Free Deadly Messengers by Susan May Page A

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