Short Story: THE MANAGER
The last email.
I
In the beginning, Tom managed the unfolding situation like any other. There were problems, details, clashes, but he looked after his clients. By the time things really fell apart, they were in-fight or off-continent, and sure, everyone was scared and pissy, but none of them took it out on him.
None of them except Alex.
Tom hit the buzzer again. It was almost noon. The street was empty, a day away from looting.
The intercom crackled.
Tom hollered into the device, ‘I can hear you in there. Let me in.’
A pause.
It was too hot and too late for this.
He punched at the tiny speaker. ‘Let! Me! In!’
II
On the motorway, Alex came to and looked at the sky. ‘What, what’s all this…’
‘There’s a city on fire up north. It’s been going for a fortnight. Alex where’s Dee?’
‘Riiiiight, right. Where is everyone?’
‘Gone. Where’s Dee?’
‘We split man, I kicked her out.’
‘Out? Into this?’
‘Yeah, I guess, man. I gotta piss.’
Tom checked the mirrors and pulled the car over. His first thought was to dump him, to drive off. But Alex would never survive on his own. There was no way. Tom got out, went to the trunk, and took his gun from the sports bag.
The first shot hit Alex in the back, spinning him. He was already half-dead, but Tom didn’t like the idea of him suffering, so he shot him again. It worked. A small hole in the skull below a glazed eye. So neat. When it was all finished, Tom took Alex’s phone from his pocket and called Dee’s number, but she didn’t answer.
III
The plane touched down on the island and the car came was already waiting to take him to the resort. His reservation held. The room was clean. Tom showered, fixed a scotch and sat down into a leather chair and started the calls.
He called Christina, Jay and Jon first.
Then he called Billie and Kim and Johnny and then the other guys, the drummers, the bass players and so on until he could turn his phone off.
He zeroed his inbox. The last email.
Tried the television.
Unpacked.
At some point, he went out into the corridor and stood there. It was quiet and still. There was a trash bag at the terminus, by the lifts. He walked up, the carpet cool under his feet. The trash bag looked like a problem: it was too empty. He untied it. A dead dog, a small one. It looked asleep, surrounded by tissues and empty pill bottles. Tom put his hand in and touched the dog’s coat. It was still warm.
Its eyes opened.
IV
David Mitchell had the resort locked down. At the briefing, he sat with his security people while the business and tech guys sat in the other corner, then the entertainment people, the food people, the hotel higher-ups. They looked at a map on the screen. Mitchell said, ‘My people are saying two months, maximum. As you can see here in the red, most of the country is in trouble. We don’t know anything for sure, but this is where the action is. If you have loved ones in these places, it’s not a given that the disease is there but… We’re working off military briefings, so this is where the fighting is, that’s all.’
The whole thing gave Tom a migraine.
Alex and a small dog, all in twenty-four hours.
At least he hadn’t beaten Alex to death with a fire extinguisher. At least that hadn’t happened.
‘…so what I need from all of you is your cooperation,’ said Mitchell, all pumped up. ‘Your cooperation and your leadership. You’re all here because you can afford to be and you can afford to be because you know how to…’
Tom rubbed his hand.
It’s just a scratch.
END
— IAIN
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