“Late Delivery”
Friday night, and here she was — working another shift. Sandy had called in sick again. “I’m sorry, Janet,” Becky had said. “Sandy called in again. You wouldn’t mind—” Janet cut her off. “Do I have a choice?” she replied, voice dry. She just smiled, said thank you, and walked back to the cultivating dome. Sandy calls in every other Friday, Janet thought. I don’t see how she still has a job. She didn’t really mind the overtime — not exactly. But she couldn’t go down without a fight. Make it too easy, and they’ll start to think it’s normal. “Nip it in the bud,” she liked to say. Tonight was warm, with a cool breeze blowing in from the east. Janet was transferring Lisianthus plants into market pots. The manure smell was stronger than usual Give me the first one and let’s see what it does— carried straight to her by the breeze. Her thoughts drifted to that special order — the one that was already two weeks late. 100 yards of organically rich soil, with a neutral to slightly acidic pH — no higher than 7.0. 25 yards of fresh manure. But only the manure had arrived. And fresh it was. She paused, her hands still dirty from the last transplant. Something was nagging at her. The manure delivery. She’d been there when the truck arrived — just after lunch. She hadn’t given it much thought at the time, but now… It hadn’t looked right. Not like the usual. It was wetter — almost slimy — and the color was off. And the smell. Not just strong. Wrong. It didn’t just reek of fertilizer. It was sharp, sour… like roadkill baking in the sun. She’d smelled that before — dead raccoon, maybe a dog — rotting on the side of the road. And now that she was thinking about it, the smell had gotten worse. Stronger. Like something had woken up. Just as quickly as the thought crossed her mind, another snapped into focus — the sprinklers. She’d forgotten to turn them off. Too much water could ruin the potted plants — wilt them beyond saving, kill the roots, and wipe out any chance of a sale. Janet cursed under her breath and rushed outside. A cool breeze hit her as she stepped into the open air, but the breeze didn’t mask the smell — it hit her harder. Worse than before. She reached the rows of plants — soaked. Not destroyed but definitely waterlogged. Barely in time. But then she saw it — the puddles had spread. The runoff had rolled downhill, across the slope… straight into the manure pile. The smell made sense now. It wasn’t just manure anymore. It was wet, steaming, and rising. The stink was stronger — like decay, thick and wet in her throat. She pulled her shirt up at the collar to cover her nose — then she saw them. Footprints. Wet. Slimy. Trailing away from the manure pile. Clear as day, pressed into the gravel. But they weren’t human. No way. Too big. Too wide. Each print looked like it came from some large animal — but what kind? Long, spread toes. Deep grooves at the tips. Claws. At least four inches long, from the look of it. A chill slid down her back. The prints weren’t wandering. They led somewhere. Into the dome. Where Becky was working. Whatever made those tracks… it was already inside. Janet followed the footprints into the cultivation dome. And there it was. Blood. Everywhere. But no sign of Becky. She turned to run— but it was too fast. She barely had time to scream. It was on top of her before she could react. Shape Morning. Sandy showed up late, as usual. Still half asleep, coffee in hand. She looked around. No field crew. No Becky. No Janet. The dome was open. And something smelled… Horrible.