled the truck over near the bottom of the gully not far from where his mother’s car was found.
As the pain intensified, Brock glimpsed the truck’s dashboard clock. 9:41.
In his rearview, he saw Officer Baker and the Pastor walking toward him, their faces red in his car’s brake lights. Brock vomited, and his chest clenched as if inside him was a black hole crumbling him from within.
Then, the pain began to fade.
“Brock, we’re not savages. We don’t take life but revel in its beauty,” the Pastor said.
Then, the world gradually became less and less real.
“We only have the book, and it tells each of us when our time will come. All we can hope for is to spend our days in accordance with the almighty.”
The pastor’s voice grew further away but, somehow, still curled a tendril around Brock’s mind. “I know what you might be thinking in this moment, and rest assured. Your life and your accomplishments, they were not a waste. You, my dear citizen, will not be wasted.”
Chris Pawar is a suspense, horror, and science fiction author of over forty short stories and a published technical writer. His work combines realistic and relatable characters with tense, unpredictable plots. Chris lives in Erie, Pennsylvania, where he cycles, hikes, and works on his next story collection.