The UPS Men: Part 1

I was finally able to use my laptop today after getting it back a few days ago, and therefore I was dying to type something up after that long period of time without my favorable laptop keyboard. So I present to you the first part of a small series that I'm going to be putting up here at BFBv.2. I'm sorry about my inactivity but it was due to the absence of my laptop and my disdain of my desktop's keyboard. I may post a personal entry before Christmas, but for now, I give you "The UPS Men: Part 1".

THE UPS MEN:
Part 1

Dear Diary,

It all began on a Wednesday in the winter. The month, the year, the time; it all doesn’t matter to me. What does matter, however, is the event that happened this day. It changed my life and the life of others around the world. This event was the reason why I couldn’t write within your pages, rich with the lore of my life. The ivory pages bleeding with lust and wealth of my many experiences. No experience, however, matched the wrath of this one.

I woke up that morning to find my house was freezing. I looked into the darkness around me and noticed that not a single light came jumping out at me. My alarm clock, cell phone charger, desktop, and other electronic belongings were all plugged in, but none of them showed me their welcoming flashing. Odd, I thought. I ventured downstairs with the blindfold of the night over my eyes and opened up the front door. I was amazed to see darkness. Pure raven darkness. I pulled my pajamas around me as the wind blasted me from the west and looked at the digital watch that was on my wrist. This too was even not working. I looked up and down the street. Every house was black. Every streetlight was black. Or was the object that I was looking at a streetlight? No, it was darkness. And then, light. It came from the sky so fast that I didn’t realize what it was until seconds after it had struck. It came nowhere within my neighborhood, or rather should I even say, hundreds of miles around me, but still this object flashed through the universe and hit the ground far, far away. And yet, the light of the aftermath reached my awaiting pupils.

I think, diary, that you should know what happened that day and the days, weeks, and months afterwards, but you were locked inside of a fleeing suitcase. I hugged you tightly, however, you did not know, as the leather cage you were in left you blind to the world. You didn’t know of the plague that killed millions. You didn’t know of the blood seen everywhere -- flowing through the air, riding on the drifts; the same drifts that hit me from the west that night. The night that started the . . .

“It’s your turn.”

“Huh?”

“I delivered the last few packages while you sat over there drawing pictures in that book. The least you can do is deliver a couple.”

“I wasn’t drawing pictures, but rather painting words.”

“That’s good. Now get off of your lazy ass, grab that package over there that’s going to 455 Red Oak Street, and hop to it.”

“If you delivered a few already, it won’t hurt you to deliver a few more. Now will it?”

“And it wouldn’t hurt you to exercise a bit and lose some weight?”

“Fine, I’ll do it if you let me finish up this diary entry later on.”

“If you let me read it when you’re done.”

The glare was cold, filled with hatred and expressing total irritation. The glare was directed at the driver of the truck. A 28-year old short for his age, with neatly cut black hair, a lean figure, and wielding the brown armor that titled him as a UPS deliveryman. The man was known as Corey. At his side was his sidekick. A 27-year old man who too had short hair, however brown in color, and a bit bigger figure than Corey. He too had equipped the UPS uniform and wore it not with pride, but rather in disgust. This man, poetic in nature, was Kyle.

Corey greeted the glare with a smirk. “Nevermind, I don’t want to read any of your crap anyway. I bet it’s just stories about the exotic things that you do with your wife.”

Kyle slipped the small booklet into the pocket of his uniform. “Corey, I bet if you read anything concerning that, you’d be confused about what was going on.” Kyle looked for the package addressed to the house they pulled up to, found it, and hopped out of the truck as Corey grumbled swears to himself.

Kyle looked down at the package he was carrying under his arm as he walked across the lawn to the front porch of the house. It wasn’t a big box. It was almost a perfect cube. Kyle shook it a little and received no noise in return. I can’t guess what this one is, Kyle thought.

Kyle walked up onto the porch. The porch was painted red, however the paint was beginning to peel and the former paint job, a pale blue, began to show. The porch was small, yet congested with random objects piled on top of one another. A basketball pump was placed on top of a box that once hosted a trampoline, and that box was placed on top of a large wooden crate marked ‘Bananas’, and the crate was placed on top of small stool that had writing etched into the polished wood. Kyle put down the box he was carrying by the white front door, and walked over to the miniature junkyard. He pushed a beach ball out of the way, tripped over a pogo stick, and climbed over fence railing laid across the width of the porch, and kneeled in front of the stool. He observed the writing, some of it was worn away by the elements of nature, however some stood out to him as if they were engraved only minutes ago. He noticed phrases such as “I cannot receive help if the world needs to be helped” and “War is not the answer. It’s a question.”. Kyle noticed dried droplets of blood over writing that said “I may be free from war, but I shall sacrifice my blood as many men and women sacrifice theirs.” Not only writing dominated the stool, but also symbols. A symbol that stood out to Kyle was an orb with lines extending out from it, showing that this orb was either shiny or bright. Kyle also noticed the face of a person, gender unknown, that had only half of a mouth, one nostril, and no eyes. The sight frightened him. He was about to look on the opposite side of the stool when . . .

“May I help you?”

Kyle flew upright, almost knocking the pile he was underneath over, and turned around. There in front of him stood an old woman, bald with age, toothless, and legendary in appearance. She wore a green robe, no shoes, and black leather gloves. She gave him a slight smile, and he returned a face of sudden shock.

“Young man, may I ask again. May I help you?”

“Um, sorry.” Kyle responded, trying to work his way out of the pile that littered the porch. “I just wanted to see what type of trampoline that was. Yes, the box over there. My son wanted one and I couldn‘t decide what model to get. Would you recommend that one?”

“You don’t have a son.” Kyle flinched after being attacked with those words. The woman spoke the truth. He did not have a son, but how would she know, and how was she so confident with her remark.

“I’m sorry. I call my nephew my son a lot because he’s so close to me. Even though his mother is a . . . witch.”

“And now you speak badly of witches? Not only are you a liar, but you’re being rather racist toward other cultures.” This shook Kyle. His muscles tensed. Sweat poured from the pores all over his body. His breath slowed down. He swore he could see his own breath, even though it was the almost July. And he did. The air about him became cooler, and he received a horrible chill that upset every nerve in his body.

“Well maim, there’s your package over there by the door. I’m sorry for upsetting you. Have a good day and happy Grutzulski.” Kyle walked past the woman, made it to the other side of her, and stopped. Walking past her, it felt like his soul was touched, mingled with, and torn apart, left to float about in a realm that no man could ever have access to. He did not look at her nor look ahead toward the UPS truck, where Corey was playing with the radio in the driver’s seat. Kyle looked straight down at the porch and saw the same orb that he noticed on the stool engraved into the exposed pale blue paint, not hidden by the red paint. Another chill shook Kyle’s body.

“You too, and happy Grutzulski. Only a proper word like that should be spoken in good times after a horrible experience. I take it that the war affected you personally.”

Kyle still did not face her, but continued to stare at the drawing. “Yes, it scarred me.”

“So you’re not from around these parts?”

“No, I moved here after the third bombing of New York City and before Detroit fell.”

“You were lucky, as your area got hit by the Niktorad-81. Nobody was left alive.”

“I know. I know. Well, have a good one.” Kyle walked off of the porch, looked ahead, and saw Corey smelling his hand. A small smile was drawn across Kyle’s face until . . .

“Take care of your wife!”

Kyle whirled around to face the old crone, who was now wearing black robes and green leather gloves. She also wore heavy boots and a black hat that closely resembled the pointy hat of a witch, raising to a point like a cone. Kyle gasped, then questioned. “What about my wife?”

“Do you think the war is over? You’re being lied to. They’re after your wife. She’s the answer, and war is the question. Sacrifice your blood to save her, and you shall not only save her but also the world, as the world needs help. And to receive help, you give help. If you don’t, you shall face the light.”

Kyle stood there, motionless, and holding his breath. Wide-eyed, he said to the woman. “And who are you to speak in proverbs?”

“I’m your dreams and your nightmares. You saw me the night it happened. You saw me, but the darkness didn’t let you notice me. You saw me as you fled the battlefield. However blood blocked your vision from noticing me. And you saw me here today. Today’s world, recovered from the war like nothing happened. Only it’s still going on.”

Without another word, Kyle turned back around and marched back to the truck, with butterflies of thoughts fluttering throughout his head. He climbed into the vehicle as Corey started up the engine, and the truck slowly moved away from the house. Kyle starred at the house. The house was a pale blue, much like the porch’s former color was. The house had only one floor and only one window, at least on the front anyway. And as Corey started to hum to an Oldies song that began to play on the radio, a startling conclusion struck Kyle. Why would the porch be red if it did not match the rest of the house? And how would it have chipped away so easily when the area rarely gets rain or any extreme elements from nature? Was it really paint? Kyle starred out the window down the street as the truck came to a sudden halt at a stoplight. The porch wasn’t painted red with paint. It was painted red with blood.

…To be continued.