"Room 300"

The afternoon sun beat hard through the dusty, cracked windshield of the Hapcellion z280 hypercar; the holographic dashboard read August 8th, 2086, 15:52. The only comfort from the heat was the cool metal of the hand-me-down revolver resting in the small of his back, hidden under the baggy shirt, and the heart-shaped locket that sat on his collar bone, the thin silver chain clasped to the back of his sunburnt neck. He sat in the driver’s seat, nervously fiddling with the locket clasp. Each time the locket creaked open, a red light projected out the words: HAL ARMIS DOB:12/20/2047 BLOOD TYPE: A +. The unlit cigarette sitting between his cracked lips. Hundreds of years of medical research can’t beat mega-corporation marketing; he thought to himself as he lit the tobacco. He finally pushed the creaky door open and stepped into the dilapidated Brooklyn street.

The building in front of him stood as the smallest on the block, only three stories tall, about twenty-five feet wide, and the only occupied one. The sunlight beat on his knee caps which showed through the ripped suit pants; Mr. Shaw, his apartment complex’s resident tailor, died four months prior when his income became too little to afford his medications each month, his body pitched into the mass grave that once was a dump. Fitting for how the U.S. government rodeo viewed its citizens. One rodeo clown at the city job assignment office is how Hal ended up here at four in the afternoon. Those same megacorps that fed Hal smoking propaganda were the ones whose interest groups have been running the government of the former beacon of Western Democracy. As wallets grew, so did influence, and power, till the same three corporations’ logos were plastered on everything from the BQE to Timbuktu. The company that manufactures your insulin? The same one that produced the sweet cream rolls that gave you diabetes. This thought rolled around in his head also as he strode up the steps to the front door. The door opened onto a dimly lit hallway, at the end a counter with scratched glass and a small woman. Hal approached her; as soon as her eyes met his slender figure, she stood up, grabbed the mop bucket and jumpsuit, and walked out from behind the counter to meet him. “Here, go clean the 3rd floor.” The only words his new boss said to him.

Hal slipped the jumpsuit over his clothes, zipped it up, and walked the empty bucket and mop up the stairs. At the third floor sat six doors, three on each side, all numbered 300-305, old apartments, each probably about 8x11, remnants of the days of overpopulation that dominated Hal’s youth. He made his way to the first door on his left, 300. This shouldn't take more than an hour, he figured. The first apartment held a metal bed frame, sink, and toilet. He filled the bucket with the sink water and slipped one of the soap pods from his jumpsuit pocket into the water. He mopped away silently, the air in the room heavy, the faint smell of decay hanging around him. The first room was done, not that the mopping made it look any better. As he went to reenter the hallway, he was caught off guard. The door which he had entered a few minutes prior suddenly presented a problem. The top of the frame was at his eye level, Hal ducking to exit and having to tilt the mop as he pulled the bucket across the threshold. Was he that lost in thought when he entered that his body had to guide him through this process the first time around unconsciously? He glanced back and stared for a few minutes, mulling over it in his head. Finally, he chose to move on to the next room, prepared to make the same duck and swing motion, except this door was about six inches taller than Hal.

Unorthodox construction was not uncommon in the tenement buildings constructed when available housing ran short; the issue was though, these were often constructed of scrap metal and cardboard, this building had to predate them by at least 250 years, and besides the shortened door, there were no other signs of any remodels or renovations in the hallway. He craned his head around to look at the door he exited behind him, it was still there and still shorter than him. He unzipped the jumpsuit and reached into his pants pocket for another cigarette. He left the bucket outside room 303 and strode to the stairwell making his way back to the lobby. She was still there, in the same place, her eyes fixed on the stairwell immediately catching his as he rounded the landing. “What are you doing? You’re here to do the job, I’ll call the office and have them send a new body tomorrow instead, and put that thing out.” She stated. Her voice was cold and distant, she seemed disconnected from the situation. “Can’t put it out if it’s not lit.” Hal retorted irritably. “What’s with the door.” he immediately followed up. “Excuse me?” she replied. “The door to 300, it’s smaller than the rest.” “I have no idea, I don’t go up there I just work the desk, besides, it should be of no concern to you, just clean, the city needs it done so they can move workers for the new food processing plant in by the end of the week.” Hal trudged back up the stairs and decided to now lit the cigarette out of spite.

As he reached the third-floor landing the hairs on his neck stood, there was a heaviness, and the smell of decay now filled the floor. The air felt palpable as an unexplainable fear gripped him. He felt eyes, but not those of the woman from the lobby as if she had come up behind him, these came from his left at the end of the hall. He slowly unzipped his jumpsuit again, this time reaching to his back, the metal handle felt cool and familiar as he slowly drew it and zipped with his left hand before planting it on top of his right which was wrapped tightly around the handle of the .357. He slowly led around the corner with the barrel then his head and peered into the uninhabited hallway. Maybe it was how it reminded him of dark times as a child, watching the sick and elderly die in the hallways as government agents heaved them from their homes to make room for more disposable workers. The screams of the damned and disenfranchised that rang out endlessly every night in tenements throughout the city for years. The stories of missing family members and strange vehicles moving through the night. A cold sweat saturated his brow, he slipped the revolver into the large jumpsuit pocket where the soap pod had been and moved back to the mop bucket. He made his way to room 303, placing the mop bucket to the side and slowly grabbing the knob with a trembling hand, his right still caressing the gun in his pocket. “1...2...3” he counted to himself as he flung the door open. The only movement was a cloud of dust, as it settled Hal surveyed the room, eyes moving slowly from left to right....bed....sink...toilet, his head shot back, in the middle of the back wall he could just make out in the dim light a heavy wool curtain.

“Did the other room have a window?” He hadn’t paid enough attention to recall clearly and he strode to the curtain. Pulling it back allowed a small amount of light from the alleyway between the brick building and its neighbor. Hal tried to mop, but the question of the presence of a window in the other room consumed his mind. He placed the mop back in the bucket and crept back across the hall, opened, the door, ducked, and swung himself inside. There it was, directly in front of him, visible in the dim interior light, a blank wall. “Maybe none on this side have windows” he nervously thought aloud. Again he crept to the hallway but now over to room 301. Slowly he opens the third door, and finds, a bed, sink, toilet, and heavy wool curtain. On he moves to every other apartment, every time was that setup, the apartment with the strange door was the only one without a window. This mystery had to be solved, confusion and curiosity taking over. He thoroughly surveyed the room but nothing else seemed to stand out. Again he thought this could have been the result of this room being added on to create more living space, a shortage of available materials leading to the shortened makeshift door, and lack of window. He was now covered in sweat and walked to the sink, this time turning the cold water handle. Nothing came out. He tried again, on and off, on and off, each time no result. He flicked the hot water and out came lukewarm tap water. He tried the cold a final time. This time Hal left in the on position and heard a small mechanical whirl.

He quickly spun his head and saw the black rear wall had slid and revealed a panel of buttons, monitors, and speakers. This wasn’t an apartment, this was some kind of control room. He stared and noticed each of the two screens was split into sections, one displaying the six rooms on the second floor, the other showing the other five on the third floor. This was no apartment building, the rooms were holding cells. it was a city testing site, the rumors of which he heard as a boy and dismissed as stories told by those whose minds had gone a long time ago. This was no story, he pinched himself and could not wake up, again he tried, a third, suddenly he felt a cool sensation on the back of his neck, he reached his left and around, the room becoming blurry. Swiping his neck, he found his hand covered in blood. As he collapsed to the floor, he felt a kick to his ribs. Wincing in pain and turning, he saw her, the woman from the desk, with a gun in her hand, the handle bloody and the barrel pointed at him. “I told you what was going on here was none of your concern. You were hired to clean, not snoop.” She cocked the hammer back, “Like I also said earlier, you are disposable.”. These words rang out in his ears. The room went black.