The Fly

He looked around him, watching the desolate streets. It would have been a Monday. The unified chattering of busy people would have muffled nature. Would, that is. He used to become irritated when someone talked too loudly on their phones, or when a baby began to cry on the bus.
The one good thing, he thought to himself as he kicked open the door to a house, was that he had the pick of the litter. Each night was spent in a new home; a new bed with new furniture. He rarely slept, but the change in scenery was nice. Plus, every once in a while he would find edible food. The sell-by dates had long since expired, though this did not stop him. The simple fact was that he had no choice. Even if he could find an animal, he wouldn’t have the strength to chase it far.
After a tin of beans had been opened and the contents desperately slurped down without hesitation, he went to bed. It was still quite early, with the sun only just beginning to fall. However, television was no longer an option and he’d played solitaire well-over a dozen times that day. The suits on many of the cards had faded. The ace of spades wore a bandage of sellotape that held it together.
The door to the master bedroom lay upstairs. It was positioned directly in front of where the stairs ended. The bed was a king size. The covers white and the pillows full of feather rather than stuffing. He almost felt unworthy. But in the end the weights on his eyelids won out and he slept.
A fly. That was the first thing he noticed as he began to wake. His eyes took a minute to focus, but as they did he was surprised to find that the small black dot remained. It was hovering aimlessly around the lightbulb in the center of the room. After a moment it landed on the window and began to wonder why it could not feel the cold air on its fragile wings.
He sat up in the bed. His eyes never looking away. A million thoughts were fogging his mind but the only thing he could do in the end was laugh. At first it was a small chuckle that forced itself from his throat. But it quickly began to escalate into the familiar sounds of a mad man.
Downstairs, a woman in a grey boiler suit was listening. Insecticide in her left hand, though she knew it was too late now. The laughter had given that away. She was in trouble, then she froze in fear as the next thought posed itself, she could even be fired. Her hands flew to her mouth as she began to let out sounds of frustration. Thankfully the noise was cut almost immediately, although it didn’t seem to matter. With the racket the subject was making upstairs, an entire circus cast could have performed through the empty streets, elephants included, and remain unheard.
Of course, she began to think in smug self-appreciation, she had told them it wasn’t ready. The level of life was way past average, it was inevitable that one fly would escape and reveal itself to the subject. One fly. The two words lingered, even after the thought had faded and the knowingness dissipated.
There just hadn’t been enough time. The bigger animals had been shot and taken away but the insects remained. You couldn’t fume a section of the city with a man, the man in fact, still in range. While the specialised radiation wouldn’t do much damage, having been created to hurt nothing bigger than a spider, it tended to smell rather potent. One co-worker had often compared it’s scent to that of bleach or chlorine. He would have noticed, investigated even. Then what would he find? A dozen workers shovelling tubes into the houses he thought abandoned.
The small phone at her belt began to vibrate, snapping her out of her thoughts. The voice that began to talk was distinct. It was of a man, which she assumed was the boss. A paranoid but admittedly intelligent man that only ever seemed to call when something was wrong. Although his lack of trust for collar workers like her was justified considering the situation at hand. She listened for a minute while he spoke then hung up and began to walk. Her orders had been given.
After his throat was sore, and the sight less amusing, he began to wonder. The return of an insect could mean the return of something larger, like a squirrel...or even a human. The thought did not shock him as much as he thought it would. What did shock him was the emotion that began to arise. An emotion that had been ready to awaken for some time: fear.
What would they think? To see a man in his position. He may even be poached for resembling a wild animal. “The hunters are coming to take your skin,” he said with a grin. Then the humour in his voice faded. He looked over to his rucksack. “Billy’s got a gun” he sang to himself.
The stairs groaned under the pressure of the woman's feet. Each step an invitation. The insecticide she had carried was now aimed in front of her as she slowly ascended. Beads of sweat began to make their way down her forehead and fall into the collar of her suit.
She, like everyone else, did not understand the effects of long-term isolation. Which is why she had to be cautious. The reaction of the subject could range from a warm embrace to an attempt at her own life. The equipment on her toolbelt rattled nervously. Despite this, the subject had not left his room to investigate. Perhaps he had gone back to sleep. But she knew that was not the case.
His finger caressed the trigger. It’s been so long. The ammo had been slowly and carefully loaded into the magazine. Each bullet making a satisfying click at it entered its natural position. Natural, it’s all so natural. Once it was loaded, he took aim at the door leading into the hallway. But after a few seconds lowered it. It’s survival of the fittest. He had survived for over ten years on his own. He didn’t need them. They just want to take everything you’ve worked so hard to achieve. He again raised the gun, ready to fire. They want to see the freak show.
The door opened a few moments later. A woman stepped in. The bottle of insecticide hit the ground. The ringing in his ears blocked out the confused moans of the hunter. The halls became sickeningly crimson. Her bright blonde hair covered the floor. Smoke poured from the barrell.
The fly left through the open door.