Kurzgeschichten - ShortStorys

The Courier: Package

Let's dance
For fear your grace should fall
Let's dance
For fear tonight is all-

Killing the radio and opening the car door, Fynn sighed as as the heavy rain started hailing against his weather proof poncho.

Usually, being outside in the middle of nowhere was part of his job description as a courier, but that job normally lead him to small settlements and warm taverns instead of having to wait in some small forest clearing on the side of the road.

Sighing, again, He rolled the poncho back enough to look at his watch.

7:59 PM

The recipients of the package he had been asked to deliver would arrive any time now. Fynn was curious, no doubt about that, about both the package itself and the ones coming to get it. But to have fledgling clientele in his days economy and humanity's total pushback on all fronts? He had started his job with an easy enough motto and he intended to see it through.

Don't fuck around; don't find out.

Whistling a merry tune, Fynn looked up to see approaching headlights parting the relentless rain. He walked to the back of his armored van, opened the rear doors and retrieved the package. It was fairly small, only slightly bigger than his fist. What it lacked in dimensions, it more then made up in weight.

Fynn just shook his head and turned around, eyeing the three cars coming to a stop just besides the road.

Those Cars were big, armored and ready to Mangle. Two had a gun mounted on top, one some kind of contraption halfway tilted sky high. A rocket launcher? These were Professionals.

Mercs?

Fynns guess was as good as any. He liked Mercs, most of the time anyways. They stood for business and nothing else, didn't try to kill him too hard, and mostly were nice to him when he revealed his occupation.

Capitalism driven brother recognizing capitalism driven brother or something along those lines.

As the doors opened Fynn stopped whistling, but the tune continued. He flexed his powers. First the tune ebbed before seemingly melting with the world around him, increasing in fullness and blanketing the area around him. Even the rain seemed less gloomy.

As the possible Mercs stepped out of their cars—nine in total—Fynn was surprised to see the scaled skin of Crucatians. Big, muscular, and fairly intimidating to most people, these lizardmen seemed even more deadly than their already fairly strong fellows. Being part of a spartan-like-cultur does that to a Mf.

Fynn let his arms loosely hang at his sides while putting on his best and most friendly smile.

„Krux?"
He called over the pouring rain, using the Codename he had been provided.

„Rushhour?"
Came the grumbled reply by the lead Merc. This one looked even taller than the rest, sporting blue scales and massive Revolver on his hip. His lackeys—spreading out around them—all carried rifles.
„Where's the package?"
„Right here," Fynn stepped to the Side, revealing it.

He let the music do its job, trying to keep the situation calm.

The Merc reached for the package.
„Nice getup you have, especially the cars, respect." Fynn said.
„Thanks," the Merc said while both grabbing the package and keeping an eye on Fynn, „but let's keep this professional, shall we?"
„Sure, sure, all for it"
„You will find the pay in your account in-"

The music sputtered.

Fynns hand immediately shot to his waist, his black revolver strapped to it.
The Merc noticed his sudden movements.
„Fuck, I knew something would-"
„Shush" Fynn silenced him, his eyes scanning his surroundings.

There's was nothing amiss, the only thing he could see through the rain were the eight other Mercs around them.

The music came back.

Not the merry tune he started, instead it sounded ghostly, wrong, even. It creeped through his consciousness and made his skin crawl.

Fynn and the blue-scaled Merc stood back to back, scanning their surroundings.
„MEN, PREPARE" the big Crucatian shouted.

His men did not move, now that Fynn thought about it, they seemed to almost be frozen in place.

„Stay close," Fynn whispered to the Merc.
„What do you think I planned on?" he shot back through clenched teeth.
„I don't know, just don't want to loose-" a shot rang out.

One of the Mercs crumbled to the ground, gun smoking.

„J-seven! Everyone, alert! Get the fuck back here!!" the Merc on Fynns back shout-whispered.
Fynn traced the Merc around them with his eyes.

Another one began to move slowly, more lethargic than anything. And another, and another, and another...

They raised their rifles to their own temples.

Fynns eyes widened, the music only adding to the creepiness.

One by one, the seven Mercs pulled the trigger and shot themselves in the head.