Free Deadly Messengers by Susan May

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