After that blood-red orb sinks out of view, I get up and stretch, then go for a hot shower. Do you know most men don’t know how to bathe? I certainly didn’t. For tonight it’s abrasive scrubbing, soap with charcoal grit, multiple rounds of hot water, and I mean seriously hot. You gotta take special care for the areas most people miss. The face especially, eyebrows and lashes, all around the mouth. Feels like half of what I learned was from living with a woman, and the other half was from prison.
Drying off is the time to review the plans. No need to risk fibre cross-contamination, so I air-dry. When that’s over, it’s right into the clean-suit. On top of that goes civilian clothes, and on top of those goes the construction vest and helmet I borrowed from the site last week. You always need a scouting run, but it’s the highest point of risk before burn night. I picked this night carefully. The site is slated for demolition, and the crews are already starting to move in. That’s the best time, right after they start but before the security has been set up. A neon green vest and a white hard-hat is my keypass inside.
Why the boss wanted it burned when they were already planning to demolish it is quite beyond me. Besides, it’s his job to know that stuff, not mine. He can handle the intricacies of insurance and shell companies and defaulting on loans, I handle the intricacies of doing the job. All the stuff that the amateurs miss. Highest risks are on entry and exit, so you need to plan a route and a time when personnel are minimal. All that requires a scouting run. What really elevates me above the rest is that I care about not leaving physical evidence. Too many guys in this business get a couple successful burns in, they see it on the news and hear “the police have no leads at this time” and they get it through their heads that the fire takes care of the evidence for them. So they get lazy, and that’s when they get caught. Instead of fretting about “making it look like an accident”, as if any halfwit detective is gonna believe that a building going up right before the insurance expires is an accident, it’s much better to look intentional but leave no chance of physical evidence for who did it.
With the route mentally rehearsed, I hit the road. There was an art to it, almost a dance. You had to make yourself seen where you weren’t, appear to take a step and then twist toward another. I fill up and buy a candy bar at the nearby gas station, just to be seen on camera. Drive up to the building and stand at a construction trailer, looking like I was on the phone. Then get in the car and drive away, back into civilian traffic. Cross the bridge, onto the highway. Next I take an access road down by the river. There’s a little gravel parking spot by an abandoned shack, maybe some old water monitoring station, I don’t know. I put the vest in the duffel-bag and go all black. I get out of the car and walk through the wet grass to the riverside.
As I walked riverside, I got a great view of the building. It loomed like a brick monolith over that little river. Four stories with sloped black shingle roof. Bottom layer was half-open to serve as a parking lot. That was the ticket. Fire needed three things, fuel, heat, and oxygen. The building would provide the fuel, and I the heat, but the exterior was brick, which made oxygen a problem. Thankfully that parking lot would act as a huge set of bellows and funnel air right where I wanted it. One of the main goals of my scouting last week was to determine where to start the thing. The inner floors were just wood and steel, so they would handle themselves, but the ground floor above the parking garage was concrete. I needed somewhere that could start the funnel of O2 from the garage moving upwards. Stairs were a likely bet, but these ones were too well sealed at the doors. I could prop the doors open, but any prop that wasn’t a big hunk of stone would go up with the fire. Just my luck, the buildings derelict state provides, I spotted a leaky spot between the first floor laundry room and the parking lot. Whatever leaking had been going on long enough to corrode the concrete. With a little help, I could make a hole wide enough to start pulling air through, and I wouldn’t begrudge it the effort.
When I reached the small footbridge, I realized that it was more hazardous to cross than I expected. The day’s light drizzle made the mossy planks slick. I got on all fours and hauled myself across one handspan at a time. The accellerants in my duffel bag sloshed back and forth. At one point, halfway across, a board snapped and I nearly fell into the water. My grip held fast to the other boards, but in that moment I felt my heart jump into my throat, and some nasty memories ran through my mind. I scrambled across to the other side and crouched panting on the bank.
I shook my head to clear those unpleasant thoughts. Yes, that was then, and this is now. Now I’m alive, I’m free, I’m the owner of my destiny, and I have a job to do. Feeling more composed, I stand up to look at the pathway to the building. Clear. I hiked up the path, donning the construction vest and helmet, fitting a face mask, and hefting the hammer and chisel from my bag. I crested the hill and saw the parking lot. Grey concrete beneath cold fluorescent light. It was empty, good. I walked until I found the leaky spot, and saw a tiny bit of darkness beyond the small hole that had corroded away.
Taking a deep breath and hefting my bag I made to the stairs. Thankfully the building had been abandoned so long that looters and squatters had done most of the finnicky work for me. Doors were unlocked, ajar, or just missing. I left my bag on the first floor, taking the hammer and chisel and went to the laundry room. Strangely, the door was closed, which it hadn’t been when I made my walk-through of the building last week. I opened it and looked inside.
The smell was my first cue, something was living here. On-guard, I moved slowly into the room. There was a noise, then slight movement. Near the back corner, behind the rows of washing machines, there was a sort of nest. Piles of filthy blankets, discarded bottles and pipes. My boots crunched on loose needles. I saw a person sprawled in the centre of the nest, clearly high out of their mind. I sighed and began to look around for the gap. A twinge of annoyance accompanied the realization that it was under that pile of filth somewhere.
Swallowing my disgust and thanking the double-layer gloves, I began to root around looking for the hole. The person seemed to react, but slowly and with a significant delay.
“Hhhjeyy whuuut are you...” They slurred, evidently a woman’s voice.
“Shut up. Where’s the hole?” I snapped in reply.
They seemed to blink, then scrambled backward saying “I don’t have anything! Dave! I told you before!”
I told the woman to shut up, that I wasn’t Dave, and that I was looking for a hole in the floor. She whimpered, cowering back as I encroached further into her space. “I... I can give you what you want... just don’t hurt my kid.” She said, prostrating and holding her hands open. She scrambled up into a sitting position and spread her legs wide.
Something seemed to pinch deep inside my skull, and before I knew it I had hit the woman, sending her sprawling across the cracked floor. She groaned and curled into a ball. Kneeling there, I saw that pathetic thing whimpering and cowering beneath me. I grabbed her head and pulled it up to face me.
“Listen. I have one question. Can you see me?” I barked.
She looked at me woozily, then her eyes seemed to focus for a moment and she opened her mouth. Then she drifted out of focus and said “youzre righth there mister.”
I clenched my jaw. “Wrong answer bitch.” Then I raised the hammer arm. At that moment the woman’s gaze shot up and met mine. In a flash I saw something too familiar to bear. That shameless defiance, that unconscious presence, the look that said ‘do it then’. My arm fell and struck the ground. I heard chips of concrete fall and hit the parking area below. “Get out or you’ll die.” I spat at the woman, swiping the blanket aside to reveal the hole in the concrete.
As I hammered away, I could sense the woman stumbling to her feet and shambling out of the laundry room. By the time the hole was large enough that I felt confident it would do the job, she was long gone.
I retrieved the duffel bag and began to pour the accellerant along the carpeted hallways, with a generous dose for the filth-pile in the laundry room. I splashed a little into the various abandoned and trash-filled rooms as I went. My mind kept going back to that woman, I shouldn’t have let her go. She was a piece of evidence that pointed to me, and that was exactly what I aimed to minimize. I rationalized it by thinking she was too high to remember properly, and if she did, no-one would take her seriously. Despite that I felt like I should have let her burn. Lock it all inside and burn. Fire was good at taking some evidence, after all.
By the time I was on the fourth floor, I was through the butane and diesel I had brought, and was onto the gasoline. It felt great, I was moving light on my feet, job nearly over, everything had gone nearly perfect except that small hiccup in the laundry room, but the past is the past. Then, halfway through the hallway something caught my attention and I stopped. I blinked hard, but it didn’t go away, so I slowly put down the canister and grabbed the hammer from the duffel. At the end of the hall, there was a closed door with light coming from behind it. I approached, and I could hear music coming from behind the door. Baffled, I pushed the door slowly, and it opened with a long creak.
Before me was a small apartment, overflowing with quantities of stuff. It was hard to visually parse, the walls were plastered with photographs and newspaper clippings and icons and art, the counter tops were layered with vases and mugs and ornate bowls and silverware, the floor was blanketed in a sea of rugs and carpets and tapestries. In the centre of the cramped and overflowing living-room, a tiny man sat on a huge rocking chair. An antique record player on a table beside him was the source of the music. His eyes were closed, and he rocked back and forth, seemingly oblivious to my presence.
“Uh... Hello?” I called out, buying time to think. I had never been in this situation before. I had dealt with the occasional squatter and junkie, and they were almost never a problem. This, however, was unusual.
“Eh? What?” The old man croaked.
“Are you... Do you live here?” I said as I gradually entered the apartment, navigating about the stacks of books and ornaments and trinkets.
Suddenly a discordant noise went off, and I stumbled, falling into a pile of dishes and stuffed animals. Four different cuckoo clocks on the wall had gone off in short succession.
“Three!” The man called out. “That’s a late hour for you young’n!”
“What the fuck is going on here? Is this your apartment?” I asked.
“It is since nineteen seventy three... Bought it when the second wife died... You know, she was a devil in the bedroom I’ll tell you what... Oh Meridia...”
I managed to cross the room and shut off the record player. “You... Surely you aren’t allowed to be here, I mean, they are demolishing this place in a couple weeks.” I told the man.
“Oh I told them, and I’ll tell you the same, I ain’t leaving this place. You can knock the walls down around me for all I care, I’m not moving!” The old man called out, fist balled up at some unknown target. From close-up I could see he still hadn’t opened his eyes.
“Can you see, old man?” I asked.
“Blind since nineteen eighty four I am. I tell you, them government folk keep telling me I have to move to a facility, I told them to shove it! They are gonna need to drag me out in cuffs if they want me to move! And I got a six-shooter right here!” The old man reached into a pocket and pulled out a revolver that looked like it had been manufactured over a hundred years ago.
I really had no idea what to do at this point. I figure, the best thing is to take the old guy out and let the fire deal with it. Yet... something about that withered countenance, brandishing a balled fist and a gun that I doubt is even loaded. Something just charmed me, I guess. Maybe I’m a hopeless romantic after all. So I hoisted all eighty pounds of the guy over my shoulder, went back to the duffel back and slung it over my other shoulder. Kicked the gas can into his apartment, and went back to the main floor.
At some point in the carousing the old guy seemed to get worn out and nod off. That was better, he would certainly attract some notice. I thought it would probably be best to leave him somewhere that he would be picked up, and figured the best route was back through the parking area, following the footpath up to the front of the building. So I left him resting on a pillar in the garage, and went to finish the job.
Top of the night, it was time for the grand finale. There was a decent chance that I had gas on me by now, so I stripped the black outer layer and tossed it in a pile by the top of the stairs. Now, wearing only my waterproof clean-suit, I rifled through the bag and pulled out a single cigarette and a lighter. I spent a good couple minutes with that cigarette. It really did feel like an ending. Like the final whiff of her perfume you catch through the smoke. Or the final sight of the blackened husk of your old apartment from the back of the police car. Or the final echo of your mother’s voice through the visitors phone in the prison. I could feel tears in my eyes, and knew it was time to go.
I opened the heavy doorway to the stairs an inch, and tossed the cigarette through. A satisfying “whumpf” signalled that the fire had taken. I jogged back down the stairs and entered the parking lot. I looked around the pillar, but strangely the old-timer wasn’t there. That’s when I heard a battle-cry, the old man’s voice shouting out “I WON’T GO!” and a huge bang which reverberated through the parking garage. A sudden flash of pain radiated through my leg, preceding the realization that he had shot me.
I shouted something and ducked behind the pillar. Two more bangs rang out. The first one seemed to crack concrete on the other side of the garage, the second, I have no idea where it went. My leg would barely hold weight, but I could hobble, and I ducked to the next pillar, keeping the poles of concrete between me and the crazy old guy. There were two more shots, missing completely. I made it to the edge of the lot, and flung myself down onto the rain-slick grass. Pain shot like a lightning-bolt through my body, but I pushed through. I could see the man was stumbling about the other end of the lot, shouting and waving his arms. I descended the hill.
By the time I was at the wooden bridge, my leg would barely work. I took the chisel out of the bag and stabbed it into the boards for extra grip. Amazingly, I made it across. I knew my car had emergency supplies, painkillers, bandages, and water. Making it back along the bank was brutal. Whenever I felt like I couldn’t make it, I kept asking if I hadn’t been through worse. Was it worse than the faces of my family in the courtroom? Was it worse than those first few months in prison? Was it worse than those moments after it happened, when time seemed to freeze and I saw the impermanence of life sharply contrasted by the permanence of time?
The final dozen meters before my car were illuminated in a red glow from across the river. I bared my teeth, a grimace of both pain and satisfaction from knowing that when I do a job, I do it well. It was when I was hauling myself into the car that I heard a single gunshot. It echoed. I did not turn around. When I was finished treating my wound, I lay across the back seats and looked out at the red tongues of fire that licked the night sky. Behind them grew the faintest hint of blue on the horizon.
I awoke to the sound of voices, and six sudden sharp bangs. There were flashlights shining through my window, and I realized I had been right to feel that way. This was an ending after all.