On Monday mornings, I send out a story via email: ultra-brief tales of 1,000 words or more, usually in genres including horror, science fiction, and the supernatural. Those stories collectively are called Once Upon A Time. I’ve also published several ebooks and compendium volumes of those stories so far.

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Here's story 233, of 240 so far.

Check Engine

Rawlins glanced disapprovingly at the dashboard as he made the familiar right turn to go through the metal gates to the factory. The engine warning light had been on for a couple of days now, but he hadn’t had time to go and get the car looked at yet. It seemed to be running as well as it ever did — which was just alright, at best — but that could change at any moment.

The building was shabby, as it had been since twenty-six years ago when Rawlins first drove in. Since then, he had come every week like clockwork, barely missing a single visit in all that time, and this factory was only one of his three stops on a Tuesday. The other days of the week were similar, except of course for Sunday.

There were six trucks backed into the loading bays, but all the shutters were closed, which was normal enough for this time of day. All the work was taking place within the building, as indicated by the faint, rhythmic sounds of machinery in operation, and the omnipresent glutinous odour coming from the chimneys.

Some nights, Rawlins swore that he could still smell the same aroma from his skin when he was lying in bed, despite showering for twenty minutes after he got home from work each evening.

He parked the rusty, underpowered little car over beside the makeshift maintenance garage as he always did, then got out and didn’t even bother to lock it. He sighed, then looked over at the ugly factory building, all corrugated sheets and scuffed concrete.

“Morning, father,” a male voice said from nearby, unexpectedly, and Rawlins felt his pulse suddenly increase. He maintained his composure, though, and turned with a smile on his face. It was just the day-shift security guard, an older fellow whose name escaped him for the moment, holding a chipped red coffee mug and yawning.

“Hello again,” Rawlins said, searching the man’s eyes and finding nothing untoward. He allowed himself to relax again, and took a step towards the guard. “Busy as usual, I see,” he continued, nodding towards the loading bays, and the guard just shrugged.

“You’re keeping us in business, just like always,” the guard replied, his tone casual and light, and Rawlins could only laugh politely.

And you’re keeping me in business too, he thought.

The two men made small talk for a few minutes, until the shutter covering the leftmost bay of the factory began rolling up, and Rawlins made an apologetic gesture. “Time waits for no man,” he said, and the guard waved him away with another smile.

The pedestrian access door adjacent to the first loading bay swung open, and the current floor-manager peeked his head out, immediately looking relieved to see Rawlins walking briskly towards him. “Just in time,” the man said, not entirely succeeding in keeping a note of impatience out of his tone. Rawlins increased his speed, glancing at his watch to see if he was late, but he had arrived at exactly the same time he always did. Once again, he made a mental note to take the car to a mechanic as soon as possible.

“Come in, come in,” the floor manager said, ushering him inside, and Rawlins couldn’t help but notice the small crucifix the man wore around his neck, visible because he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt with the top two buttons undone, and no tie. Rawlins was surprised; openly religious people were usually more deferential towards a man of the cloth such as himself. But no matter.

“I’m sorry to have kept you,” Rawlins said, opting for the easiest route of diplomacy. “I know where I’m going. I’ll get the job done and then your trucks can be on their way.”

“I’d appreciate that, thank you, father,” the floor manager said, already distracted by something else and looking in the other direction, so Rawlins just nodded and headed past the nearest cluster of conveyor belts and packing machines.

In the area immediately in front of the interior sections of the loading bays, there were rows and rows of pallets, stacked from edge to edge and fifteen units high with plain brown boxes, each one shrinkwrapped and around the size of a small shoebox. Every pallet was strapped, and aligned for the final floor-recessed conveyor that would take them into the back of a delivery truck. Every box was printed with the same two words, in an unremarkable typeface, with almost no other identifying information.

Communion Wafers

Five hundred or so of the little dissolving discs per box, almost three thousand boxes per pallet, and who knows how many pallets sitting there, waiting for him. And that was just today, in this factory. The scale of it always impressed him, even after so many years.

Rawlins raised his right hand, and began making the required gestures, and he spoke the required words. It took only thirty seconds or so to bless the entire collection of freight, and then it was done.

“Well, shit,” said a voice from nearby, and Rawlins shook his head in disgust, turning to see who it would be this time.

He wasn’t particularly surprised to see the floor manager again, but also not the floor manager; the eyes made that very clear. The almost feline quality to them, dark when they had been green a few minutes earlier, and of course the malice that would root an unprepared person to the spot.

“Hello again, Bezaliel,” Rawlins said, drawing his travel bible from his coat pocket, but not raising it. All around the two of them, oblivious, the other workers were beginning to move the freight towards the waiting trucks at last. “I was wondering when you’d show up. As always, you’re too late. These belong to the Lord now.”

“You’ll fail one day, priest,” the thing within the floor manager spat. “And I will be there to see it.”

“I’m quite sure you will,” Rawlins replied. “But not today.”

The demon looked at him through the man’s eyes, grinning without grinning, taunting without taunting. Just like every other time. Rawlins found it motivational, more than anything else. A reminder of why he did what he did, and a warning against letting the monotony of the job get to him.

Check Engine, his mind whispered in reminder, and it seemed as apt a remark as anything.

After another moment, the other man blinked, and he was just a man again. Rawlins was aware of a presence moving away, and then fading entirely, but the floor manager just stared at him, looking at first confused and then embarrassed. Rawlins smiled.

“All done,” he said. “I’ll see you next time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more stops to make.”

JINX

KESTREL face a new and terrifying enemy: an all-seeing mastermind who already knows exactly who they are, and many of their deepest secrets. Nothing stays hidden forever, and the line between privacy and liberty is razor-thin…

Book 3 in the KESTREL action-thriller series.

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