Free Deadly Messengers by Susan May Page B

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