The GPS blared a harsh, monotone beep. Destination Reached.
Mac's trembling hands gripped the steering wheel as the featureless black asphalt abruptly transitioned into loose, pale dirt. The swirling grey fog didn't vanish, but it pulled back, forming a perfect, suffocating ring around a massive, circular clearing.
There were no buildings. No receiving docks. No floodlights. Just an acre of dead, flattened earth completely encircled by towering, skeletal trees that looked like they had been burned to a crisp decades ago.
Mac swallowed the lingering metallic taste in his mouth. He steered the monolithic eighteen-wheeler toward the dead center of the dirt lot.
The rhythmic, wet breathing from the trailer behind him had grown frantic, rattling the corrugated steel walls. Whatever was in the box knew they had arrived.
Mac pressed the brake pedal, bringing the massive rig to a slow, grinding halt. The dust plumed up past the windows, glowing faintly in the glare of the headlights. He threw the heavy gear shift into park and pulled the air brake valve.
HISS.
He grabbed the laminated manifest. His eyes were burning, his vision swimming from the oxygen deprivation of the last rule. He forced himself to focus on the final block of text.
Rule 6: Delivery and Clocking Out.
Park the truck in the center of the dirt lot. Turn off the engine. Honk the horn exactly three times. Close your eyes and count to sixty. When you open them, the trailer will be noticeably lighter, and a black door will stand freely in the dirt in front of the truck. Walk through the door to return home. Do not look in the trailer.
"Okay," Mac breathed. "Okay, last one."
He reached for the heavy brass key in the ignition and turned it backward. The deafening roar of the massive diesel engine died instantly, plunging the cab into a heavy, oppressive silence. Without the engine masking it, the breathing from the trailer sounded like it was right next to his ear.
Mac reached up, grabbed the air horn cord dangling above the driver's window, and pulled it down hard.
HONK.
HONK.
HONK.
The sound blasted through the dead clearing, echoing off the wall of fog and skeletal trees. It sounded like a distress signal.
Mac instantly squeezed his eyes shut.
One. Two. Three.
He counted in his head, his hands gripping his knees so tightly his joints popped.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
For the first fifteen seconds, nothing happened. Just the sound of his own pulse hammering in his ears and the frantic, wet breathing from the back.
Twenty.
Then came the sound of metal yielding. It wasn't subtle. It was the violent, heavy CLANG of the massive exterior padlocks on the back of the trailer being struck and shattered.
Mac flinched, his eyelids fluttering, but he clamped them shut tighter.
Twenty-five. Twenty-six.
SCREEECH.
The heavy, rolling metal door of the trailer was thrown upward with explosive force. The sudden shift in air pressure made Mac's ears pop.
The breathing stopped.
Thirty.
The entire cab violently rocked backward as an immense weight shifted inside the trailer. The heavy-duty suspension of the eighteen-wheeler groaned in protest, a metallic shriek that vibrated through the floorboards.
Something was stepping out.
Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven.
Mac's breath hitched. He heard a wet, impossibly heavy thud hit the dirt behind the truck. Then another. It didn't sound like footsteps. It sounded like massive slabs of raw meat being dropped from a great height.
Forty-two. Forty-three.
The wet thuds were moving. They were coming up the driver's side of the truck.
Mac stopped breathing entirely. He pressed himself as far back into the cracked leather seat as he could go. The temperature inside the cab plummeted, turning his exhales into visible frost against his closed eyelids.
Fifty.
The footsteps stopped directly outside his door.
Mac could smell it now. a putrid, overpowering stench of ozone, rotting vegetation, and copper. Something brushed against the heavy iron door handle outside.
Fifty-five. Fifty-six.
A shadow fell over him, blocking out the ambient glow of the headlights through his closed eyelids. Whatever was standing outside his window was massive enough to eclipse the light.
Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine.
Mac prepared to die.
Sixty.
He snapped his eyes open.
The window was empty. The stench of rot was gone. The freezing chill in the air had vanished, replaced by the mundane, cold leather smell of the cab.
Mac let out a violent, ragged gasp, grabbing his chest.
He looked out the windshield. Sitting exactly ten feet in front of the truck's grille, standing entirely unsupported in the loose dirt, was a standard wooden door painted matte black. There was no frame, no walls attached to it. Just a door in the middle of nowhere.
Mac glanced in the side mirror—no, wait. Do not look in the side mirrors. He snapped his head forward. He could feel it, though. The back of the truck was riding high. The crushing weight that had pressed down on the rear axles for the entire drive was gone. The trailer was empty.
"Clocking out," Mac whispered, his voice completely raw.
He reached for the door handle. This time, the heavy iron lock wasn't fused. It opened with a smooth click.
Mac practically fell out of the cab, his boots hitting the dirt with a heavy crunch. His legs felt like jelly. He grabbed his canvas jacket and slammed the cab door shut behind him.
Do not look in the trailer.
The urge was overwhelming. It was human nature to want to see the monster after surviving it. Every fiber of his being wanted to turn his head to the left, to look past the rear wheels and see the open, empty maw of the metal box.
He locked his neck in place, staring fiercely at the freestanding black door in the dirt.
He took a step forward. Then another.
As he closed the distance to the door, a sharp, sudden heat flared on the inside of his left forearm.
Mac hissed, stumbling forward. It felt like a lit match had been pressed directly against his skin. He yanked up the sleeve of his canvas jacket.
Right below his elbow, the skin was blistering. The flesh wasn't just burning; it was restructuring, scarring instantly into a precise, geometric shape. The pain was blinding, dropping him to one knee in the dirt. He gritted his teeth, holding back a scream, watching as the burn settled into a dark, raised scar.
A crimson cross. An exact replica of the company logo.
The heat faded as quickly as it had arrived, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache that felt tethered to his very bones. It wasn't just a scar. It felt like a brand. A tracking chip. Ownership.
Mac didn't have time to process it. The fog wall surrounding the clearing suddenly began to compress, rolling rapidly inward toward the truck. The lot was collapsing.
He scrambled to his feet, lunging for the freestanding black door. He grabbed the brass doorknob and twisted. It turned easily.
He threw the door open and threw himself through the threshold just as the wall of grey fog consumed the grille of the eighteen-wheeler.
Mac hit a hard, linoleum floor, tumbling shoulder-first and skidding to a halt.
The door slammed shut behind him with a loud, mundane bang.
He lay there on his back, staring up. He wasn't looking at a bruised purple sky or a wall of fog. He was looking at a water-stained, popcorn ceiling illuminated by the flickering, sickly glow of a cheap fluorescent tube.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows.
He was in the first-floor hallway of his apartment complex.
The air smelled like old carpeting and someone's burnt microwave dinner. From the floor above, he could hear the faint, muffled sounds of a late-night talk show playing on a television.
It was normal. It was entirely, beautifully normal.
Mac slumped against the ugly wallpaper, laughing hysterically into the empty hallway. He checked his left arm. The raised, red scar was still there, throbbing faintly. He reached into his jacket pocket. The heavy brass key was still there, cold against his fingers.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Still shaking, Mac pulled it out. The screen was cracked, but the notification was clear. It was an alert from his bank.
Direct Deposit Received: CRIMSON CROSS OP.
Amount: $15,000.00
Current Balance: $15,014.12
Below the bank notification was a single new email.
To: M. Vance
From: Crimson Cross Operations
Subject: Shift 1/3 Complete
Good work, Maclin. Rest well.
We will be in touch shortly regarding your next placement.
Mac stared at the screen, the hysterical laughter dying in his throat.
He looked at the unread email. He had just survived a nightmare.