The Job

The room was dank and smelled of wet crevices and mould. He rapped on the wall with a closed fist. "Allistair," he called out softly. There was no reply, as expected. He smiled in the dark, a tight smirk that mirrored his thoughts. "Allistair," he murmured again, taking one cautious step forward as his eyes began to adjust. This time, a soft, guttural moan answered him. "Well, I'll be damned," he said, one corner of his lips turning up.

Through the darkness, he could see the shadowy silhouettes of the objects littered on the floor. An old telephone with its receiver displaced, the cord a messy tangle on the carpet. Boxes, an ashtray, magazines and a glimmering pool of something that seemed to be trickling down from-ah, there he was.

The body was on the bed, face-up, with one hand dangling at the footboard. His head was tilted at an odd angle, presumably the source of the crimson river gathering on the carpet.

"Well, I didn't think you'd be awake to see me, but hey there, I'm here to take you back. I'm Witman, from the company."

Another low groan escaped from Allistair's throat.

Witman slid both hands under Allistair's body and proceeded to lift him off the bed. The low groan turned into a full scream, though the other man remained stiff and heavy in Witman's arms.

"Oh for Chrissakes, how am I supposed to even get you outta here if you're screaming in my goddamn ear?" Witman muttered. "I shoulda brought the damn tranquilizer. I keep forgetting, I mean they always remind me, but I keep on goddamn forgetting."

The screaming ceased, but the whimpering returned.

"They always tell me, you gotta do it right this time, but I got a lotta things on my mind, you know. I'm trying to make something outta my life, if you want to know the truth." Witman paused and leaned Allistair's weight on his left knee so he could wipe his forehead, then propped his leg up so he could slip his other hand back under Allistair's body. "Heavy sonuvabitch," he gasped, "I didn't know the company hired your type. Nuts, I have one hell of a job getting things done and I'm like, half of your fuckin' body mass or something."

Witman began to teeter under the weight, then finally regained his balance and continued walking out of the room. In the dim light of the corridor, he could finally see how the other man looked like. Allistair was in his late 30's, at least, or in his mid-40's. He had a deep gash running across the side of his head, which had been cleanly shaven. A thick moustache partly covered his upper lip, which was thin, dry, and pale. He had one scar directly below his lower lip, not quite on his chin. His eyes were shut, and his nose was thin and aquiline. He smelled like blood, sweat, and lobster thermidor. Witman remembered his Physics professor as he looked at the heavy bloodied man in his arms and tried to shake off thoughts of centers of mass and trajectories as he ambled out of the empty hotel, Allistair in tow. "Give me a sec, will ya," Witman told Allistair, who was weaving in and out of consciousness. He gently lay him on the ground, then walked over to the '65 Chevrolet Impala waiting for him in the deserted parking lot.

"Ahh, Christ," Witman wheezed, picking up a half-empty bottle of water and unscrewing the cap. He took one long drink, until the last drop, then tossed the plastic bottle into the backseat. "I'm getting too old for this goddamn job." He took a deep breath and surveyed the area, then returned to Allistair, who was now fully unconscious.

Witman picked the body up and summoned the final vestiges of his strength to move towards the car, where he lay Mark Allistair in the backseat with the empty water bottle.

Then, fishing for the matchbox in his pocket, he moved to the greasy, glittering trail of gasoline he had painstakingly set around the hotel earlier. "Damn job," he muttered under his breath as he lit the stick and tossed it to where the trail began. He began to walk away, an easy, loping, artless gait that showed no trace of fear or anxiety. He had done this before. It would all be over in an hour.

"They don't pay me enough, I tell you," he said to an unmoving Allistair, who now lay close to death on the leather carseat. "They don't pay me damn near enough."