Discomfort Food

I pushed the scooter as fast as it would go. A shadow loomed on my left and momentarily the buildings around me seemed to run with blood. Then I was past it, and normalcy returned as the Horror’s mental influence faded with distance.

I hate people. I hate Horrors more, but I hate the people who order from restaurants in Quartier de L’Horreur in the middle of the night and make me go get it for them.

I was almost done my shift when a pickup order came for Tartarus Grill. They do have the best steaks in the city, but if you want one, order one in the daytime, or better yet, go there yourself.

I got to Tartarus Grill okay and rang the bell at the back. I gave the password, and Jimmy handed me the paper bag. He gave me a sympathetic smile.

“Brave of you to come out at this time of night,” he said. I gave him a tired smile and put the order in the carrier at the back of the scooter. Then I was off to deliver it.

I reached Boulevard Étrange but it was blocked by construction. A worker hidden mostly in shadow was directing me with a glowing baton towards a detour through a narrow alley. I wasn’t falling for that one again. I did a U-turn and tried going down Rougarou Street. It seemed fine at first but then I noticed a shadow blocking the street just ahead. It didn’t seem too thick, but I wasn’t about to try going through it.

Something screamed behind me and I swerved into a side street, gunning the engine. I could hear heavy feet slapping wetly on the pavement behind me, but I didn’t dare look back. I turned again, speeding through the intersection with Lalaurie Avenue, heading north.

Five minutes later, sweating and shaking, I crossed Samedi Street and was out of the Quartier de L’Horreur.

The delivery address was a condo in an upscale neighborhood. I rang the doorbell. A few minutes passed, then a man in a rumpled T-shirt and sweatpants came to the door.

“Took you long enough,” he said as I passed him the bag. He opened it and I saw an order of French fries inside. He put one in his mouth with a blissful smile.

“French fries? Really?” I said, unable to help myself.

“Yeah, I like the spices Tartarus puts on them,” the man said. “They’re a bit more expensive, but hey, it’s my comfort food.” He gave a small wave and shut the door.