'Thirteen Minutes' by Jo Davies

The lunch bell’s metallic, off-key tone echoed down the deserted corridor. In room ten, George’s grey, watery eyes snapped open and found the little clock on his bedside table, its delicate, golden hands perfectly vertical against the white clock face. He pushed against the worn arms of his chair and struggled up.

“These ruddy alarms will kill me one of these days,” he muttered, shuffling out of his room as quickly as he could.

In the corridor, the aroma of cooked mince and potato confirmed that it was Tuesday, shepherds’ pie day. His stomach growled. Tuesdays were his favourite, but he’d learnt to be prompt; the portions seemed to shrink the later you were.

He sat down at his usual place among the other white-haired residents and checked the dining room clock: ten past. All safe. Wing Commander Roberts would be proud of him. It had been the first thing they’d had drummed into them during training: life was lived in thirteen minutes or less. Any longer than that to get up into position and they were dead.