Break Time
by Jen Mierisch
I’d been on the job for a couple of weeks when it happened.
I didn’t see it coming. The only thing on my mind that night was that old-school clock up on the wall. I watched its plastic numbers flip until, finally, it was 2:00 AM.
Break time.
I set down the scanner, parked the pallet jack, and walked back inside from the loading dock. The forklifts’ beeping echoed bleakly against the high ceilings and joined the droning buzz of the fluorescent lights, which bathed the racks in a jaundiced glow. A fat spider scurried beneath a discarded carton, inches from my sneakers.
Ace Warehousing might have been a cheerful place in the daytime. But during the night shift, the skylights, set in pairs in the corrugated metal roof, offered nothing but pitch blackness, staring down at us like the lidless eyes of some watchful demon.
The husky voice I’d come to detest came from behind. “Hey, hot mama.” Nick maneuvered the forklift past me, leaning out of the cab with a leer. “Lookin’ good.”
My skin crawled. I rolled my eyes and kept walking.
Up ahead, Nick swerved toward something. The forklift bounced slightly as its wheels bumped over something on the ground. The sharp squeak and Nick’s laughter told me all I needed to know.
I shuddered. The bastard had better get rid of the mutilated corpse this time. After my break, I’d check the supply closet for extra mousetraps.
Usually, I took my food and my textbooks to the picnic tables behind the warehouse. There, I could study under the floodlights. But tonight, rain pummeled the metal roof in a staccato symphony, so into the break room I went. There, I retrieved the cheesy-bean-and-rice burrito I’d grabbed at Taco Bell on my way to work, popped it into the microwave for a minute, and dropped into a plastic chair.
Besides me, it was just Shirley, the middle-aged lady who spent her breaks with a soup spoon in one hand and a romance novel in the other, and Isabel, who knitted and listened to her music. The only sounds were the clicking of Isabel’s needles and the low hum of the vending machines. Joey, the sweet, odd kid who kept to himself, wasn’t around. I yawned and contemplated a cup of the company-issued coffee, scalding in the pot and beckoning from across the room.
Whoops and hollers pierced the stillness. Through the break room windows, I spied Nick, driving the forklift. Tyler had perched on its prongs. Motor buzzing, the forklift rocketed past the door.
“Yeeee-haw!” bellowed Tyler as they screeched around the corner.
I exchanged eye-rolls with Shirley and Isabel. On a typical night, the boys would race the forklift down every aisle of the warehouse, gaining speed on the straightaways, taking each corner as fast as they could without tipping over. Then one of them would fork-lift the other up to the highest rack, where he’d grab the rope they’d tied there and swing down in an arc, Tarzan style, yodeling all the while.
We ignored them. No one had ever reported their behavior, as far as I knew. The shift supervisor, Brenda, didn’t bother coming in half the time, being salaried and all. We weren’t working in the warehouse to make friends or enemies. Night shift paid twice as much as day shift, and we all needed that money for something.
“Hi, Isabel. Hi, Shirley.” The chirpy voice took me by surprise.
My eyes darted upward. But it was only Joey.
“Hi Darcy,” said Joey. “How ya doing today?”
I’d stopped being nervous around Joey after my first couple of days. At first, his twitching, that constant grin, and his dopey, overeager friendliness had put me on edge. I told myself he couldn’t help it, that he was just a little different, that it was good of Ace to hire folks like Joey.
With his chubby cheeks, overbite, and light-brown hair sticking straight up from his head like bristles, Joey reminded me of a gerbil, more cute than scary. And he seemed to love everyone. If he wasn’t gabbing to you about his favorite bands or reciting song lyrics with a savant’s accuracy, he was asking to take a selfie with you. He was always grinning. Always.
“Hi, Joey.” I risked a return smile. Probably I could smile without Joey interpreting it as an invitation, as Nick might have done.
Grinning back at me, Joey strolled to an empty table and pulled a Nintendo Switch out of the pocket of his cargo pants. His fingers punched buttons, pausing only to transfer Doritos from a bag to his mouth.
Down the hall, a gleeful howl echoed against the rafters, followed by laughter.
On my first night at Ace, Nick and Tyler had tried to get me to ride the forklift with them at break time. Torn between wanting to make friends and wanting to avoid trouble, I’d said no. Tyler had looked disappointed, but he shrugged and left to start the night’s races. Nick had looked petulant, like a child who hadn’t gotten his way.
The next night was dry, the outdoor picnic area deserted. I settled onto my favorite bench and took out my sandwich.
“What up, girl,” growled a husky voice.
Nick sat down on the bench next to me and immediately scooted closer. I was acutely aware of his leg, three inches from my own. My nostrils filled with a mix of Nick’s cheap cologne and whatever product he’d used to spike his bleached-blond hair. An earring glinted above his tattooed neck. Everything about Nick repulsed me, but rather than saying so, I hunched over my book in silence. Years of experience had taught me that telling him to buzz off would make me the bitch.
“That a good book you got there?”
“Mm-hmm.” I stared at my biology textbook as if it contained a magic spell to banish creeps.
“Why don’tcha give me your number,” Nick said. It was more an order than a suggestion. “We can get together, maybe do something more fun than reading.” His knees spread wider and his leg made contact with mine. I edged away.
“No thanks,” I muttered. “Just trying to study.” I wondered if the warehouse had exterior cameras on this side of the building, and if so, whether anybody watched the footage.
“Studying,” Nick said in the same tone of voice others might use to say sewage. “Come on, baby. You ain’t got nothing to be afraid of.”
I scooted some more. I was at the edge of the bench now.
“Mmm,” Nick said, his eyes traveling everywhere on my body except my own eyes, scanning my jeans and T-shirt like a snake deciding where to bite its prey. “I do love me some brown sugar.” His fingers brushed my thigh. I flinched and sprang awkwardly away from the table.
“Don’t do that.” Bristle-haired Joey stood in the doorway, arms folded, glaring at Nick. His face twitched more than usual, but his voice was clear, and for once, he wasn’t grinning. “You stop that. Can’t you see? Darcy doesn’t like that.”
I stared at Joey, open-mouthed. Nick spat a dismissive laugh, but he was looking at Joey too. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour, maybe it was the floodlights lighting Joey’s face from below, casting a huge shadow behind him, but Joey’s brown eyes seemed beadier than usual—like those of a nocturnal creature stalking its prey.
“What?” said Nick, “You planning to make a move?” He slid off the bench and stood to face Joey. “Trying to get yourself a piece of that ass? Fat chance, dipshit.”
Joey didn’t move. I looked from one man’s face to the other. Some unspoken signal seemed to pass between them. Nick took a step backward. Was this some sort of bro code that I couldn’t fathom?
“You go away,” said Joey. “Leave Darcy alone.” His arm jerked sideways, casting a giant-sized shadow behind him. The left side of his face twitched so hard that it looked contorted. His eyebrows folded into a V shape, which might have been comical, but then his throat started spasming.
“Get lost,” he said. “Get. Get. GET.” The sounds were guttural, rhythmic. They grew louder with each subsequent word until they were like the bark of a furious dog. Joey’s other arm flung out. The shadows on the wall behind him were two enormous black wings.
“What the fuck,” sputtered Nick. “Something is seriously wrong with you, dude.” But he backed off. He shook his head, he grumbled insults under his breath, he accidentally-on-purpose clocked Joey on the shoulder on his way back inside—but he kept walking.
The next night, it rained again. Joey and Nick appeared to be back on good terms, both of them cruising on the forklift together with Tyler. All I could do was shake my head. I’d never understand men.
In the break room, as I chewed my bologna sandwich, I could hear all three of them horsing around up on the top shelves, up near the ceiling. Suddenly, their hollering was interrupted by a loud smack, followed by an ear-splitting scream of pain, and then silence. Shirley and I looked at each other, got up from the tables, and ran.
Nick lay on the floor, whimpering. Blood oozed across the gray concrete. The seep kissed the frayed edge of the broken rope, turning it lipstick red.
When the paramedics touched Nick’s leg to lift him onto the stretcher, his shrieks echoed off the metal ceiling, the canyon howl of a wounded wolf.
The next day, a new guy clocked in, and we never saw Nick again.
“Hi Darcy, how ya doing today?”
I glanced up to see Joey taking a seat at an empty picnic table with his Switch. The floodlights lit the side of his smiling face.
“Doing better now?” he asked me.
The dopey grin was the same. Or was it?
His left eye twitched. It might have been a wink.
Jen Mierisch’s dream job is to write Twilight Zone episodes, but until then, she’s a website administrator by day and a writer of odd stories by night. Jen’s work can be found in the Arcanist, NoSleep Podcast, Scare Street, and numerous anthologies. Jen can be found haunting her local library near Chicago, USA. She is an active member of the Horror Writers Association.
Whisper House Press 
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