Off the Rails and Into the Woods – Prologue (Tier 2+)

"Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after mid-night, won't somebody help me chase the shadows away? Gimme, gimme, gimme…"

The tinny echo of the wireless earbuds jangled in his ears as Greg maneuvered his rattling delivery truck down the narrow country road. It was a long run today, and though the glowing digits of the dashboard clock showed only 4:42, the late November light was fading fast from the overcast sky. Thank goodness he had his new seventies playlist to keep him entertained! No more going insane listening to the cough and rattle of the dilapidated vehicle. No more getting bored out of his skull watching the same old countryside ease past… the same old trees… the same old fences and farms and secluded private lanes he'd been passing for the last fourteen years…

"There's not a soul out there, no one to hear my prayer…"

Ain't that right? he mused sardonically, casting a quick glance down at his delivery schedule. Hardly a damn soul out this far from town. And yet, here he was: loaded down with half a dozen big boxes, all of which bore the address of some god-forsaken old place tucked way back in the woods, some five freaking miles off the pavement. He had to get there and dump the darn things off as his last delivery of the day. Then – and only then – could he high-tail it for the terminal and head back home for a well-earned dinner.

Here was the turn. Off the pavement he lurched, and down through the mud and gravel that supposedly constituted a road. God, this was wetter than he'd thought! Back here under the trees, the soil stayed damp for far longer than it had any right to. Soon his truck was slipping and sliding uneasily from side to side as he eased further down the track, and beneath ABBA's bright chorus he was silently cursing the jerk who'd ordered so many boxes to arrive back here – and on such a nasty day, too…

Finally, he was there. Through the trees he could see it: the faded blue paint of a little cottage, its ugly little shed perched behind it with a heap of rusty machinery beyond. Before the door stood a petite, mud-spattered city car, and he smirked despite himself as he swung back to begin collecting the packages. Darn fools. With their driveway as pathetically muddy as it was right now, there was no way on God's green earth that flimsy little thing was getting out.

Hell, he might not even be able to get out. But one thing at a time, right?

It was late – and with no signature being required, he felt no need whatsoever to knock on the door. Two loads did it: three large cardboard boxes in each, perched on his two-wheeled cart and trundling through the mucky mess that constituted a driveway. They weren't that heavy, luckily – just large. Two Amazon boxes. Two from some outfit called ABU. And a final two from some place called Tyk LLC.

Whatever. Done at last! Now to hoist the cart back in… slam the doors shut… fire up the engine… and get the hell out.

That last item was easier said than done, unfortunately. For not even ABBA could drown out the wwwhhhzzzz of his spinning tires, nor the squelch and thump of his truck struggling to break free from the muck beneath. Back and forth he worked it, irritation growing with every second. If only these stupid folks would fix up their fucking driveway-!

He made it out in the end, much to his relief. But behind him there now stood a deep, ugly set of tire tracks through the front of the pigsty that passed for these folks' yard.

Well, frick it all! He knew what had to be done, irritating as it was. So up to the house he trudged once more, boots squelching through the twilit muck, hands reluctantly tugging the earbuds from his ears. Gotta let them know. Gotta apologize. Maybe try to mash the tracks flat if they wanted… and if they weren't too crazy upset. He wasn't exactly on edge, of course. But the odds that a perfectly sane, normal person was living back here in this muddy hellhole were probably slim. The last thing he wanted was to come face to face with some grizzled, tobacco-spitting, shotgun-toting redneck irate at someone trespassing on his land-

Yet the person who answered the door was probably the furthest imaginable from what he'd feared.

"Hi there," she smiled innocently. It was a young woman – no older than her early twenties, for sure, with astonishingly long blond hair down to her waist and a pair of unsettlingly bright, green eyes. Her dress was… weird. Like something he'd seen in a movie once about Robin Hood: nut-brown, ankle-length, with crazy long sleeves and a top cut so low as to give all onlookers a clear view of her generous – and clearly bra-less – cleavage. But as he glanced down in reflexive embarrassment, it was her completely bare feet that most caught his attention.

What the heck? What kind of girl dressed like that these days? And what the hell was with those bare feet… on a chilly, wet November evening?

"Umm, hi? I, uh, I just wanted to apologize-" he began, but she was already distracted by the cardboard stack beside the door. "Ooh, they came!" she enthused – and as Greg stared she hopped across the threshold and began enthusiastically tugging the stacked cardboard boxes inside. "About, um, the mud," Greg continued, gesturing behind him at the yard. "It's so darn muddy, see? I'm really sorry, but my truck ended up leaving some pretty nasty ruts in your yard trying to get out-"

"Wait, ruts? In the yard?" She paused mid-tug, then straightened up and gazed out into the gloom. "Ugh, that's not good. Here, let me see-" And before Greg could react, she'd slipped past him, her bare feet pattering on the steps. "Hey- it's pretty muddy, ma'am," he called, heading after her in confusion. "And cold…" – but she wasn't to be stopped.

"Oh, don't worry about it!" she called breezily from the gloom before him, and now he could hear the squelch of her bare toes sinking into the chilly muck. "Mud's wonderful for the skin, you know! Here, let me squish these ruts down – not a big deal…"

And that's how Greg found himself that evening, stamping around in the mud of some god-forsaken corner of the woods, alongside a weirdly dressed young woman in a peasant costume and mud-covered bare feet. "See? Not a problem," she beamed when the ugly parallel ridges had finally been flattened into submission. "All taken care of! And thanks for bringing all that stuff, too." She giggled impulsively as she squelched back toward the light of the still-open door. "It's amazing how many things my baby needs these days!"

Then, right as if on cue, from the open door there quavered a sudden, forlorn wail. It contained no words, of course. But as it rose, and fell, and rose once more, Greg could feel the hair on the back of his neck rising in unaccountable revulsion. That- that was no baby. Or if it was, it was the deepest, throatiest, most desperately pleading baby's cry he'd ever heard.

"Oh, and there he is! Excuse me – my wittle Will-Will needs me!" And off she scampered, her filthy feet slapping against the steps as she went, and disappearing at last as the door slammed shut behind her.

What the actual fuck?

Ehh. Freaky. But at least he could head home now, right? And so, as Greg lurched back down the road and attempted to distract himself from his confused thoughts, in went the earbuds once more. Ah, much better. Nothing like some fun music to set things back to normal.

"I wasn't jealous before we met, now every woman I see is a po-ten-tial threat…"