Deadline Is Death

"No… that’s impossible… I was almost strangled to death! Look at my neck!"

They had clearly seen the marks on my throat. Unfortunately, in the face of concrete evidence, every argument I made sounded futile.

"We need you to come back to the station and cooperate with the investigation," Officer Cross said. "And the news website page on your computer… We’ll need to examine that as well."

I sat in the police car, staring out at the empty streets before dawn. My mind was a mess.

While I hadn’t died, Mrs. Calder had died in my place.

Had the rules changed? Or had the slot for death been transferred?

Because there was no direct evidence and the injuries on my neck were real, I was allowed to leave at daybreak, but only on the condition that I remain available for questioning at any time.

When I returned home, the stains on the floor outside my door had been collected as evidence, but a faint, fishy stench still lingered.

I stood in the hallway, staring at that door. Just yesterday at this time, Mrs. Calder had been complaining that I was too loud. Now she was a pile of mangled flesh lying in the morgue.

I turned and went back inside, locked the door, and slid down against it until I was sitting on the floor.

My phone vibrated.

"Backup slots are full. In the next cycle, death cannot be transferred."

The next day, the sun came up, and the world went on as usual.

Except for Unit 703.

There was still no movement.

I washed my face and looked at myself in the mirror. The scratch at the corner of my eye was still there. It was thin, narrow, and capped with a faint scab.

I took a deep breath and opened the door.

The hallway was quiet. Unit 703’s door was tightly shut. Mrs. Calder’s milk carton was still lying at the bend of the stairwell, the surface dirty and coated with dust.

I forced myself to suppress the fear and knocked on the door of Unit 703.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

No answer.

I knocked again.

Across the hall, the door to Unit 701 creaked open. A middle-aged woman poked her head out, trash bag in hand. She glanced at me, then at the door to Unit 703, and lowered her voice.

"Don’t bother knocking. No one’s home." She curled her lip, her eyes full of disdain. "That old hag brought it on herself. Good riddance."

I stood outside Unit 703 for a while longer, then turned back to my apartment and shut the door.

I sat down on the bed and pulled out my phone. There were dozens of unread messages in the work group chat.

"I heard something happened again last night."

Below it, Eric Dawson sent a grinning emoji, then added, "All you night-shift owls stay safe @everyone."

I stared at the emoji, my fingers tightening around the phone.

At 9:00 a.m., I went to the courier station.

Quietly, I made my way to the small records room behind the building. It was crammed with unresolved complaint forms and old delivery logs from past years.

I found the cabinet from three years ago, glanced toward the door to make sure no one was around, grabbed a screwdriver from the tool room, and pried it open.

The cabinet was stuffed with folders, sorted by month. I flipped to September from three years ago.

My fingers slid across the yellowed pages and stopped on a single complaint form.

Complainant: Connie Calder

Courier complained about: Noah Vale

Reason: Package missing; courier suspected of opening parcels and stealing contents

Outcome: Courier terminated; customer compensated for losses

In the signature section below, Mrs. Calder's name was scrawled crookedly.

The courier’s signature line was blank, but beside it was a photograph. It was a grainy surveillance still.

A man in a courier uniform was carrying a cardboard box out of a building. His face was blurred beyond recognition. Below the photo was a handwritten note: "Employee refuses to admit fault. Evidence conclusive. Case transferred to police."

I stared at the image.

The uniform was the old style used by our station which was phased out three years ago.

The man’s height and build looked very much like mine. However, three years ago, I hadn’t even been in this city.

I kept flipping.

There were several supplemental statements tied to the same incident, all written by Mrs. Calder. Each one was harsher than the last, demanding that the thief be severely punished.

In the end, the company paid Mrs. Calder $ 2,000, and she agreed to no longer pursue the matter.

The settlement date was September 15, three years ago.

There was also a newspaper clipping. "Courier Noah Vale Fired After Customer Accuses Him of Package Theft.

"Mr. Vale insists on his innocence, but surveillance footage shows him carrying a parcel away from the customer’s residence.

"It is reported that after losing his job, Mr. Vale’s mental state deteriorated. He repeatedly returned to the customer’s residence to demand an explanation, but was turned away each time."

…

"As of press time, Mr. Vale has been missing for over a week. His family has expressed concern."

There was no accompanying photo, but the article mentioned the name of the apartment complex.

Unit 704, Building 7, Hawthorne Ridge Apartments.

Had "I" already died long ago?