Deadly Messengers (9 page)

He couldn’t answer, wouldn’t answer anyway, because the need for
one more
pulled him away. He needed to keep moving. Strings of thoughts attached to his will. He couldn’t resist them. Didn’t want to resist them.

Benito turned from Andrea to travel up the hall, as he imagined her running toward Mrs. Simpson in her room, running toward the screams. It would be too late. Even these few minutes would have given the flames all the time they needed to find their way. The flaming bed in the deep darkness would greet her with its beauty and life. And death.

Someone else ran past: a middle-aged nurse. He didn’t look at Benito, didn’t stop. The man was new, only starting last week. Benito couldn’t remember his name. Now he would never know his name.

The buzz sizzled into his spine, travelling through him, under his skin like a wave. It was a vibration in his teeth and in the membranes of his eyes. This time it hurt. He stopped and gathered himself, resting his palm flat against the cool, smooth wall. Then, in the beat of a second, the buzzing and sound were gone. He looked around, his head swinging from side to side, suddenly surprised. His gaze fell on his hands as he held them up. They didn’t look as though they belonged to him as if he was an alien inside his own skin. Fear shimmied through him. Something was wrong.

Should he be here?

How had he gotten here? And why? He couldn’t remember. His last memory, a wisp of a thing, was of the end of his shift, saying goodnight to co-workers, then heading off for a meal before home.

“Goodnight Mr. Berry,” he’d said to a long-term resident in the lounge playing solitaire. Mr. Berry always had a game or two before bed. “Helps me sleep,” he would say.

“Goodnight, Carol.” He liked working with her. She
got
his jokes; her laughter brightened his day.

“Goodnight, Jack Backer,” he’d said, as he passed the octogenarian’s room. A sweet old guy. WW2 veteran. Always good with a story. Man, those guys suffered.

“See you tomorrow, Alan,” he’d said, after handing over the shift’s charts to his colleague, high-fiving him on the way out. He’d reminded Alan who to check on and who to leave sleeping. There’d been talk of promoting him to assistant supervisor, so he showed even more care than usual.

“Goodnight—.”

They were gone. All thoughts of
before
vanished, as though a veil came down like a theatre curtain. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear them anymore.

Goodnight everyone. Goodnight.

He knew every one of their names, Jack Backer, Mr. Berry, Mrs. Wales, Fred Day, all of them, the sixty-two people in his care—joint-care with the other nursing home workers. They all worked diligently to ensure their charges were comfortable.
Comfortable and happy until they died
.

He couldn’t feel them anymore. Suddenly all he felt was alone. The voice and him and the mission that must not fail. This was all he had.
Straight and true
was all he had.

The supply room was to the right. He jiggled his key in the lock and the door sprung open. Five wooden shelves, beginning at waist height, worked their way up the three walls. Below, standing at attention, were three buckets with mops. He wondered if the metal in the handles would color the flames.

He pulled the mops from the buckets, resting them against the opposite wall. From the shelves, he pulled cloths and paper towels, scrunching them together into small balls and shoving them into the buckets.

They would be here soon. He must hurry. Benito shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out the matches. He would never use all of them, the shame that it was. The muscles in his neck screamed at him again. He tilted his head, attempting to ease the burn now inside his tendons. Ten more minutes were all he needed.

Plastic containers of blue and green liquid perched in neat rows, along the shelves. Would
they
burn a different color? He pulled one of the three methylated spirits bottles from the shelf and twisted open the lid. He moved the container to his nose, drawing in a deep, long breath. The noxious smell sharpened his anticipation.

Quickly, he upended the bottle into the first bucket. Fumes filled the room, hitting his olfactory glands with the sweet smell of peril and possibility, sweeter than if roses filled the room.

Afraid he’d lose himself in the exquisite potency, he covered his mouth and poured the remaining two bottles into the buckets. The liquid turned the balls of white paper dark vanilla.

Reaching for one of the mops, he shoved it inside the bucket and pushed down the paper. The bucket’s wheels gave way with the pressure, skidding the container against the door.

Benito leaned forward to pull back the bucket as though it were an eager dog he needed to heel. He was ready to go. Clasping the silver metal door handle, he pushed the door ajar, allowing the bucket to move to the edge of the threshold and nestle there. It would hold the door open.

Benito turned and reached for another bucket. With the mop sticking out, it looked like a potted tree, naked of foliage. He stepped behind it, grasped the handle tightly, and pushed against it, wheeling it forward. Benito passed by his little metal partner still holding the door and swung his bucket into the middle of the hall.

Since he’d entered the closet, people had filled the hall. Cries of help came from all directions. Elderly, bewildered patients wandered lost as though they’d never before traveled outside their rooms. Confusion and fear filled the air, along with the scream of the alarm.

Benito ignored them as he wheeled the bucket along the scratched, shiny floor. To everyone he would be simply an employee sent to clean up another resident’s bodily fluid mishap.

Next stop, the lounge, two doors down. A coffee table in there perfectly suited his needs, calling to him through the building’s walls. The room would be empty thanks to the alarm.

A few minutes later, he was proved right—indeed empty and waiting for him. He didn’t hesitate, trundling the bucket to the table; where he discovered a problem. The bucket was too high to fit under the table as he’d originally envisaged.

Straight and true.

The thought echoed in his head.

Then:
Let nothing stop you.

Yes, nothing
would
stop him. He understood his destiny. His mission.

Benito moved to plan B, upending the contents of the bucket onto the floor. He shoved the pieces under the table with the mop; the smell intoxicating, a sensory overload of perfume joy. A magazine rack by a threadbare, blue, sofa, overflowing with ancient reading material and two-week-old newspapers, caught his attention.

That would work. Dual action.

He hurriedly pulled out the contents of the wooden rack, bundled them onto the sofa, and began stuffing them between the cushions and around the curved wooden legs. The sofa now resembled a giant pincushion. The few remaining newspapers he crammed in the remaining space beneath the coffee table.

The matches prickled in his palm. For the fourth time tonight, he tore along the coarse side of the small cardboard box and watched as the match flamed to life. Standing over the sofa, he held out his hand as though he were a maestro conducting an orchestra. Steady and careful, he touched the flame to several rolled up pieces of paper, wanting to clap as each one flared alight. Now the chair was a
glowing
pincushion.

Benito turned to the coffee table with its decoration, above and below, of soaking wads of paper. With a flick, the match leaped from his fingers to land squarely amid the mix. This time, the paper did not come gently to life, but erupted, in what seemed to Benito a sonic boom. Circles of blue-green light spread quickly from the epicenter.

The sofa was now fully alight; already the flames reached several feet in the air. He stood, gaping at his handiwork for minutes. Yellow. White. Red. The colors perfect against the blue of the chair.

How he wanted to stay and watch.

But, more work needed doing.

He exited the lounge and returned down the hall. The door to the closet was closed, his other bucket-partner still waiting, hiding inside. Benito yanked at the door, slipped in, and seized the bucket and mop, then reentered the corridor and wheeled his prize to the center.

The hall now resembled a busy bus station, people milling everywhere, confused, lost and panicked. The sounds of distress, people shouting, and the alarm layered upon each other creating a surreal, slow-motion image.

Two nurses ran up and down, shouting and banging on doors. The throng grew by the second, the terror rising like a temperature gauge on its way to overload. Pajama-clad residents shuffled down toward the exits, assisted by each other or a nurse or orderly. Several used canes; Mrs. Best moved achingly slow in her Zimmer frame.

Then the overhead water sprinklers exploded.

More screaming erupted as though the downpour of water had accelerated the scene. For Benito, the alarm volume grew in his head until it was all he could hear. Like a sword through his ears, it entered and speared his brain. He wanted to put his hands to his head; the agony more than he could bear. He couldn’t. He wasn’t finished yet. The voice had said, was still saying,
Straight and true
.
Straight and true
.

“Yes, I will,”
he replied, in his mind. And, somehow felt he was heard.

The water from the sprinklers made the polished-smooth floor wet and treacherous for uncertain, aged feet. One resident slipped and fell in his haste. Then another. Both were helped up, but one of the old men now leaned against a wall crying like a baby. Something was broken, judging by his contortioned face.

Benito watched, unmoved by their plight. They were part of a great plan, worthy of their sacrifice. Nobody noticed him. His five years of work here made him invisible. He pushed at the bucket, using the mop as a handle, and patiently waited as two octogenarians, Eli Kahn and Bill Baster, hobbled past him, arms entwined, moving faster than he’d ever seen them move before. He pushed the bucket in front of them. They stopped, puzzled, their mouths quivering, as they looked at him.

“Fire, Benito. Can’t you hear the alarm?”

An idea occurred to Benito, an idea that would work perfectly. He reached into the bucket, where he’d placed a container of methylated spirits on top of the cloths and paper. The contents slopped inside as he raised it up. Unscrewing the lid, he smiled back at the men.

They even smiled back.

He shook the bottle’s contents at their feet like it was ketchup. The liquid splashed their worn slippers and the bottoms of their striped pajamas. The beautiful, pungent smell came again. Even the sprinkling water couldn’t douse its perfume.

“What the hell are you—? Benito!” cried Eli Kahn, but he didn’t finish his sentence. Suddenly he knew the question’s answer. Out of his shirt pocket, Benito pulled the silver Zippo he knew would be there.
Where did he get the lighter?
He didn’t smoke.

One small flick of his fingers and a flame flared. He threw the glowing, lighter into the air; it sailed in a fine arc to land at their feet. Instantly, flames pawed at the men’s legs as they screamed and clawed at themselves with more energy than men half their age.

Bill Baster ran screaming down the hall, flames crawling up his legs, the fire too well fueled to be doused by mere sprinkles of water. He didn’t get far, falling to the ground, rolling about, while those around him stood back, afraid of the fire catching them.

Someone came running from behind. Catherine, the night manager, ran past Benito, to the other man, Eli, a blanket in her hand.

“Get down. Get down, Eli,” she shouted as she hurled the blanket over him, pushing him to the floor, beating at the flames attempting to escape. His screams had taken on the tone of steel against steel, high and painful, even against the backdrop of the alarm.

Smoke, billowing up the passage, filled the hall. Dark and gray, it traveled; consuming those it touched as though seeking victims to smother.

Benito turned away from Catherine and Eli, and Bill who now lay still on the floor, the fire eating away at his body, now turning a mottled black and red. Benito walked back to the closet, unhurried as though he was simply carrying out another chore. He pulled open the door and slipped inside to the relative calm within.

Inside it was dry. No sprinklers; perhaps an oversight considering the nature of fluids stored in the room. The enclosure felt magical filled with the bright, almost fluorescent colors of the cleaning fluids. The matches in his pocket itched at him again, speaking to him. He drew them from his jacket’s inside pocket. Still dry enough, protected as they were by the lining.

Last one. Very last one.

He spied several oil containers on a shelf to his right. Polishing oil. Turpentine. Something blue, labeled with a skull and crossbones. They would do very well. He pulled the beautiful things from the shelf. The caustic odor rose around him, as he spilled them onto the floor, splashed them against the walls. The cloying smell, strong enough to momentarily cloak the smell of smoke seeping beneath the door.

In a corner, he spied more bags of cleaning cloths. Benito emptied them onto the floor, swirling them through the oil with his foot. The smell, so intoxicating, he wanted to swim in it, to die in it.

He held the match above the soaked material, taking in the moment.

A sudden banging on the door interrupted.

“Benito, what’s going on in there? There’s a fire! For Pete’s sake get out.”

It was the night manager, Catherine.

The door flew open. Smoke whirled into the room with the force of the displacement of air. Catherine stood in the doorway, startled. Her gaze traveled over the room, over him, to his oil-soaked pants.

“Shit, Benito. You? What’re you doing?”

He reached for her, pulling her inside. The fifty-something woman, probably too surprised to react, screamed as she slipped and fell to the floor at his feet, her body resting on his mound of rags.

“Benito, please … whatever you’ve done. Please, we’ve got to get out. Please—”