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Being a DoorDash driver paid way worse than medical couriering but it did cause way less stress. Running late with a delivery didn’t fill his head with images of some little girl in desperate need of a heart transplant, but now with some lazy asshole getting pissed that their Panda Express order was taking too long.
Although, Bryan still found himself wondering what he was doing here. Here being Dulvey, Louisiana. A bit out of his range, isn’t it? Well, he was down visiting family, and he figured: why not make some money?
That’s how he found himself lugging a big bag of Popeyes through the fuckass Louisiana swamps. Jesus, was he even on the road anymore? It was pitch black out and all he could see anymore were cypress trees on either side. He followed tire tracks in the mud as his only guidance. Unfortunately, they did not lead to an actually paved driveway. They ended abruptly amongst the trees, with no car in sight. Shit. Whoever was there must have driven off once the mud dried up.
God, whatever. If they parked here then the house has to be close by.
Bryan climbed out of his car, Popeyes bag in hand and phone flashlight on max as he braved the Louisiana wilderness.
“Stupid fucking hicks,” Bryan muttered. “Living out in the middle of actual fucking nowhere… no goddamn roads.”
He didn’t have to walk very far (thank god, all these mosquitoes and flies were really starting to piss him off) to catch sight of a rooftop, illuminated by the moonlight. He quickened his pace until he reached a tall iron gate… chained shut. “Oh my god,” Bryan groaned. How the fuck do these people expect to get their food!?
Bryan checked his phone (he’s at 10%, stupid old iphones), opening the number for the client and typing out, Hey, it’s your driver. I’m outside the locked gate.
He doesn’t have to wait long for a response. It’s basically almost instantaneous. Come around back, it says. Creepy.
“Around back where?” Bryan questioned before spending about fifteen minutes fighting through the underbrush and several frighteningly large bugs to find a gap in the fence. “Stupid fucking bullshit,” he mumbled, struggling to fit himself and the order through.
He could see light shining through a window, right next to- jesus christ they actually have a garage. Couldn’t shill out for a driveway though, could they?
Bryan approached the front porch and quickly hopped up the steps, but the front door gave him pause. Several wooden planks were nailed to it, keeping it shut. “Huh,” he said aloud. When the guy said around back, did he seriously mean go all the way into the backyard? Fuck, that was so annoying. Maybe he could just leave it right here. He was at the front door, even if it’s clearly not in use.
But, the client did request to be handed it in person. Who even does that anymore? Everyone wanted to avoid interaction these days, but this asshole wanted their 2 Popeyes family meals with some eye contact.
Bryan scooted over to the window beside the garage (also barricaded with planks but with a fun twist this time: barbed wire) to try and peer inside. Maybe he could just get someone’s attention.
From what he could see, the house looked like a shithole. No surprises there. A whole staircase was missing and trash littered the floor. He was careful not to touch the barbed wire on the window, lest he get tetanus or HIV or whatever.
After a moment, someone actually rounded the corner.
“Hey! Hey!” Bryan shouted, banging his hand with his phone against the glass to attract their attention. The person- a man, noticed him immediately and basically sprinted to the window.
“Hey, you gotta help me!” the man said frantically, leaning close. He was blond, and his clothes told Bryan that this man was as clearly out of place as he was himself. A white button down and slacks, dirtied by mud and… other things. Ew.
“Um,” Bryan hesitated. “Are you…” he glanced at the client’s information. “Lucas?”
“What? No. No! Listen to me, I gotta get out of here! You have to help me,” the man insisted.
“You didn’t make the DoorDash order?” Bryan asked.
“No, I don’t even fucking live here!”
“Okay, sorry. What do you need? Are you, like, injured..?”
“There are crazy people in this house trying to kill me!” the man said, obviously growing frustrated.
Oh god, this guy was crazy. Bryan put on his most polite and nonthreatening smile. It was just a man going through a mental health crisis who needed some help. “Yeah, okay. What can I do?”
“Do you have a gun?” the man asked.
Bryan’s smile was immediately replaced by a look of utter confusion. “A gun? Do I have a gun? Do I look like I have a fucking gun?”
“Do you have any weapons?” the man asked instead.
“Uh,” he set the bag on the ground to feel his pockets, sure he left a pocket knife in one. You never know how angry someone will be over their late order. After a moment, he pulls it out and flips it open. “I got this.”
The man does not look impressed. He stares at the knife in Bryan’s hand. “A fucking pocket knife? Really?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Bryan said, a little defensive of his weapon. Sure, he used it more to open mail than actually defending himself, but this guy cannot be complaining. The man held his palm out expectantly. Shit, why did Bryan even show it to him? He couldn’t give a crazy guy a knife. That’s, like, the one thing you’re specifically not supposed to do.
Noticing his hesitation, the man said, “Do you wanna see my name in the obituaries, or do you wanna be a hero and save my life?”
Bryan groaned. He pointedly did not mention that he didn’t even know this guy's name, so he wouldn’t know which obituary to feel guilty over. “Promise not to stab me?”
“As long as you don’t cut off my arm,” the man said casually.
“Okay, weird metaphor,” Bryan muttered, passing the pocket knife through the window. “Oh, wait, how about I just call the police?” His phone chose that exact moment to die. Stupid old iPhones. God, the walk back to his car was going to be so fucking miserable in this darkness. “Wait, forget that, my car isn’t far away. The garage is open, meet me in there and I’ll take you to a hospital, yeah?”
The man nodded his agreement. Bryan picked up the Popeyes bag (he’ll just leave it in the garage and call it a night) and turned his back to a man, hearing him mutter, “What am I gonna do with a knife?” Man, there’s just no pleasing this guy.
Bryan entered the garage. It was a fairly standard garage, shelves and tools and a singular car that didn’t really seem to fit in. He expected people like this to own one of those huge trucks made for all terrain or whatever excuse they needed to compensate for their small dicks.
A metal shutter groaned as it slid upwards, revealing the crazy blond man from the window, clutching Bryan’s pocket knife.
“We gotta get the fuck out of here,” the man said immediately, rushing to Bryan’s side.
“Okay, for sure. I just gotta set this down and take a picture,” Bryan nodded. Wait, shit, his phone died. Fuck.
“Who fucking cares?” the man said incredulously.
“DoorDash cares!” Bryan shouted.
“What!?”
The garage door creaked shut behind them.
“Ohhhhhh my god,” Bryan whispered, slowly turning to see what was happening.
A tall and very angry man was rapidly approaching with a shovel. “I’m sorry,” Bryan choked out immediately. “I’m so sorry for trespassing. I can leave, I’ll leave.”
The man only raised the shovel to Bryan's eyeline, and for a moment all Bryan could think was: what’s he gonna do with that? Before the blond man shoved Bryan to the group, avoiding a forceful thrust from the shovel straight to his head.
“Fuck it, I’m gonna kill every one of you,” the angry man growled, attention still on Bryan.
“I’m sorry,” Bryan repeated. Fuck, Louisiana totally had stand your ground laws. This guy was going to brutally murder him for DoorDashing and he gave his one weapon to the blond guy who now seems far less crazy in comparison. “We can talk about this! Let’s talk!”
The man aimed the shovel at Bryan’s stomach, who rolled away to narrowly avoid being bisected. “Bryan Hodukavich!” he shouted. He remembered watching Silence of the Lambs once, and there was something about repeating the victim’s name to the killer made them see the victim as a person and then they’d be less likely to murder them. “Bryan Hodukavich!” he repeated.
“You hit your head or something, boy?” the man asked, clear amusement in his voice as he yanked the shovel out of the concrete (holy shit he stabbed it straight into concrete, Bryan was so fucked).
“I have a family!” Bryan scrambled on the ground, trying to get further away.
“You’ll have a new one real soon,” the man laughed.
Bryan heard a car engine starting and whipped his head around to see the not-so-crazy-anymore man in the driver’s seat of the white car. If this was what the man had to deal with in here then Bryan thought the guy was really underreacting back at the window.
“Move!” he shouted at Bryan, who needed no further instruction. Bryan got back on two feet and ran to the passenger side of the car, allowing his new best friend to slam the gas with a clear shot of the homicidal manic with a shovel.
Bryan plastered himself against the garage door as the car slammed into his attempted murderer, once, twice, three times, thoroughly fucking up the hood of the car. Wow, not-crazy guy was really fucking up this old man. For some reason, the guy didn’t even seem that bothered by being repeatedly run over. He started laughing after the second hit, and on the third Bryan watched as he rolled right on top of the car.
“Um,” Bryan said, noticing that his savior clearly couldn’t tell where the man was anymore. “The roof! He’s on the roof of the-” the man did something that made Bryan go silent. He gripped the top of the car through the broken windshield and just… peeled the whole thing back. He turned it right into a convertible. Holy shit. How strong is this old guy!?
The man climbed into the car beside the driver, one foot on the dash and the other on the center console. “Nice car, Ethan,” the man smiled, and Bryan finally had a name for the not-crazy-at-all man. The man gripped the steering wheel and placed a hand on Ethan’s thigh in order to press his foot down on the gas. Bryan watched as the man drove them into a wall dangerously close to him. “Where’d you learn to drive?” the man laughed.
Fuck, that was kind of funny. But Bryan really couldn’t think about that when Ethan and the old man started doing donuts in the garage. “Get off the gas!” Bryan shouted, pushing himself into a corner. “Get off the fucking gas already! Move your goddamn foot!” But that seemed like a completely foreign concept to Ethan.
The man eventually switched his focus to now trying to hit Bryan with the car, slamming its wrecked front into the wall Bryan was cowering against not two seconds ago. The man laughed as Bryan ran around trying to avoid them. “I’m gonna get ya,” the man said in a higher pitched voice, “I’m gonna get ya.”
“Fuck you!” was all Bryan could think of to say in response. A shelf beside him collapsed, allowing some random steel beams to fall into the garage. The car swerved at him again, forcing him to jump onto the hood to avoid being crushed. It proved to be a very bad idea, as the crazy man released the steering wheel to grab onto Bryan’s shirt collar, yanking him backwards until he was in the car with them. His head hit the bottom of the passenger seat and his legs stuck up awkwardly in the air.
He could feel the car back up and hold for a few seconds, followed by the man saying, “Aww yeah, I’m gonna take y’all for a ride!”
“No, no!” Ethan shouted in response, and Bryan assumed that meant the ride was probably to their graves.
Bryan pulled his legs down to the rest of his body, curling up at the bottom of the passenger seat to try and minimize whatever damage was about to come to them.
The car sped forwards, and Bryan watched as the crazy man drove himself straight into a steel beam, impaling himself to the seat.
“Fuck!” Bryan screamed, blood pouring down on his head from the man’s wound. “Fuck! Fuck!” he continued, scrambling to get the door open so he could crawl out of the car. He threw the door open and tumbled onto the garage floor, quickly putting distance between himself and the lunatic. “Fuck!” he said one last time, to really capture his feelings on the situation.
Ethan also stumbled out of the car, seemingly unharmed but also covered in the man’s blood. “You alright?” Ethan asked.
Bryan gaped at him.
“You’re alright,” Ethan decided. The car lit on fire beside him. Bryan got up to move further away from the car and closer to Ethan, who really didn’t seem all that bothered by any of it. More pissed off than anything.
Bryan watched as the man (now also on fire) stood up and got out of the car like nothing even happened. The hole in his chest was completely gone. As was his shirt, ew.
“Look what y’all’ve done now, motherfuckers,” the man growled, stalking towards Ethan and Bryan.
“Shoot him!” Bryan yelled, moving to hide behind Ethan.
“I don’t have a gun!” Ethan snapped.
“Stab him!”
“What good is that gonna do!?” Ethan had a point there.
While Ethan could do nothing, the car could. It chose that moment to explode, knocking the man to the ground in a burnt heap of flesh. Ethan was knocked back by the explosion, causing him to land on Bryan on the ground.
The two groaned in pain, with Ethan recovering much faster than Bryan and getting back to his feet. To Bryan’s surprise, Ethan turned and offered Bryan a hand up. Bryan took it gladly, noticing some very thick stitches on Ethan’s arm that made Bryan wonder about that ‘don’t cut off my arm’ comment earlier.
Funnily enough, there was a gun in the garage. Sitting right on the workbench among some various tools. Ethan took the gun in hand, and neither of them said anything about how they both managed to miss it. Better not to ruin the triumphant mood after they managed to survive the crazy man.
“Guess you’re in this shit with me now,” Ethan sighed.
“I very much don’t want to be.”
“Yeah, me neither,” Ethan rolled his eyes. “I’m Ethan Winters.”
Damn, who introduces themselves first and last name these days? “Bryan Hodukavich.”
“Oh. You were shouting your name,” Ethan realized.
“Yeah, it makes people see you as a person and let you go.”
“How did that work out for you?”
“Shut up. What the fuck was that Terminator?”
Ethan grimaced, looking over at the dead body. “I told you, this place is full of crazy people trying to kill me. He cut off my leg earlier.” Ethan gestured down at his leg, which looked very much attached aside for some of the fabric on the bottom of his pant leg being detached from the rest.
“Looks like it’s still there,” Bryan pointed out.
“Yeah, I put it back on,” Ethan said casually.
Bryan furrowed his brow, trying to find any trace of a joke in Ethan’s tone. The man looked back at him, dead serious. “I… I don’t think that’s how limbs work.”
“Okay, well, I’m not a doctor but it worked.”
“Do you have feeling in your leg?”
“Yeah. It’s completely fine now.”
Bryan’s brow furrowed further. “I really don’t think that’s how it works.”
“That guy gets run over and impaled and still gets back up and you’re gonna give me shit for putting a leg back on?” Ethan said, annoyed.
Speak of the devil, the very much not-dead man interrupted their conversation and grabbed Bryan by the throat. Bryan was easily tossed to the side, hitting the brick wall and falling to the floor in a heap, groaning in pain.
The man crowded Ethan against a wall. When Ethan raised the handgun to defend himself the man grabbed it as well, crushing Ethan’s grip. Oddly, he pointed the gun right at his own head.
“Do I have your attention, boy?” the man asked, amusement still clear in his voice. “You’re about to see something wonderful.” He then blew his brains out right in front of Ethan.
“Fuck!” Ethan gasped, backing away from the (surely dead now but probably not) man as his body fell backwards to the ground.
“Jesus Christ," Bryan muttered. “Maybe he was suicidal.”
Ethan gave him an incredulous look. “Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here before he decides to get back up.”