Dan the Deliverer

 

I need a new hazmat suit. I went over mine last night with the approved sealer, but I just don’t trust it. I’ve asked for a new one for the past three weeks. No one seems to care. I’m not in a Level I delivery district. I’m not even in a Level II or III. I service a Level IV. I am fooling myself to think that I am high enough priority to get a new suit. Heck, I’d settle for a used one in better condition than mine.

As much as I’d like to procrastinate, I eventually slip on my suit and head to the supply depot for my load of daily deliveries. I’m lucky in some sense, because most of my Level IV deliveries are small. Residents of the Community Units don’t have a lot to spend.

I get my truck loaded up by 6:00 am and I’m at my first stop by 7:00 am. My Level IV district is on the outskirts of town.

It’s rough out here. I carry a gun and pepper spray. The gun is for a rouge gang that haunts the area. They stole some suits years ago from a truck that turned over on Stark Street. Whether they were responsible for the accident is unclear. No one lived to tell the tale. The shipment of suits was worth a fortune and no doubt made their way to the black market, but the gang kept one for each of them. They have roamed the Community Units area ever since, stealing, scrounging and looting whatever they can.

My gun keeps them at bay. I don’t have to be a good shot. No one wants to take the chance of their suit being punctured.

As for the pepper spray, it is meant to deter the feral dogs. They were pets, a few generations ago, that were left behind when their owners succumbed to the Cull. They escaped their homes, formed packs, interbred, and started hunting for their food. Unfortunately, anything out and about, ie delivery personnel, are on their menu. I can avoid the packs. I can get my truck up close for the deliveries, but I do worry about Aslan.

I named the cat after the lion in a fairytale my parents used to read me when I was a kid. I just wish he liked humans as much as the character in the books.

Aslan’s parentage must go back to some large breed of domestic cat, maybe a Maine Coon, who got loose and mated with a wild cat. Maybe a cougar. From there, his relatives must have continued to inbreed until it resulted in Aslan. He is the size of a mountain lion with long variegated black to multi-shaded grey fur, so thick you could probably sink your hand in to the wrist if he was sweet tempered enough to let you. That is not the case. He has found that my Level IV district is a good hunting ground. With the absence of humans, wildlife has exploded. Deer browse the recreational areas, parks, parkways, and overgrown streets and highways. Wild boar root through the underbrush and rabbits pop up everywhere.

Aslan hunts these… and me. He has taken to stalking me. I looked up, on the World Web, what velocity of gun would stop a lion. It was recommended a hunter use a .350 Riger Mauser. I have a snub-nose .38. I don’t want to take the chance of just wounding him. That would make him even more dangerous. Instead, I have become extremely vigilant. He is sneaky and very intelligent. Unlike the dogs, he climbs and lays in wait for his prey. I watched from a safe distance the other day as he took down a huge boar.

One swipe of his clawed paw and I wouldn’t have to worry about him eating me alive, I would succumb to the Cull entering my suit from the claw ripped fabric.

 

~*~

 

You’re reading this, so you know I lived through the incident, but it did not turn out as I expected.

I was on the last deliveries of the day. It’s an old prison. When the Cull first hit, they installed some ventilation scrubbers on the roof and threw up some plastic paneled barriers over each cell entry with a ‘safe box’ for sliding food through to the prisoners. The halls stayed open to the outside hence preventing the prisoners from trying to escape as the law enforcement staff dwindled. Prisoners left at their own risk. Some did try. Others stayed and continued to live off society.

As the prisoners died of natural causes the desperate and homeless started to take over the cubicles of the safe cells. That was the early days of the Cull. By the time I started making deliveries the place was full of poor, free folks that had taken refuge there. The government keeps track of the head count. Some cells have as many as five people in them. The powers that be send a weekly box to each cell. They have permanent service personnel who pick up garbage.

So, I deliver one hundred and ten packages to the former prison once a week.

I can’t park as close as I would like for these deliveries. The foliage around the prison has grown up too high and the authorities see no need to spend money on maintaining it since they feel they are already going out of their way to feed what they perceive as rejects of society.

I park my truck in the drive-up delivery space and make several trips with a full hand truck back and forth to the building.

I had just finished the final delivery and came out the door to find Aslan sitting in the sun between me and my truck. I was hot and sweaty in my suit from the multiple runs up the stairs that need to be made for this building. He looked content. Just sitting, licking his paws and cleaning his face.

I stood for a moment thinking. It wouldn’t do any good to run. I’d seen him take down prey that was far faster than me in my bulky hazmat suit. I thought a slow approach with gun at the ready and using the hand truck as a shield might be the best bet. The roll up door on the back of my truck was open. The bed was filled with empty boxes. I always offer to take the box from the previous delivery from my customers. Many don’t have room to store them and they can be sterilized and reused.

So, I figured if I could make it to the truck, I could just dive in and use the boxes to cushion my fall, slam the door down, and run for it.

I started edging my way toward the truck, giving Aslan a wide birth. He kept cleaning, but I knew he was watching my every move. I do believe he was playing with me. Cats do that you know. Play with their food. I’ve seen it on the web.

I inched forward and he didn’t turn until I made my way out of his peripheral vision. I was walking backward, keeping the hand truck between him and me.

When he came to his feet, I raised my gun. When he crouched and started to wiggle his butt in preparation for pouching, I fired my gun in the air. He jumped like he had been shot. Obviously, he had never heard gunfire before. I took the opportunity to pick up the pace and started to run, dragging the hand truck behind me.

Aslan decided he wasn’t as afraid as he thought he was and started to chase me. I was gaining on the truck. Just a few more strides and I would be home free. Aslan lunged. I pushed the hand truck toward him, and it was enough to distract him for me to jump in the truck. I scrambled to my feet inside, kicking boxes out as I quickly slammed down the roll-up door. I heard Aslan hit the door. It made the door boom and rattle loose on its hinges.

I ran to the front of the truck, started it up, and sped away to a safe distance.

Aslan didn’t follow. He must not have been used to prey fighting back. Instead, he decided to investigate the boxes I kicked out. I sat at a distance, in the safety of the truck, and watched as the cat played in the boxes. Yes, he played. He rolled on them. He hid behind one to pounce on another. He even found one big enough he wedged his butt in it. With his head hanging over the side of the box he gave me a ‘come hither’ look. I found myself smiling at him. Maybe we could be friends, or at least not enemies.

He opened his mouth in a massive yawn, showing off huge fangs. When he closed his jaws, it was over the edge of the box. For the next thirty minutes he proceeded to tear the cardboard into palm sized piece.

Friends??? Uh, maybe not…