The Last Two Days

I carried a thick stack of expense reports back to my desk. First order of business: lock that strange bottle in the drawer. Was I really going to give this water to someone? And if I refused, would I die in two days? And would the final moments of my life be spent sitting here cross-checking expense reports? I shook my head at the futility of it, picked up the first report, and started entering it into the system. No choice — the work still had to be done.

I spent the whole morning in simple, mindless repetition, pushing away the bizarre and the inexplicable, until I heard two female colleagues chatting behind me: "I'm off on holiday the day after tomorrow. Two more days and you won't see me." My nerves, just beginning to uncoil, snapped taut again. They went on: "So these last two days — any last words? Ha ha." I didn't want to listen any more. The clock said lunchtime. I stood up quickly and escaped the oppressive building.

Thinking about what to eat, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I pulled it out: another piece of spam. Spam was annoying enough, but this one was particularly infuriating: "Sports Flash: XX vs XX — a life-or-death final bout, last two days." Out of habit I blocked the sender, deleted the message, and finally switched the phone off. The spam had killed any appetite I'd had. I walked the streets with no destination.

"Scrrrk—" A harsh noise erupted beside me. A shop had switched on an outdoor speaker, and after a burst of static it bellowed at a volume that nearly stripped my hearing: "Last two days. Last two days. Clearance sale. Everything half-price. Last two days. Last two days…"

The sound hammered into my skull. I pressed my hands over my ears and fled as fast as I could. Behind me the speaker kept looping, reminding me how little time I had left.

I walked for about ten minutes, away from the busy commercial street and toward a construction site. No restaurants out this way, only a bun stall, a battered sheet of cardboard propped in front of it: 15 yuan a box, ten buns per box. A reasonable price, its customers mainly the construction workers from the surrounding site. Having no stomach for a restaurant, I ordered a box and sat down to get lunch out of the way.

"Ring ring ring, ring ring ring."

No sooner had I sat down than a faint jingling started behind me. I turned: a curly-haired black dog, a small bell hanging from its collar. The dog's coat was thick with construction dust, and it was missing a front leg, moving in an uneven, rocking gait, its bell ringing with every step.

The bun stall owner saw the dog approach, took a bun out of the steamer, and tossed it over. The dog, unbothered by the heat, immediately ate.

"Don't waste the good stuff on a dog," said one of the construction workers eating nearby — a young one, teasing the owner.

The owner sighed. "Don't know which family lost it. It's been wandering around here lately. Today the city management office called me, asking whether there was a stray dog in the area. Probably sending someone to catch it in the next day or two. Once they catch it, the dog likely won't survive. I can't do much. Let it eat well these last two days — at least it'll leave on a full stomach."

The owner's words settled on me like a weight. I couldn't swallow the bun in my mouth.

The young worker spoke again. "Poor dog, look how its eyelids droop. Bet it knows its time is up."

"Worry about yourself first," said an older worker. "We haven't had work for days. Word is the contractor skipped out. This project might get abandoned. If we don't get what we're owed — can you survive? Check your pockets — how much do you have left? You and this dog, hard to say who goes first."

The young worker flared up. "He'd better pay me! My dad calls every day asking me to send money home — my mum's hospital fees are running out. You think he can just pocket money that's keeping her alive?"

The older one shook his head. "I'm telling you, think of another way. If the contractor ran, none of us are seeing anything. He doesn't care if it's life-or-death money."

The young worker got angrier. "If he doesn't pay, I'll fight him. If he takes my livelihood, he doesn't get to keep his."

"He's skipped town — where are you going to find him?"

Through clenched teeth: "Then I'll go to the street and stab whoever's there. I'm done with this miserable life anyway. Kill one, break even. Kill two, come out ahead."

The last sentence came out quietly, but it made me flinch. I stole a sideways glance. A few minutes ago this same man had been full of tenderness for the little dog — now his eyes were red, his face the face of something dangerous.

I left before finishing my food, grabbed the remaining buns, and walked back to the office as fast as my legs would carry me.

Back at my desk I sat for a long time before I could settle, then opened the computer and resumed the tedious work, entering report after report into the system. When I finally looked up at the screen, something abnormal had appeared, and the cold shock of it raised every hair on my body.

Same screen. Windows running normally. But in the lower-right corner where the clock normally sat, the display read: 48:00:00.

Every "last two days" before today I had been able to tell myself was coincidence. There was no explaining away this. My mind went blank. I sat staring at those digits: 48:00:00. I don't know how long I stared. And then the numbers moved: 47:59:59.

My heart lurched. 47:59:58, 47:59:57 — the countdown had begun. I looked at the wall clock: it was about 2:10 in the afternoon — exactly the time the skeleton-in-skin had come to my bedroom yesterday to announce my death.