The Fist of the Night Shift

The highway stretched out before Henry, the rhythmic hum of his truck's engine lulling him into a sense of solitude. He was a seasoned truck driver, having traversed countless miles of lonely road, but tonight's delivery to a warehouse on the outskirts of a small, forgotten town gave him an uneasy feeling. A sense of dread that crept up his spine like a spider in the dead of night.

As the warehouse came into view, its rusted metal exterior looming ominously in the moonlight, Henry couldn't help but shudder. It was the kind of place that whispered secrets of decades past, secrets that were best left buried in the dust of time. He pulled his semi to a stop, the brakes hissing in the stillness of the night.

Stepping out of the cab, Henry was greeted by a tall, lanky man with a scruffy beard and a cigarette hanging from his lips. The warehouse worker's name was Dale, or so he introduced himself, but there was something about his cold, calculating eyes that sent a shiver down Henry's spine.

Dale swung open the trailer doors and after a quick glance he muttered, "We've got some damaged boxes," his voice as rough as the gravel road that led to the warehouse. "Probably shifting in transit."

Henry nodded, pulling out his smartphone he headed toward the rear of the trailer. The cargo inside looked undisturbed, but he knew appearances could be deceiving. As he began snapping photos, Dale's presence seemed to grow increasingly hostile. He hovered over Henry's shoulder, watching every move with a suspicious glare.

"You best not be takin' pictures of my freight," Dale growled, his breath smelling of stale tobacco and whiskey. Without warning, he spat Henry and then delivered a vicious punch to Henry's jaw.

Pain erupted in Henry's face as he staggered backward, his phone clattering to the concrete floor. Blood trickled from his split lip, and he could taste the metallic tang of it on his tongue. Dale stood there, a twisted grin on his face, his fists clenched.

"What's the matter, trucker? Thought you could just waltz in here and mess with my stuff?"

Henry was dazed but not defeated. He knew he needed to document the damage for the insurance claim, and he wouldn't let this brute stop him. As he reached for his phone, a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness.

It was the owner of the warehouse, a wiry man with a stern face and a disapproving scowl. He motioned for Dale to step back, and Dale begrudgingly obeyed.

"What's going on here?" the owner demanded, looking from Henry to Dale.

"He was takin' pictures of the damaged boxes," Dale grumbled.

The owner sighed and turned to Henry. "I apologize for my employee's behavior. We'll sort this out. Is there anything I can pay you to keep this incident here on this dock?"

Henry hesitated for a moment, weighing his options. The pain in his jaw throbbed, but he couldn't afford to let this escalate further. "Five hundred dollars should cover it."

The owner nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out a wad of cash. He handed it to Henry, who pocketed it without a word. The owner then turned to Dale, his voice low and menacing.

"You're lucky I'm in a forgiving mood tonight, Dale. Consider this your final warning. As for the damages, I'll just write them off so we won't need to make any claims."

With that, the owner walked away, leaving Henry alone with his throbbing jaw and a sense of unease that refused to dissipate.

As Henry climbed back into his truck and pulled away from the warehouse, he couldn't help but reflect on the strange encounter. It was a story he'd tell other truckers on the road, a cautionary tale about the perils of delivering to forgotten places and dealing with unpredictable individuals.

The moral of the story? Sometimes, it's better to take the path of least resistance, even when faced with injustice. Henry learned that night that not every battle was worth fighting, and sometimes, a few hundred dollars and a bruised ego were a small price to pay for escaping a situation that could have turned far more sinister. And so, he drove on, haunted by the memory of that forsaken warehouse and the secrets it held.