Chapter 17 Part 1 – Call for Obstruction

So far, Barry has signed his soul into servitude to Satan on Earth. He’s a courier, forced to transport some kind of energy substance from Denver to Trinidad, Colorado. It’s being dumped down air shafts on the Bellow’s Ranch and forming a rift between Earth and Hell. He desperately wants out of his contract, but Margery, his demon boss, has total control over Barry and the other drivers through magical cigarettes. Barry’s not giving up though. In order to find a way out of his contract, he plays the good employee and volunteers for overtime. Only the other OTG employees have gone missing—likely kidnapped by white warriors who fight for God’s angels. Margery expects Barry and senior driver Vern to step in and do all the work, leaving Barry no time to snoop around the warehouse for contract loopholes. Barry does find there are perks to being a slave to Satan: bottomless fruity loop cereal and liquor, money whenever he needs it, and immortal life with a rapid healing time. He also just found out the Gates of Hell are about to open and Margery and Vern want to stop it from happening. They prefer their lives on Earth just the way they are. They have asked Barry to help them develop and carry out a plan to close the gates. Later, when Vern is alone with Barry, he tells Barry there’s already a plan to close the gate and it involves dropping children down the air shafts. Barry is mortified.

The Courier Series is about Barry White, a twenty-something computer geek with an overbearing mother, no prospects of finding a girlfriend, and an unemployment record that’s made him pessimistic he’ll ever be happy.

In Call for Obstruction, Barry has just lost his fourth jobs in the past year due to corporate downsizing. Desperate for employment, he jumps at the first position he’s offered over the phone, driver for OTG Courier Services. Shortly after meeting his new boss, a tiny yet fiery old lady named Margery, she coerces him into signing a questionable employment contract he soon regrets.

The Courier was originally written as a twitter novel @TheCourierNovel in 2009, and the same year it won the Annual Textnovel Writing Contest. Later parts of the story are still tweeting.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

W. J. Howard lives near Denver and writes horror, fantasy and sci-fi with a bit of comedy mixed in. Wendy is also the Co-op Manager for Visionary Press Cooperative, leading an innovative way to publish.

Twitter + Facebook

I kick open the door to my apartment. Lived in. Yeah, that’s a good description for my place, lived in. Dirty clothes are pitched on the floor like a trail of breadcrumbs. I kick up a t-shirt and catch it as I walk inside, then drop it back down on the floor. Partially eaten boxes of fruity cereal, an empty bottle of milk, game controllers and a half-dozen computer and gaming magazines cover the coffee table. The whole room’s a visual metaphor for what Margery’s made of my life.

Clock on the wall to my left reads 4:00 A.M. No chance I’ll catch a power nap, considering Hell’s alarm clock goes off in forty minutes. Good thing I slept in Vern’s van most of the ride back.

I pull my t-shirt over my head and drop it on the rest of the mess, then pull my cell phone out of my pocket, plug in the charger and turn it on. A few more steps and an open zipper later, my baggy jeans are hugging my ankles. I step out them and my untied shoes. Boxer shorts end up on the corner of a bookshelf. Naked and ready for a shower.

I step into the hot water, jetting from the shower head and increase the temperature, higher and higher until the dial won’t move any further to the left. The heat scalds my body like I’ve just descended into Hell. Inside I still feel cold when I think about the kids that Margery and Vern want to sacrifice.

Ten minutes later I step out of the bathtub and towel off. While brushing I wonder if immortal teeth are impervious to decay?

My cell phone sounds off in the other room. I pause and consider answering it. It rings again. Nah. Only Mom or Margery could be calling me this early. If it’s Mom, she can wait. If it’s Margery, let the butcher get her own damn coffee this morning.

After I’m dressed, I grab a handful of fruity cereal and pop the loops into my mouth one at a time. My cell rings again. Whoever it is leaves a voice mail this time. Now I’m curious.

My heart skips. Nina called, three times. Why at four-thirty in the morning?

I dial up the voice messages.

“Barry Bear why haven’t you called me back or answered my emails?”

Her tone’s whiny, like a little girl. Always an indication something’s wrong.

“I guess I’ll see you at the warehouse this morning,” she says.

The phone falls from my hand. The warehouse? Why is she going to the warehouse this morning?

I pick up the phone and refresh the email, the whole while holding my breath. Ten or so messages down, there it is, the words Laid Off in the subject line. No surprise, it’s from Nina.

Shit! This is no coincidence.

I speed dial Nina’s number and dig my keys out of the pants I left on the floor. Her phone rings while I slip into my shoes. No answer. It rings again and again and still no answer. Then the voicemail picks up.

“Damn you Margery!” I scream as I run out the door.

PREV | NEXT