The Resident had spent the morning relaxing, sipping his coffee, and reflecting. When the sun was finally above his house, there was a knock at the door. He meandered over and checked the screen; it was the large man. The Resident opened the door, still feeling tired, and said, “Hello.”
“Hello,” the large man replied. “May I come in?”
“Be my guest,” mumbled the Resident as he stepped aside.
As the large man entered, he began to speak. “Good work last night. Was it too hard?” he queried, heading straight for a wooden chair.
The Resident shut the door and began to follow. “No, sir.”
“Good, good,” mumbled the large man. “And do you remember what the work was for?”
“No, sir. I thought I made myself clear last time when I said that the only people the virus will not work on are the people directly involved in the event or idea itself.”
“Yes. You did say that,” agreed the large man. He took off his hat and sat it beside him on the table. For a long while, nobody spoke. Finally, the large man broke his silence by announcing, “Let us discuss payment for the continued quality of your work.” He pulled a pencil and paper out of his jacket. As he unfolded the paper, it became clear that it was the payment history from all previous jobs. “Looks like it’s gotten pretty filled up,” laughed the large man. “You’ve done good work for me, and you’ve always been loyal. How about a raise?”
“That would be lovely, sir,” nodded the Resident. Although he was careful to keep up an outer appearance of jubilance, on the inside, he didn’t much care about his pay; he wasn’t one for extraneous belongings.
“How does a ten percent increase sound?” said the large man, raising his eyebrows.
“That is perfect, sir.”
“Wonderful. I shall have my secretary send the amount to your electronic bank,” winked the large man. “Hopefully there will not be another job for you tonight.” He paused. “I must be going now,” he added, putting on his hat and heading for the door. The Resident stood and followed. As the large man exited the tiny house, he grimly stated, “As usual, this stays between us.”
The Resident nodded. “Yes, sir,” he called as the large man shut the door behind himself. The Resident stood there in the dim lighting. He felt rather apprehensive about this meeting for an unknown reason, but he let his mind wander back to more peaceful thoughts. He walked to the couch and sat, staring at the blank wall. It’s best not to think about those things, he reminded himself.
Without warning, he realized that he no longer had his coffee in hand. He swiftly arose and walked to his kitchen. The same blood stained mug sat on the marble counter. The Resident sighed in relief and walked over to the mug. He peered inside, but he found only drops of stale liquid. He decided to leave the empty mug in its current position, and he walked to his pantry. The first item that caught his eye was the large tin of oats. He shrugged and grabbed the tin; it felt light. When he opened the container, he found that its contents had been depleted. He frowned and grabbed a spoon. He spooned the dry oats into his mouth. The bland taste didn’t bother him too much, and the dryness was only a slight nuisance.
After completing the cottony sustenance, the Resident walked to his counter, picked up the coffee mug, and filled it with a bit of tap water. He took a sip of the lukewarm water. There was a slight taste of stale coffee, but the Resident didn’t mind. He finished the water and placed the chipped mug in the sink, and he looked at it for a bit. He pondered if he should throw it out or not, but ultimately decided to keep it; the shadows in the mug seemed to be pleading for life.
As the Resident lumbered to his couch, he couldn’t free himself from the odd sensation of déjà vu. He shrugged and decided to lie back on the couch. He sat his arms on his stomach and faced the ceiling. Then, he closed his eyes and let himself drift.
YOU ARE READING
The Resident
Science FictionIn a strange town in a strange world, the Resident must survive the increasingly damaging nighttime storms.
