The Last Checkout

by Peter Besson

  Pit. Pat.

  “Any preference in you how you’d like to check out, sir?” Huntley’s voice interrupted Ansel’s musings.

  “Not at all?” Ansel said. Was that a smile on Huntley’s lips? Ansel couldn’t tell.

  “You don’t have to do this, Huntley.” Nikki had gotten out of the car and was tiptoeing around the smoking, hissing wreck.

  “This doesn’t concern you anymore, Ms. Forlan. If you don’t mind?”

  “But I do. I do mind.”

  “Not another step, miss.”

  “Why are you doing this? No one has to know. You could put that gun down, turn around and walk away. Nobody would be the wiser.”

  “I know. And that’s all that matters. Now please…”

  She was getting close to Ansel.

  “Stop.”

  A few more steps and she would shield Ansel from the gun.

  “Ms. Forlan.” The tone in Huntley’s voice made Nikki halt. Even the slightest trace of friendliness had evaporated, leaving only a cold edge. She knew that if she took one more step, Ansel would die this very second. “It’s all set in motion. You can’t stop it. Nobody can. Mr. Grayson will die. Today. The only thing yet to be determined is the manner of his death. That is the only part that is negotiable.”

  There it was. Absolute finality.

  The end.

  That possibility had never even occurred to Nikki. Not once in her life had she come across a barrier, some sort of obstacle that would not budge. She’d always found a way to move the line, even if just a bit, be it by charm, money, threat, sex, or sometimes by nothing more than plain asking, but now, for the first time, she experienced the severe censure of ‘no.’ The sharp edge of inevitability. And it hurt, it cut so deep it left her struggling to breathe. “But… you don’t… understand.” Every word threatened to choke her. The pain was raw, unbearable, and it burned through all the layers, all the blind restraint of everyday experience with searing brightness. “I…” Tears fell like rain, but she wasn’t aware of it. She just hurt.

  “I…”

  The big word. The word she hadn’t understood until now. Until someone with a gun was about to take it away from her, forcing her to take a look. To feel. To know.

  Her voice was a whisper. “I love him.”

  Ansel closed his eyes tight. He wasn’t prepared for this. Those words—he’d almost given up on them. He’d heard them before, but that had been two lifetimes ago, and in their absence, he’d started tying a rope to the ceiling. He’d had no hope of ever feeling the sort of things he felt as he stood there, and it threatened to unmoor him. His whole body tensed in anticipation of a metal slug burrowing into his forehead, and he was certain it would never get as good or as terrible again as this moment, this split second before oblivion, when he’d been resurrected from the dead only to die again. Instead of a bullet, he felt Nikki’s hand brush against his, and at the touch of her skin, he held back a deep sob.

  She moved gently so as not to startle Huntley into pulling the trigger. She slid her hand into Ansel’s and held tight, so tight it must have hurt, but she wouldn’t let go, and had no plans of ever doing so.

  Silent sobs shook her frame, her tears falling freely. She didn’t want to look up and confront the inevitable. She was a child again, staring at her feet, not daring to raise her eyes for fear of making the punishment worse, and so she didn’t notice the subtle change on Huntley’s face. Not that it softened, but his jaw relaxed slightly. His aim drifted a mere fraction. Something was working inside of him, something buried deep down. But then, just as quickly as it happened, it was gone.

  His aim steadied again.

  “Now, there isn’t much I can do for you. But there’s one thing.” Huntley checked his watch. He seemed to calculate some contingencies, to find some sort of wriggle room. “I can bend the rules a little bit. Not by much. You, Mr. Grayson, will check out, but perhaps not right this second. I can give you an injection. Something that will let you live for about an hour. So you can say your goodbyes. To each other. To this life.”

  Nikki was helpless to stop the flood of tears. Her heart had opened, and the dam broke. She was all raw hurt, and she wanted to tell Huntley, needed to convince him of the rightness of her feelings, of the injustice of this moment, of the rules, of the system, of life itself that waited this long to deliver her here, to the brink of happiness only to snatch it away again. All those words wanted to tumble out at the same time, even though she knew they were inadequate, and one look at Huntley’s face made it all too clear that no amount of words, no rightness of feeling would change what he had said.

  They’d have an hour.

  “That’s the best I can do,” Huntley said. “Better than I would offer anybody else.”

  Ansel took a deep breath, then let it out. It surprised him, how calm he was. It might have been the absolute certainty with which any decision about the next hour in his life had been taken from him. He was no longer in control, nor even had the illusion that he was, and it felt refreshingly liberating. He was lighter, buoyant; the world appeared clearer, in sharper relief, although less consequential.

  “Thanks, Huntley,” he said.

  As an answer, Huntley lowered the gun and slid it into his shoulder holster.

  ***

  “You weigh how much, Mr. Grayson? One seventy-two, one seventy-three?”

  Huntley had put his small carry-on case on the hood of the destroyed car. Smoke was still curling into the air, and the blackened metal ticked as it cooled, but Huntley had clicked the case open as if he was at a trunk show selling trinkets, and not about to administer death by the milligram. Inside were several vials with clear liquid, each in its own molded foam compartment. At the bottom, secured with a strap, was a syringe.

  “One seventy-three.” Ansel’s voice was steady, more steady than he himself was. He still had the sense of being untethered, as if watching himself from high up and a bit to the right. He leaned against the wrecked car, Nikki in his arms. She clung to him, not willing to relent one last moment’s worth of physical contact with him.

  Huntley took out three vials and lined them up on the battered hood, turned them so their labels were facing him. Then he unstrapped the syringe, took the protective cap off and, one after the other, drew liquid from the vials, checking after each one the exact amount he thought he’d need. On the third vial, he hesitated briefly before piercing the cap and drawing the last bit of fluid into the syringe. He shook it, pushed the lever until all air had been forced from the syringe, and turned to Ansel.

  “One hour, Mr. Grayson. That’s it. I hope you realize it’s nothing personal.”

  “I know, Huntley.” The lightness in his head wouldn’t let up. He felt himself nod at Huntley like at an old friend who’d just shared a bit of unfortunate news with him and who needed comforting for being the bearer of bad tidings. “I know. It’s okay.” He even felt inclined to smile. “Shall we?”

  Nikki couldn’t physically let go of Ansel. He had to pry her fingers from his arm, gently soothing her like a child, and ease her aside. She faded back, reluctant, but she also knew she shouldn’t interfere in the intimacy of the moment. This was between Ansel and his death, administered by Huntley.

  Huntley set the needle against Ansel’s skin, right above a vein. He held the needle rock-steady as he looked Ansel in the eyes. He wanted Ansel to know, as he had with the young woman in room 516, that he was there. He would see Ansel, and bear witness to him having existed, and that death was merely an end, that it could never erase the simple fact that he, Ansel Grayson, had lived on this planet for a certain time, and the universe had been altered permanently because of it. Huntley thought he caught a flicker of understanding in Ansel’s eyes, and perhaps even forgiveness, a forgiveness he’d been seeking ever since he’d closed the door to room 516 behind him, as clean as the day she moved in.

  Huntley pushed the needle through Ansel’s skin and into the ve
in. “I hope in your next life, you can find happiness again, Mr. Grayson. All you have to do is take the leap. No matter how frightening.”

  Ansel blinked uncomprehendingly.

  “Farewell, Mr. Grayson.” Huntley pressed the plunger down, sending liquid death into Ansel’s bloodstream.

  Ansel imagined the toxic cocktail spilling into his blood like ink into water, and with every beat of his heart, death spread further and further through his body until every last cell carried its own demise.

  One hour.

  He glanced up at Nikki, who stood by, her hands covering her mouth, sheer terror in her eyes. She refused to believe this was real. She couldn’t accept it.

  But it was.

  Huntley withdrew the needle and put it back into the briefcase. He gathered up the vials, secured them, and snapped the case shut.

  He exchanged one more look with Ansel.

  Killer and Killed.

  There was no hatred between them, only an understanding of what had to be. Each had played their part—Huntley’s was done, and Ansel’s was just beginning.

  Huntley turned and walked off down the street without turning back, receding into the gloom of the still-darkened city.

  It was all done. Only Ansel and Nikki left.

  She slid her arms around Ansel, holding him close. She thought she felt death move inside him, growing stronger, colder. She hugged him tighter, praying it wasn’t so, hoping Huntley was wrong, the world was wrong, but she knew.

  Ansel would leave.

  Together, they looked up. High up, the sky blushed a faint rose, deepening to blood-red at the horizon, where the sun drew a fiery line across the world.

  “Almost there,” Ansel said.

  They set off down the street, toward the light.

  ***

  Low dunes gave way to a broad expanse of beach. A cold wind whipped inward from the water, pushing waves up the long, shallow shoal. Pebbles rolled back and forth in the wash, caught between land and sea, never gaining a foothold in either world but doomed to an endless assault without any chance at success or failure.

  The beach was strewn with trash. Plastic bags, tangled in the low shrub, fluttered in the wind. Bottles and cans stuck out of the sand like strange new creatures greeting a new day. Further down, a refrigerator had somehow managed to clear the water line and lay half-buried in the sand, crabs crawling about it.

  But still, the beauty of nature was undeterred. There was the shining ocean, lustrous with early morning light. The waves danced, undulating as if the sea possessed a living, glowing skin. The air smelled of salt and water and eternal secrets. The horizon bled a deep, deep red, and a shimmering line of gold cleaved the sky from the water.

  Nikki, an arm around Ansel, helped him navigate the dunes. His steps were uncertain. Weak. His legs wouldn’t respond the way they had for all his life; now they lagged, as if the signals from his nervous system were getting fainter with every step he willed them to take. But he walked on, toward the beach.

  The final destination.

  Nikki fought to keep him upright. He felt his legs about to give up, to completely refuse to take the next step.

  “…it.”

  He’d wanted to say “That’s it,” but hadn’t had the strength for both words. He plumped down heavily on the sand at a spot not too far from the shoreline, where the water ran up close to his feet and retreated again with the endless heartbeat of the ocean.

  Nikki sat down next to him and slung her arms around him, embracing him tightly, as if she could keep the life inside of him.

  He leaned his head on her shoulder. It had become too hard to keep it up himself.

  So they sat. Waited for the sun.

  The water lapped at their feet. Gusts of wind grabbed at their clothes, let them go again only to try once more. The sky lightened, colors awakened as if God had found the saturation dial and turned it up in anticipation of the new day.

  And there. As the earth kept spinning, revealing more and more of infinity, the first rays of sunlight blazed clear across the ocean, traveling millions of miles to finally illuminate Ansel and Nikki’s faces.

  Ansel blinked.

  He’d forgotten how overwhelmingly beautiful the light of the sun could be. It hadn’t gathered enough strength to hurt yet, but soon it would drench this side of the planet. Ansel thought he could make out a shadow, down in the shallows of the surf. It was hard to be sure. The world swam before his eyes.

  He had to concentrate on breathing. It seemed too easy to forget it altogether. He sensed his whole being shrink, curl into itself. His eyelids became sticky, harder to open each time he blinked. He closed them. Just for a second, he thought.

  When he opened them again, he saw more clearly, far clearer than he ever remembered seeing. The shadow by the water—it wasn’t a shadow any longer, but the silhouette of a young woman, an outline drawn by pure desire, the glittering ocean behind her, enveloping her, the light a kiss on her flesh. She was wading through the shallow water, her back to him, but then she turned and gazed back.

  Tamara.

  She was looking at Ansel, the sun all around her, and in her eyes the love of all and everything. She stood in the water, patient, waiting for Ansel.

  Ansel smiled through the tears running down his cheeks. “Forgive me,” he said.

  Nikki, holding Ansel close, heard him whisper. She discovered his face awash in tears, and his gaze fixed on something at the edge of the water. She followed his look, but all she saw was the ocean, awaiting another day.

  Tamara, unseen by Nikki, smiled. She held out her hand, beckoned Ansel lightly. He could hardly keep his eyes open anymore, but he tried, as long as he could, to hold the vision before him, to never lose sight again of all he’d thought lost.

  “I love you,” Tamara said, and with that, Ansel’s heart broke apart. The pain inside was too big, too delicious to bear, and he felt himself consumed by its white-hot flame with all its terrible agony and glory and then he was no more.

  Ansel slumped, leaned into Nikki with all his weight, and she held him, held him close, and they were two figures on the lightening beach, sitting in the brilliant light of a rising sun.

  CHAPTER TEN

  DEATH

  “If I remember correctly, I specifically mentioned that I’d like to do the honor myself, Huntley.” Morton wasn’t too pleased, and he let an uncharacteristic sharp undertone slip into his voice.

  “The choice had to be made on location, Mr. Morton.” Huntley showed no indication he’d noticed the rebuke. “Local law enforcement—alerted by you, if I’m not mistaken—was on hand, and proper procedure according to the self-termination directive had to be followed. Mr. Grayson had to be checked out within the shortest amount of time possible.”

  They were in the morgue, Ansel’s body on the table before them. Huntley held up the sheet so Morton could verify for himself that the longest resident of Hotel Terminus had checked out at last.

  “Guess I should have known better than to ask you to bend the rules a bit, Huntley.” Outwardly, Morton had regained his composure. Inside, he was seething. Here lay the man who in his final hours had managed to fuck him, Morton Gallagher, royally, the man who had, together with his equally dead friend, handed the keys of the palace to the rabble, the discontent and the imbeciles that were the guests. They were liable to exercise their newly discovered powers for all manner of idiocy, a prospect that filled Morton with overwhelming dread. As soon as things quieted down, he would have to attempt damage control, try to regain authority and, most importantly, figure out what legal traps Chet Romer had laid for him and find a way to wrest back financial oversight. But one thing at a time. This one was dead. And it was good.

  He nodded to Huntley, who pulled the sheet back over Ansel’s face.

  “Not that it matters, but how did Ms. Forlan take the turn of events?” Morton raised a disinterested eyebrow.

  “She seemed rather dis
tressed, I’m afraid. Didn’t want to accompany me back with the body but decided she would—how did she put it… ‘re-think her life on this planet.’”

  “So you have no idea where she is?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Well, I’m certain I could arrive at another arrangement with Mr. Forlan regarding his daughter’s check-in status. Unpaid balances still are subject to termination, but there might have been some irregularities at her sudden re-appearance that we can iron out together, I’m sure.” He smiled grimly and exited the room.

  Huntley stood by the gurney, Ansel’s cooling body before him.

  Only one thing left to do.

  ***

  She drove, looking ahead, but her gaze was far off—it didn’t register anything in this world, which was only shapes and sounds and the blurry line of the road extending to the horizon for her. Nikki had stolen the car back in the city. It was incredible how careless people were with their possessions. This one hadn’t even been locked, as if it had been waiting for her, asking her to take it, to drive it out of the city, into the bleak, desolate stretch of earth past the last straggly cluster of houses. Here, it was all sagebrush and dust; a red-brown sandbox.

  The car drifted, inch by inch, to the side of the road cutting a straight black line through the ruddy ground. The tires skipped off the tarmac and onto the shoulder, kicking up dirt and stones.

  Nikki, not even blinking, her focus far in the distance—be it future or past, she herself couldn’t say—gave the steering wheel a tender nudge. The car heaved itself back onto the road and continued its journey toward a horizon it would never meet.

  ***

  The open container the train pulled down the tracks should have been decommissioned quite some time ago, but still it carried on, hauling its gruesome cargo: a stack of human corpses heedlessly jumbled together like logs of wood.

  At the height of suicide’s popularity, these containers had been stacked to the brim with bodies, one atop the other, on their last journey out to the massive crematoriums, which had been built as far away from human habitation as possible. The trains had rolled day and night toward the large chimneys that spewed black smoke into the sky, blanketing out the sun during the day and turning nights an inky black. But more than once, people had caught sight of the railroad cars full of bodies, and memories thought long-forgotten had surfaced—memories of a dark night in human history when similar trains had rumbled across Europe to similar destinations, and those cries of outrage had been loud enough to take the open railcars out of commission. No one wanted to be reminded of the cargo they carried, so closed cars—even though they were exponentially more difficult and expensive to load—were utilized from then on.