Henry Ebnar and the Blue Box(Will Neill) The Curious Tale of
Henry Ebner
And
The Blue Box

‘Authors note; Dear reader….The idea for this story first came about in the late 90’s but was never written until 2006. The original version (partly based on true facts) was much shorter than this but for me it never really did the story justice. So I have rewritten it and I do hope you will enjoy it- but please don’t skip, I know its long, however reading it in its entirety will be the only way to fully appreciate the end twist’ - Thank you.

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Morning comes around too soon when you’ve spent the previous night doing battle with Mr. Jack Daniels; this was how it was for Henry Ebner. Around his shambolic bed the floor was strewn with the aftermath of the conflict, a mêlée Mr. Daniels eventually always won.
Remnants of older clashes gathered dust in the corners of his room amidst the decaying leftovers from some long forgotten fast food delivery which now was paying host to every winged insect that shared his abode. Like a pig Henry wallowed in his mire.

As he drifts in and out of consciousness Henry clasps his ears in a vain bid to shut out the shrill of his alarm clock, a deafening irritating tone that reminds him of his Mothers voice when she was in one of her moods, which had now suddenly intruded into his slumber. It was a small leaving present given the day he ventured out into the big bad world, and at thirty it wasn’t a moment too soon as far as she was concerned. Now two years on and here he was still a lost boy, tortured by inner demons of his own social ineptitude. Saliva dribbles from the corner of his mouth as he drifts in and out of his uneasy semi drunk sleep, leaving spit stains on his already putrid pillow. Henry rolls onto his back bringing on a fit of coughing. Soon he is gasping for air, almost choking to the point of drowning in his own drool, only made worse by the lingering asthma he’s had to endure since childhood. Suddenly he’s awake, bolt upright, trying desperately to suck air into his lungs. However his abrupt change of position from horizontal to vertical brings on a wave of pain, the inevitable consequences after his previous nights liquor combat. Each cough intensifying the agony and the penetrating sound of the clock only exaggerates his misery. Another sip of bourbon would cure his ill he was sure, and soon a frantic search commences in every nook and cranny until at last in one discarded bottle he finds a single swallow of his liquid redemption.

Henry greedily gulps his mouthful and soon the alcohol injection seems to work, a bearable numbness replaces his throbbing, the coughing begins to slowly subside, and his shakes are gradually fading; he can feel normality may soon be on the horizon like a rising sun. Before long he should be able to function. Henry's next thoughts turn to a similar necessary alleviation of his growing need for nicotine and, much like his recent whiskey safari, he begins to hunt his savanna of grime for an old stogie he was sure he’d soon find in his overflowing trash can. After a short rummage it would seem his luck is in, he discovers a near empty ten pack and it rewards him with a three quarters long Pall Mall lite, enough he deduces (if he smokes it slowly) for at least four good long drag’s.
Henry lights the cigarette (taking care not to burn his nose) and returns to his sweat stained bed contemplating buying a pack on his way to work.
‘’Ah work’’ he says out loud with an air of distaste while blowing out a smoke ring. ‘’My means to an end, my reason to go on, bull shit’’ he snorts. ‘’Oh how I hate my crappy job’’ he sighs, and as if to pour salt into his wounds the clock alarm relentlessly continues to ring reminding him to hurry along. He could not be late, not today of all days, because he was already on his last chance with his super, and he had made it quite clear there would be no more left. Henry not only hated his mundane occupation, but despised his boss George Trundle, a man who was the spitting image of Oliver Hardy, however minus the comedian’s affable demeanor. ‘Henry!’ he had hissed at him the last time they’d met, his eyes narrow with contempt.

Trundle was sat there all smug like and poking the air with his fat index finger from behind his out-sized wooden desk at the Hospital where they both worked. Henry wasn’t really paying much attention regarding the dressing down; he’d heard it all before. But he remembers being mesmerized by the way his face was going from a bright shade of pink to a velvety red color, much like the dress his mother liked to wear to church on a Sunday, the angrier he got. And how his little moustache seemed to dance like a hairy caterpillar up and down on his upper lip as he talked.

‘Mess this up again and I’ll have to let you go, do you understand. No further days off, and no more calling in sick, is that clear’. Henry shamefully recalls standing like a naughty school boy, his head bowed and hands wringing in fear like a slave might quiver at his master’s voice.

Out in the corridor however his petulant manner soon changed. ‘Jumped up little fart, who does he think he is? My job is hardly life and death in these vast halls of pain and suffering, so what’s the big deal? All I do is sweep the corridors, make sure the toilets are clean and collect those strange blue boxes on my trolley every now and then and transport them from a room on level 5 to level 3. Stack them according to size outside the white door, and then press the red button on the wall before leaving.

‘’You must never look inside, protocol you understand’’ Trundle had ordered him on his first day during his initial briefing. "All you have to do is place them by the door, ring the bell, and return the trolley to the collection point. Then go back to your other work until you are needed again, some one will call you, is that clear?"

Henry knew he wasn’t the smartest monkey in the pack but this was really a no brainer.
‘’Yes sir" he’d agreed– and that’s how it had mostly went for the last two years. But lately his curiosity was begging him to sneak a look. He figured if he was going to get the sack at some stage, considering he was on the last of his nine lives, he may as well feed the cat, besides, taking a look would hardly kill him, would it?.

With his dog end now sucked into tobacco oblivion Henry makes his way down his short hall to his bathroom, pushing aside the discarded paper coffee cups and empty pizza boxes with his bare feet, pausing only to switch on his radio. Inside the décor of his lavatory remains in keeping with the rest of his apartment, if not slightly more odorous. Henry stands and relieves himself into the toilet, his eyes closed tight in bladder emptying pleasure before finally emitting a contented moan as the last drop escapes. He doesn’t bother to wash his hands but looks into the mirror above his tiny sink. A cheap inadequate light bulb barely lights the room but it’s enough for him to gaze morosely on his refection. For a moment he turns away disgusted by what he sees. Gone are the boyish looks of his teens, that clean cut face and rounded chin are now replaced with features he no longer recognizes. Looking back is a thirty something loser, a druggie, a drunk with a bloated pale expression and whispers of hair on a sweating balding head. Over his shoulder news and weather bulletins are warning of impending hurricane Emily which is due to land fall in the San Francisco area later that day, the advice being given is to stay indoors until the storm has passed.

Henry sniffs and wipes away a lingering single tear from the corner of his eye then tries to comb what little locks he has left into some sort of order paying little attention to the casters recommendations. With that done and his ablutions concluded, his only train of thought is to locate his least dirty shirt and accompanying tie which he vaguely remembers taking off the night before. He finds them after ten frantic searching minutes stuffed down the back of his couch along with his gray pants. He puts them on then glances at the clock on the wall above the fireplace. It's 7.55 am, if he leaves now he could still catch the 8.10 tram and make it in by 9.00 providing it wasn’t late.

Henry grabs his coat and slams the heavy steel door of his apartment behind him; he hurries down from his first floor landing into the lobby and slips a key into the lock of a tall glass partition which leads out onto the street. He steps out into the bright August sunshine momentarily overpowered by the noise of traffic and Californian morning heat. He knows his tram stop is a good brisk four blocks walk away, ten minutes at least he estimates, he’s got roughly about seven. Reluctantly he begins to run, but instantly regrets this choice as a wave of nausea erupts inside his head and ripples to his stomach like an earthquake tremor making his urge to throw up since he’s got out of bed even more imperative than catching his tram. Seconds later Henry has deposited his last evening meal onto the side of the road. Much to the distaste of some passing pedestrians. ‘What the hell are you looking at?’ he shouts in their direction, then wipes his mouth with the cuff of his coat before resuming his sprint, just making the stop as the tram arrives. Henry climbs on board and pays the driver, a small Asian man, with two crumpled dollar bills then finds a seat by the window. It’s a forty minute trip to the UCSF Medical Centre where Henry works, a journey he’s quite used to taking so he figures on grabbing a few more Z’s.

Henry pulls the hood of his coat down over his head to filter out the sunlight and slumps into his seat; soon he is slowly drifting off into an uneasy sleep helped by the gentle rocking of the trams carriage. In his lucid dream he sees himself pushing his trolley along a hospital corridor which is stacked near to overloading with blue boxes. Around him bodiless voices are echoing through the halls, each one talking, whispering to him of how every container is full of drugs. Medicines like Morphine, Demerol and Oxycontin maybe they say. All of which have been reported missing, unaccounted for, possibly stolen and believed being sold on the black market. Hundreds each month are going astray, if the rumors were true, yet to date security and the police had failed to find the perpetrators or catch anyone in the act.

This got him to thinking, so what if he was the patsy, he begins to speculate, the fall guy for some drugs baron operating within the hospital, a no face entity making bucket loads of cash, and he’d be the one to fall for it if caught while he moved those mysterious boxes from level three to the basement. How was that fair? He wasn’t making any money! But he had an inkling who might be, good old George Trundle, his super; why else would he insist he should never look inside them. It’s because he didn’t want him to find out his dirty little secret that’s why!

He always had a feeling George wasn’t as squeaky clean as he made out. Time for him, he thought, to get a piece of the action. In his dream Henry hears footsteps coming from behind as he pushes his trolley; he begins to walk more quickly frightened to turn around. ‘Hey you stop!’ someone shouts - Jesus Christ he thinks, it’s the police, he’s been caught. He feels a hand suddenly gripping his shoulder, instantly he’s awake. A man with a badge on his hat is looking at him.
‘Hey mister, isn’t this your stop?’ Henry looks around, confused.
‘I’ve seen you on my tram before, don’t you work in the Hospital?’ he says pointing out of the window. ‘If you miss this one you’ll have to walk all the way back, best if you get off here.’
Henry quietly nods and gets up from his seat, brushing the man aside. ‘Aint nobody gonna make a fool outta Henry Ebner, least of all George Trundle,’ he mumbles as he lumbers down the aisle. ‘One box, that’s all, and besides its not as if old George can complain to the cops if one goes missing.’

Now that he’s off the tram Henry can feel the wind has picked up a bit and small spats of rain are peppering the sidewalk. Somewhere in his jaded memory banks from earlier he seems to recall the monotonous voice of a weather man droning on from his radio about a storm rolling in later that day. it would seem the tedious chap may have been right after all. He didn’t care though, by the time it would be in full swing he’s certain he’ll be back in his apartment working out just how much his treasure trove would be worth. Prescription drugs are as precious as gold if sold on the net.

Henry strolls into UCSF Medical Centre’s busy lobby and presses the elevators button, his humble store room is on level one at the end of the south facing corridor. As he waits his mind is in overdrive thinking about how he’s going to smuggle out one of the boxes without being seen by Trundle. A jobs worst busy body who likes to linger around the shift clock-out station most nights until everyone has gone home. He could hide one under his coat but it would be too obvious. if he’d remembered to bring his backpack he may possibly conceal one in it, but Trundle would only ask to have a look inside on his way out and he’d be caught red handed.

The elevator doors open and Henry steps in along with a few waiting others. No, there had to be another way he thinks, but how? Lost in his thoughts Henry selects his floor, not noticing his friend Harvey Goldberg who is already on the carriage. Above his head from a speaker in the wall panel a cute ladies voice announces the doors are closing. Harvey and Henry have a lot in common; both hate their supervisors, both like to drink and mutually agree that their jobs suck. A brother from another mother they like to say, but today Henry has a lot on his mind. ‘Hey dude!’ Harvey shouts, his outburst turning a few heads, including Henrys. ‘Hey Harve’ Henry says seeing him and attempts to jostle past a rather obese woman dressed in an unsightly green smock thing over khaki shorts which barely conceal her oversized butt. ‘Forgive me madam’ Henry smiles halfheartedly. ‘My friend’ he points, ‘Just there at the back, may I?’ The woman grunts like a pig and grudgingly moves aside.
Harvey’s already vigorously shaking his head like those old toy dogs that used to sit in the rear window of cars. ‘You’re gonna be late again dude’ he says ‘And Trundle’s just busting to fire your sorry ass’.
Henry lowers his voice to almost a whisper, ‘I know! I know! But it won’t matter after today Harve, because tomorrow I’ll be the one calling the shots, just you wait and see.’
‘Oh yeah, how’s that then?’
Henry taps the side of his nose with his finger and narrows his eyes. ‘Lets just say meeting you has just given me an idea’. Then before his friend can ask him what the hell he’s talking about the cute sounding lady announces the doors are opening on the first floor.
‘Gotta go buddy, this is my stop’ Henry says, and by now is already pushing his way past the overweight female in the green smock again. ‘Talk later bro, okay.’

Walking up the corridor towards his storeroom Henry has found a new lease of life, there is a spring in his step. His headache has faded to a thin bearable ache as too have his cravings for a smoke. Plus it looks like his conundrum on how to get one of the boxes out undetected has been solved.
Inadvertently lucky, he thinks, only by the pure chance of meeting his friend Harvey. How? Simple - Harvey works in the Hospitals laundry which is situated in the basement, and what connects all the floors to it? A laundry chute of course! The access hatch to which is just beside the door where he picks up the boxes. It would be a simple matter of inserting one into the chute; were it would drop down and land in the basket below. Then hey, presto, he could pick it up later on his way out. Trundle would never know. Practically fool proof. That however depended on whether or not he got a call to collect some of the blue containers. It wasn’t everyday it happened; no real pattern as such that he could think of, in fact quite random if he was to be truthful. Henry shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly; it didn’t really matter as such he figured though, today, tomorrow, next week, who cares. His plan was solid, he could wait. Mind you that too would depend on if he still had a job next week. This thought brought on a wave of panic. Best thing to do would be to brown nose old George for a while, butter him up like a piece of toast and keep on his good side until he had the leverage to blackmail him once he’d got his hands on the proof. Yes sir that was it, he was going to stitch him up big time.

It was seven minutes after nine by the time Henry punched in for his shift, and as luck would have it Trundle was in his swivel chair deep in conversation on his office phone with his back to the door (probably setting up another drugs consignment, he thought) and hadn’t noticed him outside his window. Then when Trundle didn’t page him by eleven Henry was convinced he’d dodged the bullet this time. Now all he needed was that call. It came, but not until Henry had put in one of the most nerve wrecking days ever. He’d cleaned the toilets on all seven levels; he’d emptied the trash cans in every corridor, north and south including the back and main entrances. He’d polished the lobby’s tile floor and replenished all the hand sanitizers with liquid soap throughout the building. And during all this time he was watching the clock, wondering, hoping it was going to happen.

It was while he was slopping out his bucket in the slush room fifteen minutes before he was due to finish for the day that his pager buzzed and vibrated in his breast pocket. He took it out and looked at the small digital screen; the number scrolling on it informed him he was to call it right away. It was one he was very familiar with, a smile began to slowly grace his face - the game was on. Henry found the nearest wall phone and eagerly keyed in the number. After a few rings a male voice answered.
‘Hi this is Henry Ebnar, the sanitary technician from floor one. You paged me?’
‘Four packages to pick up Henry’ the bodiless voice droned, ‘you know the drill, stat’.

Henry gently placed the phone back on its cradle and silently punched the air.

He could barely contain his excitement as he rushed to get his trolley from the store room; a few young nurses dressed in candy stripe uniforms pass him by in the corridor as he hurries swiftly along. Almost straining their necks to get a look at this weird plump balding guy reeking of body odor and mumbling incoherently to himself. Outside, beyond the passageways high windows, just on the horizon the first rolls of thunder from hurricane Emily are barely audible and faint streaks of lighting which follow are going off like rapid cameras flashes. Henry notices neither while he’s wrapped up in his exhilaration and pays little interest to the heavy rain or the noise of the wind battering the trees; his mind is focused on the task ahead. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? He thinks, all those times when he’d routinely just did what he was told, never questioning, never once did he imagine how rich one of those measly boxes could make him. Well today was the day he was about to get what he deserved.

Moment’s later Henry is stepping out of the elevator onto level five and just as the voice had instructed, four boxes, four blue boxes, are waiting for him stacked one on top of the other on the floor. Henry runs his eyes over them swiftly, then places the longest deviously into the bottom layer of his trolley. this is it, the most valuable, he decides, his ticket to easy street. Happy his plan is now in action Henry goes about implementing it as quickly as possible. Soon he is passing the laundry chute on level three and without missing a beat he drops the box into the hatch and walks on. There’s a slight dull clunk as it bounces against the steel sides of the shaft. Henry isn’t worried though because there is no one around to hear it fall. Yeah, he knows the drill alright, so why don’t you smoke that one buddy, he smiles, stat!
The rest he delivers as normal and then heads back to return his trolley and finish his shift.

Trundle is unfortunately still inside his office when he reaches the storeroom and ushers him in as he passes, pointing quietly with one of his fat digits at the seat opposite.
‘You’ve been dodging me all day Henry,’ he says, leaning forward and entwining his fingers. This is what happens when Trundle wants to have a serious talk. Henry's convinced he’s maybe been rumbled, how already he’s not sure, but it’s either that or he’s picking up his shipping out papers.
‘But I’ve been keeping tabs on you however.’
‘Figures’ Henry says, unblinking.
Trundle’s eyes narrow and there’s a flash of a sneering smile. ‘You’re up to something Ebnar, what I don’t know. first you cleaned the toilets on all seven levels; then you emptied the trash cans on every corridor, north and south including the back and main entrances. After that you polished the lobby’s tile floor and replenished all the hand sanitizers with liquid soap throughout the building. I’ve never seen you work so hard, what’s going on?’

Henry shrugs his shoulders; figuring staying quiet is the best option for the moment.

‘After being late, again for the umpteenth time, It was my intention to give you your marching orders,’ Trundle goes on. ‘but I like to think if anything I’m a fair man, Ebnar, and I believe everyone can redeem themselves given half a chance, so that’s what I’m going to do. Grant you one more, but so help me if you piss me off again your feet won’t touch the floor on your way out, kapeesh?’
This time Henry just smiles.
Trundle sea-saws his hand in a flippant gesture. ‘Good, now get the hell out of here, we’ll talk again tomorrow.’
‘You bet we will’ Henry says under his breath, heading for the door and his rendezvous with a certain package waiting for him in the basement.

At the elevator Henry begins to jab at the button with his thumb, he’s eager to get home and if he hurries he could catch the 5.50pm tram which would drop him near to the seven eleven store on his corner around 6.40, plenty of time to pick up some smokes and a bottle of J.D. According to his watch when he looks its 5.35, that gives him fifteen minutes to get down, get his box and be at the stop, could be tight. Seconds drift into minutes as he continues to impatiently push the button and glare at the floor number indicator light above the sliding doors, which seems unmoving. ‘Come on, Come on! He says getting ever more anxious. Then his worst nightmare begins to unfold. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Trundle locking his office. Rotating the key and putting on his overcoat, he’s turning, moving, and looking his way. He’s going to get into the elevator with him; he’ll ask why he’s pressing the button for the basement. ‘’Whats going on Ebnar? I know you’re up to something’’ he’ll say. ‘I’m keeping tabs on you, remember’.’ Henry remembers alright, and begins to sweat. The game is up; Trundle has only been toying with him, when they get into the elevator he’ll pull a gun from his jacket and stick it in his back. ‘’Think you can steal from me?’’ he’ll hiss in his ear, then tomorrow they’ll find him floating face down in San Francisco bay with a hole in his head. Jesus Christ.
The elevators doors open with a ping just as Trundle comes near. ‘You still here Henry? Well remember what I said, don’t be late tomorrow’ he shouts after him as he walks on. Henry drops his eyes as Trundle disappears down the corridor. suddenly he’s aware of the damp patch forming on the front of his trousers and the warm feeling of urine running down his leg and soaking his sneakers.
‘This better be worth all this aggravation’ he whispers and steps into the elevator slowly descending to the basement.

When the doors open again Henry finds himself in a windowless long cellar with overhead thick heating and water pipes which are covered in white asbestos shelling, each one marked with a red number and letter. Heavy duty Electrical cables dominate the ceiling void above them and below his feet small sporadic puddles of water reflect the sparse fluorescent lighting that gives off an eerie warm white hue. From where he’s standing and as far as he can see the underground passageways seem to be endless in either direction. The air is thick with the smell of chlorine, almost to the point of burning his throat when he breathes. He can’t afford to hang around. one, he hasn’t got time, and two, he’ll probably pass out or choke to death first. He looks left and right trying to get his bearings and visualize where the chute might come down, but everything is out of proportion here, nothing is familiar. Just as he is about to choose which course to walk, on the wall facing him he notices a faded sign, an almost indecipherable map of the many rooms which make up the basement when he looks closer. Henry begins to trace out the fragmented wall lines for some sort of clue which might point him in the right direction.

‘From what I can make out, E1 and E2 are the electrical rooms, they’re to my left, along with A, B, C and D, which means the rest must be to my right, so if laundry begins with an ‘L’, by my calculations that’s seven doors that way’ he points. Henry begins to walk; slowly at first, pausing at each door briefly only to confirm his logical reasoning. Sure enough, after finding one marked ‘’Kitchen Accessories’’ the next along was ‘‘Laundry Chute’’. Henry tries the handle and the door opens easily much to his surprise. The room is smaller than he expected and painted entirely in white. In the center stands a large beige wicker basket which Henry quickly estimates is about five foot square and has a full set of wheels, one on each corner. A small aluminum stepladder is resting against one of the walls and a few sheets are strewn around the floor, which Henry figures only just missed their destination. There is a strong smell of hospital disinfectant mixed with an overpowering odor of piss coming from the basket. Even for him it’s hard to bear. He lifts over the small pair of steps; opens them out and climbs onto their highest platform were he can just about reach over to look inside. After a short rummage around Henry soon finds what he’s looking for then scrambles down and hides the box under his coat. This time he thinks it feels heavier and chunkier than it did when he first dropped into the chute, even the exterior cardboard seems strangely warm to the touch. It’s his imagination of course; probably his anxiety about getting caught which is making his mind play tricks on him. The box had been covered in layers of pillowcases, bed sheets and used towels, it’s bound to feel swollen with the heat, he tells himself. So focus Henry, get out, catch that tram, you still have time. He looks at his watch; he could still make it if he hurries. Henry begins to pick up the pace; he can hear his footsteps echo off the walls as he bounds towards the elevator. He’s in luck, it’s still where he left it; no one has called for it while he was gone. Holding his breath he makes the short journey upwards. Soon he is making his way through the lobby and is out into the street were his secret is still hidden under his jacket and where hurricane Emily has begun to let down her hair.

The rain is beating off the pavement in spiraling sheets of gusting wind and above the city heavy gray clouds were rolling across the sky in thunderous churning waves. Lighting rippling on their crests like white horses crashing onto a beach. Henry gasps for breath as a current of air catches him full in the face. Never could he remember in all the years he’s lived a storm so untamed. People are running for shelter, others are standing in doorways; some are huddling beneath the tram shelter just up to his right. But Henry knows there’s little chance now of any public transport running, not in this weather.
He spots a lone yellow cab and hails it. To his amazement the taxi stops. Henry takes the box from under his coat and gets in. He places the box on seat beside him, and gives it a loving pat.
‘Where to pal?’ the driver asks, looking at him in the rear view mirror. Henry notices a few fading ink blue tattoo’s on the guy’s large right arm just below his tee shirt sleeve. None of which came from a registered parlor around here he was certain. Jailbird badges of honor no doubt.
‘Can you drop me at the seven eleven store please driver, on the corner of Conway Boulevard and Maple Avenue, just across the street from the Beachwood Duplex. Know it?’
Henry isn’t surprised when the big guy just grunts and pulls off into the traffic. So he slumps down into his seat and pulls the box closer. Sometimes he thinks, he just has a knack of rubbing people up the wrong way, he can never understand why. C'est la vie, as they say. ‘One hell of storm huh? Henry tries again, but Tat man isn’t interested.
With the conversation option going down the pan Henry turns his attention to the box beside him; once more he runs his hand along it visually trying to estimate its length, he reckons its about 46cm or 1.5 feet. Tilting it he guesses it’s about five inches deep and maybe the same across. A good size to hold maybe three or four kilo bags he figures. At $10 a pill for top notch Demerol that’s –holy shit! $10 grand a bag. Henry rubs his hands with glee, he can’t believe his luck.

Then something happens, something he really wasn’t expecting. He hears a sound coming from inside the box. At first he thinks he’s mistaken the faint scratching noise for maybe the rain beating off the car door. But when he lowers his ear to listen again, this time it’s much louder, it’s like a frightened mouse or small rat is trapped inside. Henry yelps like a hurt dog and drops the box into the foot well.
‘Everything Ok back there?’ Tat man asks.
‘I’m fine’ Henry lies. But he’s not, he’s shit scared. God damn it, He thinks. Isn’t it just my luck to steal the only box with a god damn rodent in it?
Henry prods it with his foot; he can’t see any holes, none like he’d expect if something had chewed its way in. And what if it was feasting on his drugs, captured there since the lid was put on and why hadn’t it died of an overdose by now for Christ sake?
‘Are you sure you’re ok?’ Tat man asks again ‘You aint going to be sick are you? Cos if you are I’ll bust your head you dig? I aint cleaning your shit up’

Henry assures him he’s alright and tenderly lifts the box out of the foot well. He decides he can deal with whatever has crawled into it when he gets back to his apartment. Outside the storm is battering the aging taxi making it slew around on the wet road like a fairground ride. Through the windshield beyond he can see thunderheads rolling across the rain blurred horizon and screaming wind all but blots out the sound of its engine. Henry’s pretty sure this fare is going to be a lot more than the usual.
He wasn’t wrong, by the time they’d reached the seven eleven the meter was reading forty dollars, nearly twice than he expected, but beggars can’t be choosers. When he gets out he leans in and gives tat man two twenties and his last couple of faded singles for a tip which were gathering trouser lint for some time in his pocket. So much to Tat man’s obvious disdain, he flips Henry the bird with his middle finger and screams away from the sidewalk almost soaking him with surge of street garbage, leaves and rain water. Henry returns the gesture. From inside the box there’s a sudden excited flurry of movement, it makes him think of the baseball bat he keeps beside his door, and what he’s gonna use it for as soon as he gets inside. But that will have to wait. First comes his promised bottle of bourbon and his long awaited smokes.

Mr. Pembroke, who owns the store, smiles at Henry when he comes in, a little brass bell tinkles as the door strikes it and the cardboard open and closed sign rocks lightly on its string. Charlie has been behind that counter since Henry can remember. ‘’Apples never fall far from the tree’’ he can recall him saying one day after Henry had told him he’d moved out of his mothers house. Referring of course to the fact he’d only relocated no more than a few blocks away. Sarcasm, he knew, but that was ok. He could live with the fact old Pembroke thought he was a mama’s boy because he afforded him the same credit line he gave his mother. It came in quite handy when he was between a pay packet, which was regularly the case. ‘The usual Hank’ Charlie asks as he reaches for a bottle of Jack Daniels (he always calls him Hank, lord knows why, but what the hey? He can call me what he likes, Henry thinks, as long as gives him credit). ‘Thanks Mr. Pembroke, and a packet of king size Pall Mall’ Henry replies.
Charlie points at Henry's box with a curious look on his face. ‘What’s that you got under your arm?’ he says. ‘Have you bought your Mother a present? It aint her birthday is it? and how is she by the way. Come to think of it I haven’t seen her in for a while, she aint poorly?’ ’
‘No sir, not as far as I know. We don’t talk much these days.’
Charlie hands Henry his cigarettes and puts his bourbon in a brown paper bag. ‘On your account I suppose’ he says frowning.
Henry feels his shoulders slump. ‘Just until the end of the month if that’s ok, you know how it is.’
‘I guess, but tell me what’s in the box Hank?’- Just as Charlie finishes talking there’s another unexpected loud scratching noise coming from under its lid. It startles Henry to the point he almost drops it.
‘ Jesus Hank, wot you got in there, a snake or something? Have you bought yourself a new pet?’ Charlie inquires.
‘No sir’ Henry hastily replies but is suddenly unsure of how to explain everything. He certainly doesn’t want Charlie to know the truth. ‘I mean, yeah…. it’s a….. Snake’
‘Well shouldn’t there be holes in the lid or somewhere so it can breathe?’
Henry feigns a surprise look when Charlie points out the obvious. ‘Gee I guess the guy at the pet store forgot about that’ he lies again. ‘Give it here, I can do it for you, got me a pair of scissors right below the counter, it would only take me a minute to punch a few’ ‘Nah! Don’t worry’ Henry says grabbing the bottle of bourbon from Charlie’s grip and at the same time moving swiftly towards the door. ‘I’ll let him out when I get home, I promise’ he shouts back at a bemused looking Charlie.

Outside Henry exhales a sigh of relief which is briefly short lived when the box violently shudders again under his arm. This makes him grip it tighter. He can barely keep upright the wind is so strong as he hurries across the street, but he manages to make his way to his door and falls breathless into the semi-quietness of his lobby. The hallway is damp and shadowy. Henry tries the light switch but nothing seems to be working. He tries again and again. Still not a flicker. it would seem the power is out, which could mean so is the whole building. His logic proves to be right regarding the outage, Henry's apartment is silent and dark when he turns the key and steps in. Even the T.V. which he always leaves on in the living room is blank, black and still. Not even the sound of his refrigerator motor whirring can be heard coming from the kitchen. All he can think of as he surveys his kitchen is will there still be some ice left for his bourbon. A boom of thunder breaks his train of thought and a streak of lighting on its back illuminates the room for a split second. Henry places the box on his coffee table and goes into the kitchen; somewhere in one of the cupboards he’s sure he’s seen some candles. Sure enough he finds a few (another leaving gift from his mother), then lights them one by one before placing them around his apartment. Their dancing mellow orange flames swathe the room making his pig sty seem almost homely. Henry pours himself a drink, fires up a cigarette, then slumps down onto his couch. It’s been a long day, he’s tired, and all he wants to do now is open his box. He desires to wallow in the fact he’s pulled one over on smug face Trundle. Oh how he wishes he was a fly on the wall and could see his face now, wouldn’t that be something to watch as Trundle realizes one of his prized boxes is missing and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. Henry sniggers at the thought of it. But wait! He remembers. He still has to deal with whatever is crawling about inside first. He decides a bit of liquid courage is required before he’ll dispose of said rat or mouse with the aid of his trusty baseball bat which he’d already brought to the couch. Besides it wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to execute a furry intruder around his place. Henry takes a long and fulsome mouthful letting it linger on his tongue just long enough to savor its flavor. Slowly he lets it slip down his throat relishing in its warm caress.
He quickly drinks another, and then turns his attention to the box which seems to have gone quiet.

‘’Perhaps the little shit knows his days are numbered’’ he muses.

Henry takes out his pocket knife and opens it running the blade around the black duct tape which is sealing the lid. Another detonation of thunder much louder than the last rocks the window behind him just as he finishes. It’s quickly followed by a discharge of brilliant white light. Outside the wind is weeping like a banshee and the rain is streaming down the glass in torrents. Henry lifts his bat and decides to wait, smacking it rhythmically into the palm of his hand; sooner or later whatever is in there is going to get curious. And when it does, he smiles, BAMM! No more Mr.Ratty.
Twenty long minutes go by with Henry sitting poised to strike, his eyes focused on the lid. But it stays frustratingly closed. By now he’s well into a third of his bottle and feeling the flush of the alcohol pulsating through his veins numbing his brain. Still the storm roars on, getting even closer and stronger by the minutes that pass. Soon the eye of the hurricane will be overhead and all will go still for awhile. Henry ponders, is this what it’s waiting for, maybe it is it too frightened to emerge because of the thunder. ‘Let me help you along little buddy’ Henry whispers poking the box with his bat. ‘cause I aint got all frickin night’ he hisses, and raises his glass to his lips. Looking over the rim Henry watches as the box lid twitches just as he is about to take a sip, then slowly it begins to rise. Just a fraction at first, then a little bit more. Henry waits with heightened anticipation like a leopard ready to pounce on its prey, expecting to see a shiny wet little nose and whiskers. What he sees next makes his eyes widen like two white pool balls; his mouth falls open into a silent scream spilling his bourbon down over his chin and onto his shirt.

A finger, a thick dark human finger complete with a nail is running its tip along the ridge of the box, feeling its edge. It moves and squirms as a snake might test the air with its tongue. Then like a large spider a hand begins to slowly crawl out of the box. Henry tries to scream but no sound will come. Now he sees a wrist, then a forearm, severed at the elbow and dragging blood and veins behind it out onto his table. Henry instinctively draws his knees up like a frightened child. His bat falls to the floor and rolls under his couch. Thunder rips though the apartment as a lance of lighting strikes a tree outside sending one of its branches crashing through the window. Wind and rain instantly shriek in, blowing over the candles onto to the floor and igniting the garbage strewn on it. The flame catches the curtains, and then takes hold of the carpet. Within seconds Henry’s flat is on fire.

Cowering on his couch Henry is transfixed as he watches the arm pull itself along by its fingertips. Petrified at what he is seeing he drops his glass, tipping its contents onto himself just as the arm leaps from the table and grabs him by his ankle. Slowly it begins to crawl up Henry's leg, he tries to beat it off with his fists but it keeps on coming. It moves up onto his chest, its sharp nails ripping his shirt, cutting into his flesh. The hand jerks forward and strikes at his throat like a praying mantis, it starts to squeeze, clasping his neck in a vice like clench. He claws at it with both of his hands franticly trying to break free, but its no use, the grip is too strong. He tries to call for help but all he can manage is a helpless gurgling sound as the air rushes from his lungs. He feels intense burning; he is on fire, fueled by the spilled liquor and the trash. Slowly Henry's lids begin to close over his bug like eyes as the skin on his face starts to melt like wax. Somewhere in the distance above the noise of the storm he can hear the wail of a fire engine.

The following morning George Trundle slides his office key into its lock, the door opens easily. Pausing briefly he switches on the lights which flicker into life. The room is soon bathed in a warm white hue. He removes his coat and places it expertly on the arms of his chair then sets a paper sandwich bag on his desk. He is meticulous is his actions, this is a ritual he conducts every morning. Everything must in its place; this for him is as it should be, harmony and accord. He sits in his chair, placing his hands flat upon the desk with his thumbs touching. He takes a deep breath and exhales it slowly. His eyes drop to the second hand on his wristwatch as it moves slowly around its face, at the very point its strikes twelve and the minute hand moves to 9.am the phone on his desk rings. It’s a call he’s been expecting and the voice on the line when he answers it is one he knows well, but still he is terrified. ‘Good morning sir’ he stammers. ‘Yes sir, the police called me last night…. Henry Ebnar sir…..Yes sir he was one of my employee’s….. No sir he’s very much dead…. What happened?....Well it would seem Henry decided to steal one of the boxes. How?......we think he dropped it down the laundry chute. I have cctv footage of him in the basement, and some of him leaving the building clearly with something hidden under his jacket. We think he just choose that particular box because it was the biggest…..What was in it?....Not what you think thankfully, do you remember a few months back the state executed Tom Blackmore?......yes sir the San Francisco serial killer, it was all over the news… well before he was put to death he consented that his body could be dissected and used for medical science. The procedure was actually done here. His brain was kept for studying but there was little use for anything else so his arm,…..yes sir, the same one he strangled all those women with, it was the last part destined for the incinerator……No, sir they never found it, most likely it burned to cinders with most of poor Henry…. And the other boxes?...yes sir they were safely delivered…. No sir the police don’t suspect anything…I made up a story we had an inkling it was Henry who had been stealing the drugs and selling them. I said we had been watching him and were convinced he was putting on a front and making out he was just a stupid Hospital technician when all the while he was a- ….Did they believe it?, yes sir, I suppose they did. But I think it would be wise to consider moving our operation to another hospital…..Yes sir I’m glad you agree, yes sir I will get right on it, It so happens my brother Frank also works for Zuckerberg General’

The End
Will Neill 2019, 7,997 words, February 14th to March 1st.

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