Delivery from Milton & Co.

Milton & Co. employs millions of people globally. It’s a massive firm that involves numerous lines of business that no one seems to understand, including Marcus, whose job he estimates is “emails.”

Marcus does the same thing daily: type constant replies to his faceless clientele at his bare cubicle (no photos or trinkets allowed). They usually have the same demands:

Can I get this organizational announcement?

Where are my talking points?

Oooh, this very important executive is going to be at my site and I want a picture.

Windowless grey walls surround and tower over his desk. Marcus walks in and out of the office by himself every day. His only communication at work is from his clients and the occasional company email. 

The heat in his wing is imposing. Marcus can’t understand why the air conditioning could work in the entire building except for his wing; it feels like a sauna. It’s common for Marcus to sweat through his clothes by noon every day. 

***

Today, as Marcus sits down and logs on, he gets an email from Milton & Co.. The subject line reads, “Package Delivery.” Dread fills his body. It’s never good when the company sends you a package without warning. Marcus can’t think of a reason why the company would send him one.

He forwards the email to the spam folder, hoping it was a mistake. Sometimes the company will send those emails as a test to see if you read them. All you have to do is report it as spam, and you’re in the clear. Right after he clicks his mouse, however, his finger tip slightly burns. Marcus puts his finger in his mouth to cool. He gets another email from Milton & Co. with the same subject line, “Package Delivery.”

Marcus opens the email.

A package has been delivered to your locker: O5221. You have 15 minutes to pick it up.

Milton & Co. values efficiency. If you have to get up, it better be for only a few minutes. Need a bathroom break? No more than 3 minutes. Need a lunch break? Not gonna happen.

A window pops up on Marcus’ computer screen; it’s a red analog clock set at 15:00. His keyboard sizzles slightly as a bead of cold sweat drops from his waxed forehead. Marcus stares at the screen, hoping it will just go away. Maybe it was another test by Milton & Co., but what for? Who cares? Milton & Co. never respects their employees’ time or dignity on any of their other company loyalty tests. You could be the model employee, and they would still throw one of these tests at you to make sure you’re not too comfortable. It’s a reminder of who’s in charge.

This could be a loyalty test, or maybe he did mess something up. Either way, Marcus isn’t getting out of this. He knows this. There’s nothing he can do.

Marcus looks at his cracked digital watch and sets a timer for 15 minutes. He takes a deep breath, stands up, and starts his timer. The computer clock starts ticking. Marcus hurries away from his desk and plunges through the wing doors to the locker room. 

***

It normally takes him 30 minutes to get to the locker room from his desk and return, but Marcus only has 15 minutes. This journey includes 3 steep flights of stairs and a half-mile walk.

Sweat protrudes from Marcus’ shirt, corduroy pants, and forehead as he runs down the flight of stairs. The temperature increases exponentially in the normally cool and temperate building. The claustrophobic flights of stairs compound Marcus’ anxiety. 

Trying to leap down the last flight of stairs, Marcus trips and stumbles out of the exit door, falling face-first on the ground. The heat radiating from the floor burns Marcus, like a blaze from black pavement. He checks his watch. He now has fourteen minutes. Marcus sprints to the locker room. 

He wheezes as he pushes himself further than ever. The run feels long. There are no indicators for where he’s at, just gray walls without visible doors. Fear keeps Marcus from slowing down. 

If there is one lesson Marcus has learned during his time at Milton: never be late. He’s heard coworkers rush from their desks to get a package. You can tell when someone is late. The sound of swelling fire is hard to ignore.

In just over four minutes, Marcus makes it to the pitch-black locker room with endless black lockers. He sees the attendant, a tattooed bald man named Brock. Marcus was hoping to not run into Brock. Whenever Marcus has to grab a package, Brock is always behind the counter, making awkward jokes and advances. Sometimes it’s a comment about how cute he looks, other times it’s just outright sexual harassment. 

Marcus swore he heard Brock whisper in his ear one time that he wanted to suck his dick.

Marcus can’t stand Brock’s slow cadence while talking—it feels like Brock is trying to make him late. 

Marcus pants reaching the front desk, Brock greets him with an indecent smile, highlighting multiple missing teeth. Brock turns his head to feature his more yellowish good side. Brock can’t help but notice Marcus’ tired body barely standing.

“Mr. Milton making you work hard today?” Brock asks Marcus

“O5221,” Marcus tells him through heavy breathing. Marcus checks his watch. He has less than 9 minutes left.

“In a hurry? What’s got you so tense?” Brock mockingly toys him. 

“I don’t have any time. Just bring the package,” Marcus sputters out.

“Oh, I guess you are in a rush. One package coming up,” Brock winks at Marcus before sauntering away.

Marcus stands alone in the middle of the locker room. He feels himself getting hotter as the temperature rises. He tries to slow his breathing, but the heat makes it difficult. 

In the past, Marcus was given 30 minutes to retrieve a package. Mostly, it’s just updated office supplies such as mousepads, pens, and keyboards. Those packages are usually known about well in advance. There was only one time Marcus got a package without warning. 

Marcus was a minute late getting an org announcement out. The next day, the first email he saw was from Milton & Co. telling him that he had to get a package in 20 minutes. He rushed down the same sets of stairs, tumbling down the entire last floor and spraining his right wrist. He made it back to his desk with only a few seconds to spare. Marcus opened the package and saw only a single word on a piece of paper that said, “Warning.” 

Now, Marcus has five minutes less to pick up another package. He doesn’t even know what he did wrong.

Marcus checks his watch again; 8 minutes have passed since he left his desk. Marcus could have sworn he had more time. Milton & Co. will sometimes speed up or slow down time, depending on how well you’re doing at work. He needs to get back to his desk now. Brock slowly struts his way to the front desk with his package.

“Here you go, Marky,” Brock tells him as he leans over with the small package on his palm. Marcus tries to grab the package, but Brock snatches it away. “What do you say?” Brock asks.

“Brock, not now,” Marcus says through gritted teeth.

“What do you say?” Brock repeats louder.

Marcus lets out a moan of frustration. “May I please have the package?”

“All you had to do was ask,” Brock replies with a giggle. Marcus snatches the package away. Marcus tries to leave, but a burning sensation hits his groin. Marcus falls to the ground, screaming in agony. It feels like lemon juice is squirting directly into his wounds. 

“Bitch, you know you need to sign for it first,” Brock pulls the clipboard from under the desk. Marcus pushes through pain to lift himself up. He rushes to the front desk, and snatches the board from Brock, and signs it. Marcus starts to walk backwards after throwing the clipboard towards Brock

“Are you sure you’re done?” Brock asks Marcus.

“What are you talking about?” Marcus asks.

Brock leans over the counter with his left skingraphed cheek angled toward Marcus. “This side needs attention!”

Dread paints Marcus’ face. Brock has never propositioned a cheek kiss for a package before. Marcus doesn’t know if this is even a thing he has to do. Brock props his upper body over the counter, puckering his lips. 

Marcus walks closer to Brock and kisses him on the previously burnt cheek. Brock immediately turns his face forward and kisses Marcus on the lips. Brock manages to get his octopus-like tongue inside before Marcus falls backwards and runs out of the locker room.

“You’re not gonna make it, sweetie!” Brock cackles as loud as he can.

Marcus checks his watch. He has three minutes. Marcus pushes himself faster than ever. 

“There’s no way you can do this. You’re not gonna make it,” Marcus thinks to himself.

It took him seven minutes to reach the locker room. He still has to climb three flights of stairs. Marcus reaches the first flight of stairs. Two minutes remain. He gets past the third flight of stairs, which seem longer and steeper than earlier, but he gets past them. 30 seconds remain. 

Marcus sprints down a suspiciously longer hallway and aggressively pushes open the doors of his wing. 10 seconds remain.

He sprints to his cubicle before tripping halfway; the box stumbles right next to his cubicle. Five seconds remain. He leaps quickly and grabs his package as he hops onto his chair. Marcus checks his watch and sees the 1 turn to 0. 

***

He has no idea how he made it back. Doing this task was objectively impossible, but Milton & Co. makes the impossible a reality. Marcus leans back in his chair and lets out a relieved sigh. His heart pounds aggressively against his sweat-soaked chest. As his lungs and heart slow their tempo, Marcus feels a burning sensation on his back. It quickly becomes searing. Marcus sits straight up, not touching the back of the chair. Instant relief. 

Marcus moves closer to his desk to open the package. Inside is a pair of white gloves. Marcus pulls out the gloves and notices that the finger tips are heavy. He looks inside the right index finger to see a small, sharp pin. Confused, Marcus stands up to see if he can get better light on them. As soon as he stands up, his feet burn as if being branded. Marcus plops down, and the chair burns his back before he straightens his posture. 

Marcus sets the gloves to the side and begins typing. He feels small burns on his fingertips when they touch the keyboard. He immediately stops typing, and his fingers return to normal. Marcus takes the hint and puts on the gloves. 

Marcus slowly puts his left hand inside the glove. His moves are delicate to hopefully spare his fingertips. Once his hand is inside, the tips don’t touch the pins. Marcus looks at his gloved hand, relieved not to feel any pain. He puts on the other glove a little more confidently, fingertips safe. Feeling calmer, Marcus starts to type, and immediately his fingertips feel sharp stabs. Blood paints the gloves’ tips and pulse with his heart.

Marcus looks around his wing. Walls silo everyone in their cubicle, but you can hear the winces of pain and yelps that mirror his every time he leans back. He never noticed the natural sound of the office previously. 

Marcus takes off the gloves and puts them to the side. He looks at his blood-soaked hands, with each fingertip adorned with a deep divot. Marcus starts to feel nauseous. 

His head begins to swim as if he were about to black out; he feels the need to vomit. Marcus slides off his chair onto the floor. He purges whatever yellow and black solids and liquids are in his body. The carpet soaks up the vomit while half of Marcus’ face lies on top of what appears to be yellow ground pork. No one comes to help him or even clean up the vomit.

The floor is stovetop hot. Marcus starts to fight his instincts. If he picks himself back up, he’ll be hurt by something else.

“Just end this now,” Marcus thinks, “I don’t have any more in me.”

Smoke rises from Marcus’ head. He holds his screams just inside his throat. He will not scream for this company anymore. They are going to have to drag his body out of here. Marcus stays on the ground for close to two minutes. He still holds in any cries he so desperately wants to release.

A putrid smell fills his nostrils as his skin burns off. His entire body feels the burns from the ground. The razor blade cuts and lemon juice stings return to his crotch. Marcus’ body begins to convulse; he no longer has control.

Not able to handle it anymore, Marcus lets out a cry for help.

“End this already!” Marcus yells out in the room. “Someone kill me!”

His body is lifted off the ground. He hovers over his cubicle, but not high enough to see over other cubicles. The pain is instantly gone, except for half of his face. He smells the burning flesh and bursting blisters that dribble down to his chin. He’s dropped onto his chair. Marcus leans back for a few seconds before his back is scorched. 

Marcus is wheezing. Each exhale grinds his throat. Half of his face has been burnt to a deep, crusted black. Only his left eye is not black, but a bloodshot red. Marcus is sitting up straight, staring at his computer. He can’t leave until his shift is over. He can’t work unless he puts on the gloves. 

With no other option, Marcus puts on the white, blood-tipped gloves. Each stab on his fingers is more painful than the last. He opens his email and sees a client message about a recent newsletter. They both collaborated on this piece together. The client approved the final version before Marcus published it. When Marcus clicked to read the email from the client, all it showed was a misspelled title for one of the people featured. That’s all the client sent.

Marcus reads over the note multiple times, shocked that he would miss such an error. Marcus proceeds to type out an apology to the client. That mistake will never happen again.

Richard Sanders writes short stories involving the absurd and horror. He’s currently working on his first novel. He lives in Circleville, OH with his wife, Jenny Hanna, and their three cats: Iron Juliard, Ghost Minelli, and Countess Sparkles. You can follow him on Bluesky and Letterboxd: richardowen24