Destination Unknown
By: L. Chambers-Wright
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright 2011, L. Chambers-Wright. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published by Black House Books [http://blackhousebooks.com].
Smashwords Edition:
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Author's Note on "Stormy Weather": The singer Sophia Bragg is entirely fictitious, but the song "Stormy Weather" was written in 1933 by Harold Arlen. This tune is available at the National Archives: [http://www.archive.org/details/HaroldArnold-StormyWeather1933].
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Table of Contents:
Chapter One: Stormy Weather
1.
Nathaniel had prepared for the trip into Tennessee all week, but the beautiful day outside distracted him. He couldn't take his eyes from the office window. The welcoming sun made it difficult to remain indoors. He toyed with a pencil as he tried to force himself into work. He loved numbers, it wasn't usually so problematic to focus on them.
He hated business travel, but the new Lexus promised a luxurious ride. It had arrived earlier that week and he anticipated an extended, leisurely drive on the open interstate. He had nearly lusted for one those beautiful cars for over a decade. The meteorologist forecasted a gorgeous day of sunshine and cool breezes. It was the perfect opportunity to see how the car handled at high speeds.
His accounting and bookkeeping service worked with a Southeastern branch of the FDIC. Reports of questionable pecuniary activity had surfaced in Northeast Tennessee. Financial institutions with dubious practices always seemed to be popular, perhaps their ruthlessness made their ascent easy. Embezzlement tempted the most dedicated of bank staff. He would perform an audit, examine the accounts and create the formal documentation on the activities. Banks held power over people, sadly the “shady” institutions knew it.
The clang of the coffee canister resounded through the reception area. After a slight groan of aggravation, Bonnie yanked paper towels from the dispenser. “Out damned spot.” She was a gem of an assistant, but even more of an asset. Her maternal appearance softened the hard, corporate lines of the office and made it homier. The decades of experience she'd gained made her thoroughly professional and efficient. Often, he truly believed she knew more about his job than he did. She came to the threshold of his office wiping a spot of spilled coffee from her shirt. She silently watched him gather paperwork. He knew what she was going to say. She warned, “You'd better be ready for rain.”
He laughed to himself a moment, he was good at predicting her warnings. “It isn't going to rain, Bonnie. I heard the weather report five minutes ago. It’s supposed to be clear throughout the weekend.”
She rolled her eyes and chuckled. “They don't know everything. Besides, I know by my aches when it will rain. I have for twenty years. I may be your secretary, but I do know a little about the weather.”
He playfully answered, “Yes, and you're a walking barometer.” He finished with a cackle, but she laughed harder than he did.
She grew serious again, “At least I can make a decent pot of coffee.”
“Touché.”
He enjoyed his job the most when executives weren't present. He and Bonnie teased one another to pass the time, discussed their lives and what they hoped for the future. It seemed to keep them both in good spirits and lessened the monotony of routine. As much as he loved numbers, having a jovial office was a necessity.
He had everything filed and prepared for the trip into the next state. He looked at the clock and sighed. The minutes continued to crawl by. He was marooned inside until four, with still half an hour to go. He couldn't leave until after hours, he had to verify no further developments emerged regarding the bank in question. His days weren’t hectic, yet his position demanded his presence. He couldn't even leave for lunch breaks. He angled the screen away from his door and visited the web site for "Weekly World Sleaze." Bonnie would never let him live it down if she knew how much he read trashy tabloids online. He couldn't help it, it was a bizarre compulsion that could only be satisfied through tales of the fantastic and the unbelievable. It was far more compelling reading material than the "Wall Street Journal."
They had to anticipate any sly calculation from bank management. They were clever enough to request he arrive on a Saturday after business hours. That typically eliminated any unpleasant rumors among customers or talkative tellers. Hopefully the strange hours would also prevent destruction of potential evidence. He had uncovered so many corrupt institutions it was often difficult to believe them innocent until proven otherwise. The facilities they were called to didn't fare well. Estimates dictated that around 85% of those institutions engaged in some kind of dishonesty.
People lost their businesses, their houses and their lives to banks. The worst companies reigned in smaller towns where the residents weren't particularly aware of their rights and even the tellers seldom knew. The local officials weren’t always ready to lose such generous contributors to simply blot out corruption for the common good.
Four o'clock finally came with no further instruction from regional headquarters. He grabbed his briefcase and his jacket out of his closet. The car contained his overnight bag and the huge case with his laptop and files inside. He would gather the information over the weekend, analyze the figures and have any issues documented by Monday.
Bonnie looked concerned as she watered the ferns on the sofa table. "Remember to take an umbrella and don't try to drive over Sam's Gap if the rain gets heavy. I don't want to attend your funeral next week-"
"Bonnie!" He didn't want to hear the gloom and doom. Sam’s Gap was an infamous stretch of road connecting North Carolina and Tennessee. The high altitude was notorious for accidents and poor driving conditions. Its elevation made it susceptible to ice, rain and hard winds. But, he was a careful driver and it was the middle of July. What did he possibly have to worry about? Rain? He could simply pull over if it got that bad.
"Well, it's true." She grew dire, the trace of worry had developed into near apprehension. "I have a bad feeling about a storm. I'd rather tell you now and justify it as old age, if I’m wrong. Be careful."
"Okay, Bonnie." He didn‘t like that stark change in her demeanor. "I promise, if it gets heavy, I'll pull over till it passes."
Her actions had subtly changed as the day ended, but he had pushed it from his mind. He wasn't just imagining things. She was very upset. She had been right many times before when the forecasters weren‘t. He didn't know much about female intuition, but Bonnie was a logical and calculating woman, no fantasy or folklore shook her. She looked harmless enough, with a lovely complexion and deep, dark blue eyes. Underneath, she was still a hard professional. She wasn't swayed by superstition or omens. He had to assure himself as he left… She worries too much.
2.
He trudged to his car with his bags. Bonnie waved good-bye with an odd sadness on her face. He couldn’t think of that. He couldn’t wait on the weather when people were being destroyed. He scheduled business trips around the rush hours, sometimes it seemed like there was too much traffic on the highway even then. All those angry drivers seemed to think the same thing: even if it were just to the gas station, by God, they deserved privileges just for being on the road. Everyone else just had to deal with it. As long as they got what they wanted, they would be happy.
He cleared the main areas as he went through western North Carolina. The four-lane became a highway as he neared a roadside diner named “Sally's.” His stomach growled with the thoughts of food. Not the tuna sandwich he had for lunch, but hearty, substantial food. He needed a good meal before that long drive over the mountain.
He pulled in the gravel lot. He parked between a blue pickup and a white Impala. His legs cramped as he kicked to stretch his taut muscles. It really would be a long trip. He doubted his choice to drive as he walked towards the entrance. Maybe he should've flown. The drive may be pleasant, but would take hours. An airplane would only take a fraction of that time.
He stepped up to the cluttered entrance. There were no people around, but the sidewalk was congested with aged newspaper and drink machines. He glanced at the headlines, but nothing caught his eye as he breezed past. The glass door was covered with stickers and advertisements of all kinds: mobile homes for sale, lost pets, found pets, cars for sale, garage sales, there were a hundred stories just within the signs.
He stepped inside and paused, it wasn’t exactly what he expected. He walked across the tattered carpet and sat in an empty booth. The dim interior had a few lights suspended from the ceiling with a black shade above each. The shades forced all light on the floor and tables, but the ceiling was nearly invisible. In the illuminated areas of the room, the tables were scarred and scratched. He had a momentary doubt about eating here. Food poisoning would not speed up his drive.
A pleasant-looking waitress walked by his table and he changed his mind. She carried a platter of fries and a burger that resembled a thirteen inch tire. The food looked deliciously decadent. His empty stomach growled further and he decided to remain. The white platter underneath sparkled as she walked under the suspended light.
She wasn't unattractive, certainly not a stereotypical backwoods type he expected. Her shoulder-length, blond hair was pulled back in a loose bun. The style framed her square face. Her skin was lightly tanned, and even in the dim interior, she had a bright, pretty smile. Her eyes were clear and dark. She winked at him and he felt like a schoolboy trying not to blush.
“What would you like today, hon?” She smiled. She eyed his clothing and Rolex, “Sorry, we don't serve caviar.”
“I'll have what was on the platter you just took by my table and an iced tea.”
Shock crossed her face, “Aren't you worried about cholesterol? High blood pressure? Saturated fats?”
“I laugh in the face of danger.” He would feel better after a good meal. Traffic would be minimal and the night would be free of cares.
“The hungry-man's special, huh? I'll bet you even smoke socially.” The sarcasm in her voice, the playful glint in her eyes reminded him of Bonnie. He laughed, “Almost a pack a week.”
"Goodness, I am impressed.” she said, and playfully rolled her eyes. “I'll have it out to you in a minute, hon.”
She returned to the kitchen and he lit a cigarette. The air in the room held rich smells of grilled meat and an underlying hint of fried chicken, a sign beyond the billiard table announced it was the special of the day. The soft country music allowed his mind to drift. He still couldn't forget Bonnie's dire tone. I have a bad feeling.
He couldn't tell her, but he'd felt the hands of some unknown chill grip his stomach as soon as he woke early that morning. He couldn't say anything in the office or she would've worried. Something loomed in the distance, but he couldn't tell what it was. Procrastination was not an option, evidence could be destroyed and criminals would walk. Worst of all, they would strike again and he might not be able to catch them before another family lost everything. In his work, there were no real “off” days, only slow days and good days.
Maybe he was being foolish to listen to mere feeling. That was the hallmark of idiots and superstitious people, not him. Not a professional. Logic and reasoning demanded his attention, not dreams and nightmares. His meal came faster expected, the waitress winked again and he blushed. He suppressed a laugh when a mammoth truck driver, with tattooed arms and thick black stubble, reacted as sheepishly as he did. The burly trucker was bashful towards the waitress.
It might've genuinely been the food or maybe it was his hunger, but it was one of the best dinners ever. The well-done hamburger had layers of fresh toppings and the fries were golden brown. It was a plain meal which tasted like something exotic. He was a glutton and his stomach ached from overeating.
He lit another cigarette when he finished and looked around the shadowy dining room. He wouldn’t smoke in his car so he wouldn’t be having another for some time. He expected to see the crowd glare at him because he was the only clean-shaven man in the establishment with hair that was trimmed. The absence of a baseball hat made him stand out even further. He didn't have blackened hands from auto work or a red tan from working outside. In spite of the conspicuousness he felt, no one paid attention to him.
He lifted the flannel shirt that had been tucked into his faded jeans. When no one was looking he undid the top button of his pants, he could breath again. A casual set of clothes and a nice car made his day was complete. He was ready for some serious auto trekking upon the highway.
The desolate road seemed perfect. Fewer cars meant fewer maniacs, safer roads and better mileage. The first sign of the mountain was a gentle slope upward. The climb became more gradual as he took in the scenery. His muscles refused to ease. The cramping seemed to remain in his calves and ankles. His muscles restricted more frequently. He had to stop half-way up the mountain. He stepped out of the car to walk for a few moments and get his blood pumping. He couldn't believe it had been that long since he’d taken an extended drive. His legs shouldn't be so tense.
He stretched his arms and noticed angry dark clouds swirl in the far distance. Shit. He didn't like the idea of a violent storm on top of the mountain. I have a bad feeling. With one final toe-touch, he returned to his vehicle. He would stretch his legs on the incline, or even better, when he was off the mountain.
After a deep breath of clean mountain air, he shut the door and fired the car up. He wasn't afraid to drive in bad weather, but he didn't want to be on the summit of a tall mountain when it hit. High altitude and the absence of hills or valleys would make it hell to drive. He crested the peak in time to see a fat drop of water splat on his windshield. "Damn it," he slapped his hand on the steering wheel. Soon more droplets came and he swore at the speed of the storm.
By his calculations, he should've been on the downside when it came. The wind didn't gust; the storm didn't approach with great speed. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t any wind when he was stretching. The storm had lazily hovered when he had stopped, but now it came and it hit hard. He grew nervous as he drove across the mountaintop. I have a bad feeling. Anxiety would betray his judgment if he allowed it to. If he drove too fast, he would hydroplane and skid off the road. If he drove too slowly, he might be out off of the mountain by morning and in no condition to do his job.
Torrents of wind and sheeting rains proved obstacle enough without the additional struggle with panic. He pulled the Lexus onto the gravel shoulder of the highway. He couldn’t see two feet beyond the fender. He frantically pushed buttons on the radio in an attempt to find a weather report. If this had sat in for the night, he would be marooned in his car until morning. He only found static on the FM band. He jabbed the switch to AM. There was nothing, at first, but static for most of the dial.
An old song suddenly blared, “Jesus!” It was an old tune called, “Stormy Weather.” In another situation, he may've liked the blues and the soft lyrics, however he was in no mood for song. He considered turning the radio off, but at least it wasn't silence. He tried his cell phone. Nothing. Perhaps the nearest cell tower had fallen or been struck by lightening. He searched his jacket for his Blackberry and attempted to find some kind of connection with it, but the device was as dead as the other was. Alarm washed over him while Sophia Bragg crooned, “Keeps rainin' all the time…”
He searched the road for any kind of overhang or shelter. Lightening rapidly flashed across the sky when the sporadic light brought an answer to his prayers. Between the torrents, he noticed something ahead, a break in the foliage on the left side of the road. The opening was barely visible through the overhanging trees and thick weeds. He hesitated; it might just be an illusion from the storm. The erratic lightening and shadows could play tricks on him. It could just be a dent in the vegetation. As a chunk of hail slammed against the windshield, he decided to attempt it. At least the overhang would break the hail's momentum because that last chunk of ice almost cracked the glass.
He inched off the lane and to other side as the next gust shook the car. It was definitely an opening of some type, the path was clear despite being overgrown on the sides. If it were private farming land, he'd just have to pay the trespassing fines. He stopped beneath the cluster of trees and looked ahead. He could see a highway, an old one, but a highway nonetheless. The antique pavement was worn and craggy, but it was something better than a field. The storm wasn't relenting and he had to consider the possibility that it might become much worse before it blew over. If there were a tornado, even a small one, no simple overhang would help at this elevation.
Another pattern of lightening zigzagged across the violet sky overhead. The illumination revealed the road widened ahead, almost as wide as a highway should be. He moved forward and gritted his teeth as strong, unyielding branches scraped the paint on both sides of the vehicle. The large bushes and branches popped beneath the car as it passed over. He finally arrived onto the solid pavement. The road dramatically improved as he proceeded. It would be even better as he put distance between his car and the storm. The road had to lead somewhere. He drove onward for fifteen minutes and a sign appeared ahead. The archaic post swayed and teetered with each gust of wind. The ancient metal had seen better days. While once blue, the paint coating the sign had faded to a dull gray. The large dingy letters were brown with decay, the faint message barely recognizable. Some areas of the sign had corroded completely through and other parts were too sparse to decipher, lost forever to time and the elements.
The sign announced the town of Last Chance, Tennessee. It was founded in what appeared to be August of 1756. He sighed in relief as the pavement evened out. The cracks on the asphalt still felt the size of fissures, large weeds had taken root in several deep furrows, but it wasn’t the small boulders and miniature trees that he’d crossed earlier.
The road darkened, became more pronounced and soon a long black ribbon of pavement stretched out before him. There were no lines or markings. If there ever had been places to pull off or turn around, they were gone now. He noticed a sparkle in the black beyond. There were faint lights ahead, could it be civilization? The rain had slowed to a steady pitter-patter and he could see again.
He wanted a hot shower and a good night's sleep. There had to be a motel somewhere along the seemingly forgotten stretch. The road was more maintained here so there had to be something on it. Battling the unexpected cloudburst had drained him of energy. He was so tired, as though he’d completed a marathon. His body reacted with aches and sore muscles as if he had the flu.
It begged the question: why was the road in such disrepair nearest the Interstate, yet perfectly maintained a mile away? Someone locally should've considered how crazy that factor was. The town council should be ashamed to know the entrance to their town was broken and shabby. Of course, he could be wrong. There could be a major highway elsewhere and he didn't know about it. He wasn't familiar with the territory. Some small towns did have abandoned roads that no one used any longer; they just left them to age.
3.
The road proved his assumption correct. The cracks ultimately vanished and a white line appeared in the center of the road. The tarmac changed from faded brown to wet-slick ebony. His heart raced when he noticed a building in the distance. Civilization, people, houses and all the things he never thought he'd find before morning. He had made it through the storm and survived, a wave of optimism pushed him onward. He got his second wind and sped the car up.
An abandoned gas station stood alone. He pulled the vehicle over and parked a moment in the old gravel lot. He studied the tiny structure and tried to guesstimate how old the place was. Disappointment gnawed at his second wind and his optimism. He was so certain he could find help. The gas pumps were from a Norman Rockwell painting with worn black hoses and massive glass bulbs on top. The only illumination came from two bare bulbs, naked and swinging from a black wire on either of the building's sides. Occasionally, they blinked and flickered, the shadows seemed to change each time the light did. The ancient clapboard siding needed a coat of paint and the garage door was as rusted as the town's sign. There were no vehicles anywhere nearby. I take it business has been better. To his dismay, not even a soda machine or a payphone was within sight.
He drove on, he berated himself as he went further. Why didn’t he listen to Bonnie? Just once, why didn’t he stop to consider the possibilities of being caught in a storm on the mountain? If he’d listened, he would be home, or at least in civilization. Glittering lights from something sparkled in the distance. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, not after what he just found. Possibly two buildings. Not just one, but two whole and separate structures. Maybe even another sign.
The tension left his shoulders and he smiled. He found what he was looking for. The small street had closed for the night, and unlike the gas station, this street appeared to be in use. Shops and boutiques aligned both sides of the main strip. There was "Lydia's House of Style," a clothing shop with floral cotton dresses in the widow. "Granny's restaurant," had a huge hamburger and an ice cream sundae painted on the windows.
A three story building bore the sign "Last Chance Medical Plaza." The edifice at the end of the strip dominated the row of quaint stores. He laughed at the irony of the title.
He drove passed, "Here-A-Piece There-A-Piece Fabric Store," and "Bullet's Comics, Hobbies, and Collectibles.” He screeched his brakes when he noticed the window of the comic store, the first issue of Superman was propped up in the window. The price below the comic read, “5 cents.” He grinned, someone was indeed a serious collector and even had the original displays. "I'm checking that out tomorrow," he whispered to himself.
The edge of exhaustion peaked with his aggravation. It didn't matter how many buildings were in the town, none of them were open. Even the medical plaza was deserted. He kept himself awake only by doing a bad mimic of a tour guide: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the lovely vacation spot: Last Chance, Tennessee. You guessed it, your last chance for just about anything. We passed the Geezers’ Gas and Go, where Elvis himself once took a leak just before entering the bustling metropolis. We passed the Medical building, notice the Art Deco influenced structure. It’s the newest structure in Last Chance, dating only to the 1920s. You’ve also just seen the posh Granny's restaurant, your last chance for salmonella with a smile at this fine one-star establishment!"
He labored to keep himself awake as he drove which was a mammoth task when his eyes barely remained open. The town's silence accompanied by the woman‘s soft voice caused him to nod off several times. That was another peculiar issue. How many times had that old song played? He shook his head and forced his eyes wide. He moved to the rest of the structures: “Here we have the Last Chance Cinimaplex, home of the talking pictures! I'll bet they even have sound now....”
His stopped talking when he noticed a tiny man in the ticket booth. The stranger could barely see over the counter inside. Nathaniel watched his piercing eyes followed the strange car. No one would be watching a movie without cars parked somewhere and the street was empty. There was no parking lot for the theater. It was sandwiched in between the Town Council offices and the Courthouse. Lights appeared to be on throughout the theater's interior. The marquee was outlined with a rim of white light bulbs. The featured movie was called, "Last Chance." He might as well press on, even if it was a strange town, they needed a motel or a home of some sort which kept borders or tourists, too. Anything would suffice until morning.
He continued down the road in doubt. He would feel incredibly foolish if he were on the outskirts of a large city and just didn't know. He slowed to turn as Main Street ended, he could choose from two long stretches of nothingness either way. A spark caught his eye down the left road, a hint of neon in the distance. He hoped for a loud, noisy bar, not a sophisticated lounge or club. He wanted yelling and drunken revelry.
The rain nearly stopped, it had dwindled to a heavy mist. He rolled down his window and stuck his hand out to feel. The air was cold and the mist was icy. The neon sign had advertised a tiny, L-shaped motel, but at that moment, it looked better than a Marriott. The exterior was once white, but was in dire need of painting. The exterior lights illuminated the walkway in a cheap glow of bright, mustard-yellow insect lights. The doors had rusted, black iron numbers indicating their respective rooms. Where numbers had fallen away, the rusted outline remained to guide the hapless tourist.
There were no cars in the lot, but the office was brightly illuminated. The motel's lot had the same ancient pavement he encountered earlier, the fissure-motif asphalt. Business must be booming. Another successful establishment in Last Chance.
He looked through the picture window into the front office. A woman stood behind the counter, she seemed to be reading something. A living, breathing person stood inside. Last Chance had people? Didn’t the little man at the theater run everything? He was the only other human. Perhaps the two of them had a monopoly on the town. Maybe the town was all on their land and no one else actually lived there.
Ah, who cares. It was time to call it a night. Not even his continuous grumbling about his situation kept him awake. The “Last Chance Resort,” was better than sleeping in his car. There was no guarantee a bigger city was anywhere near and he wasn't ready to risk falling asleep at the wheel.
He parked his car at the front. The broken shards of pavement crunched as he strode over them. The air smelled wonderfully clean and fresh. The office door groaned as he pulled it open. He stepped across the threshold and gasped. The air reeked so strongly of a filthy litter box that he almost gagged. The acrid odor assaulted his sense of smell. He considered a brazen retreat so he could prepare himself for reentry. There wasn't anywhere left to go. It might be hours before he reached another town. The storm sapped him of precious driving energy and there were no gas stations to get coffee or caffeine, or just to fuel up. He took one last breath of outside air and entered the office.
The stench wavered inside, that initial foul intensity had gone, but the residue remained. He looked behind the counter, but the woman was gone. She had just stood with her back to him when he was outside, but she was gone. “I'll be with you in a minute,” interrupted the silence from the back room. He quietly sighed in relief. For a moment, he thought she disappeared. The feminine voice was low and raspy, possibly from years of unfiltered cigarettes.
Five balls of fur lay motionlessly in the corner chair, all of them napped without bothering to acknowledge him. One green and black striped feline eyed him indolently from its perch on the arm rest. The animal had widened its eyes when he first entered, but returned to the lazy, languid stare. The floor creaked and he turned to get his first glimpse of the woman. His first urge was to stare, but she grinned at him sexily and he flushed. He hoped he hid his repulsion, she was his only chance at a room.
She was an older woman; her skin was leathery and drooped around her cheeks. Her red dress was three sizes too small and much too short for a woman of her age and body size. Flaps of cellulite overlapped and dimpled under her clothes. The dress was paper thin and revealed even the minute details of her body. Her bellybutton was enormous. At least what appeared to be a bellybutton, was visible through the fabric. Her frizzy, rusted-yellow hair was shoulder length and looked dry enough to break at a touch. It was half way piled up in a huge hair-do.
He felt awkward and shaky, he averted his eyes to look the room over instead. She was like a caricature of a woman, not a real woman. Bright, electric blue eye-shadow stretched from her caked eyeliner to penciled eyebrows. It had settled deep within the creases and age lines. Long crow's feet were exaggerated by the greasy cosmetics. Her mascara didn't hide the lines from her false eyelashes and her rouge didn't accentuate her cheekbones. It looked like she had a severe rash from jawbone to hairline. The layered lipstick was encrusted the lines on her lips. The intense orange-red colors made her look like a clown, with bright smears on her teeth.
She leaned towards him in an obvious attempt at seduction as his stomach turned. Her low-cut dress showed off pancake-shaped breasts and thin skin lined with dark blue veins. She might've been someone's grandmother, but he preyed they didn't see what he did.
“You want a room?” She purred, “We got plenty that needs to be filled.” She looked coyly at the desk and back at him, “I'm Edna, and there are a lot of empty things around here, if you know what I mean….” She let one strap fall from a leathery shoulder.
He finally answered, “Um, yes. I need a room for the night.”
She calmed for a moment, “We don't have a lot of strangers here. Haven't in a long time.” She looked him dead in the eye, “You wouldn't believe how long.” There was a touch of sadness to her voice, but before he could be certain, she reverted back into hypersexual mode. “Like I said, it gets lonely here.” She handed him the registry to sign, “You needing company tonight?” Her eyes did their best to send an invitation, but it repulsed him even more. “No, thank you. I can't sleep long, I have a lot of traveling to do tomorrow.”
With a secretive quality, she lowered her voice to a tone which made him uncomfortable, “People who come here always have a lot of driving to do, maybe more than you'd think.” She flashed her yellow teeth with their lipstick stains. He felt like a mouse in the clutches of one of those felines. What did Edna know? He handed her the money and got the key. He walked out and hoped he didn't have to see her again. She gave him the creeps. There's something about her, so fucking weird, he grumbled towards the car. Whatever repulsion had surfaced, something else had overshadowed it, something frightening and unknown. Far in the distance of memory, he heard Bonnie, "I've got a bad feeling."
It wasn't just her appearance or the way she acted, while disturbing, it was those hints of things he didn't know. She knew something he didn’t. Somehow, he knew he needed to know or he should know. The humiliating fear grew in severity. He fought the urge to get in the car and speed away. He would be out by morning. He really needed to get some sleep. Nothing could happen in the few hours he planned on staying. He just had to get through this night and he would be free. He didn't know what had happened when that storm arrived, but ignorance was bliss. Pure and utter bliss.
He drove the car to the other side of the lot in search of room #12. It was the last on the row. There had been another room beside his, yet all that remained was a blackened outline of the foundation. That had was probably room #14. Little motels from that era always skipped #13.
He took it to be a positive sign that his own door was in good shape when compared to the rest of the motel. He scanned the parking lot and found an ice machine and an antiquated Coke machine. The ancient contraption took a dime to release the glass door so you could pull a glass bottle out.
He opened the door to his room and smiled. It was clean, only a faint, musty odor of age hung about the room. The bed was neatly made and he turned down the blanket to find crisp sheets. The red carpet was clean and the semi-plush pile felt wonderful when he kicked his shoes off. The comforter on the bed was a wine red with green and yellow flowers. When is the decorator scheduled to return? He grinned at the thought of a decorator in this room. It would be a suicide mission. No espionage or governmental conspiracy needed to make that mission impossible.
There was no television, radios, and not even the wireless notebook computer would find the internet from his room. Internet, isn't that a laugh? Not even the World Wide Web comes out this far. He almost worried boredom would visit and then laughed that worry away. With the paperwork ahead of him, he would be lucky to be bored.
He glanced at his briefcase and back at the bed. No, he wouldn't start tonight. He would make it an early night. He couldn't handle both paperwork and exhaustion, besides things would be clearer in the morning. He could wake around six or seven and finish the red tape by nine. He could didn't have to be at the bank until after noon, there was plenty of time. He summoned the stamina to look at the rest of his rented space. The old white tile bathroom needed grout work, but aside from that he was impressed. Other than graying grout, all was clean and sparkling. Huge, fluffy white towels hung on the chrome rack. The washcloths and hand towels were made of the same soft terry-cloth. A round mirror was stationed above the vanity. Simplicity never appeared so beautiful. Compared to the motel office, his room was immaculate. No stench of cat piss or creepy old woman looking at you like you was dinner. He shuddered as gooseflesh went up his back. What did she know that she wasn’t telling?
He heaved his luggage onto the credenza and stepped back out to the vending machines. For an instant, he worried about the sanitation of the ice box. There wasn‘t a plastic liner or bag, but the more he looked at the machine, the greater his thirst hounded him. He didn't care. He felt dehydrated and weak, he needed the boost of sugar. He piled the ice into the container and carried three glass bottles of Coke back to his room. A long shower would make a new man of him.
He sat everything down on the counter. He stuffed the bottles into the ice bucket. He kicked off his shoes as he went into the bathroom. He cranked up the hot water in the shower until it reached the optimum temperature. He undressed and stepped into the wonderful steaming spray. The water left red streaks where it touched him, but all aches and pains left his body.
He soaped up over and over until he felt that further scrubbing would result in skin damage. He wrapped the towel around his body once he exited the tub. The cool air of his room contrasted with the steam of the bathroom, sending chill bumps across his back and legs. He slipped into loose, casual clothes as he prepared to ask Edna about any open gas stations in the area. He wanted to make this as brief as possible without being disrespectful. He didn't want to be overly nice, she might assume he wanted to take her up on her offer. It was obvious she already viewed him as a toy.
He preferred civility, it was a valuable characteristic. Disgruntled employers and angry clients were a general job hazard for him. When he found someone out, they always gave him hell. He didn’t enjoy his position all the time. Somehow, the fact that he couldn't go along with them made him seem like an executioner, not like some average Joe who just had a job to do, too. People reported questionable transactions or penalties from their bank, things too impossible or too severe to be legitimate and he checked them out. That was the simplest way to explain a complex position.
He noticed how quiet the world was as he plodded across the pavement. No sounds of nature, no dogs barked and no engines ran in the distance. His ears had constantly popped after he exited the highway, but it wasn’t due to altitude. He hadn't changed altitude to build inner ear pressure. Of course, everything had a hidden and sinister quality in Last Chance. It was an experience by itself, just to be there.
He gently opened the office door. He was ready for the odorous assault this time. He paused. How did that happened? The essence of feline had vanished entirely. There wasn't even a trace of the scent. Edna wasn't up front, the cats had likewise disappeared. He rang the silver bell on the counter, but there was no reply this time. After another ring, still no reply. He almost laughed when he noticed an old episode of the Twilight Zone on the colorless television. The bulky console had dials for adjusting the volume and channel, the speakers gave off a scratchy sound that popped and cracked.
He rang the bell again, much harder and longer. He worried in the silent confines of the bizarre office. He hoped nothing had happened to her. A series of images crossed his mind. What if she’d suffered a heart attack or stroke? What if she’d fallen? A million possibilities crashed through his guilt-ridden imagination. He hadn't liked her, but didn't want her to be hurt. He felt ridiculously guilty for thinking so horribly of her. Of course, he couldn’t have caused anything to happen, but he still felt badly for the pitiable woman.
There was no sign that she was anywhere within earshot. He leaned over the counter and checked beneath. There was no sign a woman had been in the office, no purse or handbag. There was a chance that a robber had taken her behind the curtain and was ready to shoot. He quietly lifted the hinged end of the front counter and crept back to the tweed avocado curtains. The texture made his skin feel dry as he gently separated them. There was no robber or Edna, the dinette was void of life; both cats and lady had disappeared. An antique refrigerator sat at the rear of the room with the backdoor beside it. He crossed the room to open the door, he almost fell out as he started to enter the next room. There was a five foot drop onto the ground below. That was a long way for an older woman to jump.
His tired brain registered hilarious thoughts, The one and only Edna! Watch as she leaps from tall buildings with her Fabulous Furballs! Super Edna and the Five Fabulous Furballs opening for the Blue Angels! Come one, come all! He snickered as he thought of those cats following her through the air. He finally snapped out of his thoughts and decided to check the fridge out. The door opened to reveal food of all kinds. He grabbed everything he needed to make some sandwiches, that would hold him until Edna returned.
In smaller hotels, often the front desk clerk worked as room service and housekeeping, so she'd probably just gone to check something out and her pets followed. He prepared his food before he sat in front of the television. He regretted missing the "Twilight Zone." Rod Serling was a master. The end of the show left him with two other choices in his viewing entertainment. He could watch Red Skelton or Johnny Cash. The two stars were young again, but that was fitting for Last Chance. Everything, from the diner downtown to the massive, arched radio in the corner, seemed to be stuck in a time warp.
He waited an hour, but there was still no sign of Edna or her cats. The ham sandwiches weren't impressive, but they filled him up. He was sleepy. He tried to smoke a cigarette in the hope that nicotine would keep him awake. The station broadcasted the national anthem just before it went off the air. The announcer reported... "This concludes our broadcasting for this, the twenty-first day of July, in the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and fifty-nine...”
What? He bolted upright. Nah, couldn't be. He wasn't sure what he heard, it was probably the exhaustion and apprehension. He waited thirty minutes longer, but there was still no sign of Edna. He decided to end the day before anything else happened.
He stood up to stretch his legs, he walked in place for a moment. His backside had gone numb. He happened to glance behind the television as he turned. There laid the power cord, unplugged and on the floor. The television wasn't connected to the socket. I'm too late, he thought, and I almost got away without anything fucked up happening. Damn, if that doesn't always happen...
With his stomach half filled, he followed his curiosity down the path of logic. The television had shaken him, but he recovered. It probably just fell out as I stood up. The old cords would be loose and worn after all this time. They could just fall out of the socket with any sudden movements. The television was still on so, obviously, it couldn't be from that. He reasoned with himself until it worked. He calmed. His mind wandered back to the main strip. What was playing at the theater? His nerves wouldn't let him just lie down and go to sleep. This strange place deserved a little exploration, if any town did. Last Chance was an enigma itself. A nice, relaxing drive would calm his anxieties and he would sleep much better.
4.
Once he was in his room, he changed back into jeans. He would attempt a movie. A nice, relaxing movie would lighten the macabre atmosphere the town seemed to radiate. He drove back to the urban area and noticed there were no houses next to the road. He studied the surrounding forest, but it was impossible to see any lights through the fields and forests that surrounded the highway. Obviously, there were no residential or suburban areas back in those woods.
He parked in the front of the theater, just back from the booth, still occupied by the little old man. He watched Nathaniel studiously as he approached. Nathanial felt insecure for a moment, why would the little man be so suspicious of him? The air was rich with the smells of fresh popcorn and he could hear laughter inside the building. Every so often, he could hear the comedic music of movies made half a century earlier. He neared the booth and noticed the older man's clothing. It wasn't extraordinarily unusual, but the suit was in remarkable condition for its age. It had to be created during the forties or fifties, when theater personnel still wore dark uniforms. The strange man spoke in a high, elderly voice, "You wanna see a movie?"
"Sure, how much?"
"Ten cents." The old man charged with a look of superiority on his face.
Nathaniel pulled out his wallet, "Got change for a five?" He needed some change anyway, in case he got thirsty. He’d spent most of his loose change on the drinks at the motel.
"Sure," the little old man looked happy with the prospect of a five-dollar bill. Nathaniel handed him the money and he erupted, "Hey, what is this?"
"What?"
"Son, I think you got a counterfeit bill?"
He exclaimed, "What? That can't be, modern money can't be counterfeited."
"See here, Lincoln is off to the side and the numbers are much too large. Wait… what's this?" He studied the details, "Hell fire, this says it was printed in 2000. You actually got this without even looking?"
"What's wrong with that? New money's supposed to look like that?"
"New money? Hell, this is 1959. This looks nothing like a five-dollar bill."
"Oh…" he took the bill back and pretended to notice. "Sorry." He was angered, but his fear outweighed the problem. Either the little man was being ridiculous or he was in serious trouble. "Let me see," he dug into his pockets. He had a lucky quarter, somewhere. A gift from his father he'd always kept with him. It originally belonged to his grandfather. The lucky quarter was minted in 1947, the year he came home from the War. There was so much sentimental value, he couldn't trade it. He gave up the search, "Sorry, I can't seem to find any other money."
"Well, it's probably good you don't carry a lot of money with you."
"Thanks and goodnight."
The man smiled and Nathaniel walked away. He almost made it to the car and heard, "Hey, what kind of car is that?" The strange man was now outside the booth. He couldn't recall hearing any doors open or close. He decided to be polite, but he didn't have a clue what he could tell the stranger about a new car. The man walked over with his hand outstretched, "I'm Curtis Howell. I own the Cinema. "
Nathaniel shook it vigorously, happy to talk to someone. "I'm Nathaniel Mayfield. Pleased to meet you."
"So, what kind of car is that? It's a beauty."
Nathaniel's thoughts reeled, what could he say? What could he tell the little old man? Either Curtis was crazy or he was. He had to figure out a compromise that would make them both appear completely normal. "It's called a Lexus 2000, it's a… prototype… manufactured by Chrysler."
"Wow, can I have a ride?"
"Sure, but won't you need to watch the door?"
"Oh. There aren't any customers tonight, I'll go close up and you pull up here." Curtis whirled and almost ran back to the booth.
He grinned at the old man's enthusiasm. He didn't owe him anything, but he was so grateful to be around someone else. He wasn't really ready to go back to the motel and face that silence again. Luckily, Curtis didn't glare when he mentioned that Chrysler made it. Now, how would he explain the features? He ultimately decided to just go with the situation. It would lead, wherever it would and he couldn't change things. He just had to manage until he could do better.
The theater lights flickered out and the doors swung shut. Curtis stepped out, smiling from ear to ear. Nathaniel pulled closer and he got in, "Wow! What a car!"
"Thanks,"
"I'll bet this cost an arm and a leg."
"Yea, it was quiet a bit."
"I love cars, I collect them."
They talked on about the exterior features of the new Lexus 2000 and automobiles in general. He didn't like the push-button transmissions of late. He didn't like the advent of air conditioning or the inclusion of a radio in a car. Despite the laundry list of complaints, the stranger didn't remark about the strange interior or buttons. He was most impressed that a car could look so good without fins. Nathaniel turned onto the road that led back to the motel. Curtis remained silent and listened to the purr of the motor.
As they neared the motel's neon sign, Curtis vanished. Nathaniel slammed on the brakes and yelled, "Curtis? Where are you? Curtis?" He couldn’t breathe for a moment. What the hell? He was just there. He was sitting right there enjoying the car. He left no trace or sign that he was there at all.
Nathaniel stopped the car and jumped out. He couldn't see him anywhere. It was impossible. Curtis couldn't have slipped out the door. He would've felt it open. "Curtis, where are you?" Nathaniel yelled, but his voice didn't carry as it normally would. He felt his voice stop as the words left his mouth, like he had spoken into a pillow or piece of heavy fabric. There were no resonating traces of sound at all.
“I can handle this. I can do this.” he chanted to himself. It could not be what it looked like. It just couldn’t. It was right in front of his face, in his own damn car. What the hell is Last Chance? He got back in the car and turned around. He would go back to the theater and look for him. That was too much. He had to be somewhere, people didn't just vanish. For the first time since arriving, he knew he was not where he was supposed to be. Somehow, that storm had been the start of it.
The desolate street was beyond dark without the theater lights. Curtis extinguished the town when he turned the theater's lights out. The hairs stood on the back of his neck. What happened? He stopped in front of the theater, too stunned to react. The construction looked like it hadn't been used in a century. The rows of glittery, clear light bulbs were shattered. The sidewalk was coated in a layer of broken glass. The entrance, the windows, all of which had just been pristine, was now boarded up. Ancient graffiti covered the boards over the entrance, clichéd slogans about Vietnam and other sixties concerns had faded along with the plywood. Curtis’s little booth was boxed up.
That's it. He sharply turned the steering wheel and floored the gas. The Lexus burned out and whipped around as he u-turned across the middle of the street. He created a white puff of smoke that carried the stench of burning rubber. He was going back to the motel and going to sleep. The night was screwed up. The best thing to do would be to end it. He squealed off the highway, into the motel lot and veered to the space in front of his room. He didn't need to get another drink or examine his surroundings. He now had a mission and that was to survive the night, alive and sane. His hands trembled as he stuck the key in the door. He didn’t check to see if Edna had returned or if any other customers had arrived.
He flipped the lock and slid the chain into place when he shut the door. He was in the safety of his room. He was secure. He barely got the sheet over his body and he was gone. In that sleep, he was home and out of that hateful place. He watched swirls of color in his dream turn to swirls of black and white. Pictures faded in and out, first his house, then the television in the office, to Edna.
In the dream, she chased him with his room key in her hand and screamed, “But we don't have a lot of visitors! Strangers don't come here! We got plenty of empty things! A whole goddamn town full of them! It's the Fulfillment of Emptiness!! You need any company? We haven't had strangers here in a long time! You wouldn't believe HOW long! You think you're lonely now? I WILL fucking give you lonely..!”
She ranted into silence. Her voice sounded more threatening than suggestive. There was that malevolent tone that grabbed him and wouldn‘t release. His dreams became flashes, so rapid he couldn't keep track of them. They were flashbacks of things he had seen that evening. The strobe effects made him squint, he could barely see what happened around him. Pictures, voices and phrases teased his thoughts, they promised answers, but there were no answers to have. There was something wrong with the town. Something terribly wrong. It went beyond simply being in a strange town, far beyond. There was also a sense of familiarity. That was what he couldn't figure out earlier. The strange sense was of déjà vu. Of repetition. Of knowing. What were the odds that he'd been there before in his life? It was impossible. But, he could feel it.
5.
He woke with a thud against the wall behind the headboard. He turned the light on and paused to let his eyes adjust. Shit. He was sleeping so well. What the hell was that, anyway? It sounded like it came from outside, a few soft scuffles emanated through the wall. Something was happening in the burned area beside his room. Something was outside, but couldn‘t guess what. Fear made him hesitate. Judging from the events of the evening, he didn't really want to know? It was Last Chance, after all. The Last Chance for the Twilight Zone. His very own version of Weekly World Sleaze. Now he just needed a woman who'd given birth to the alien Elvis baby and who'd been part of a secret government conspiracy to control the world.
He shook the remaining traces of fatigue from his head. He climbed up and put his ear against the wall. He heard shouting, who could be fighting? The loud voice demanded, "You stupid bitch, let daddy show you." The command made him jump away. He heard a steady thud, thud, thud, as if someone were being beaten.
The hammering went on without words until, "Let daddy love the life out of you. Let me love you to death. You whore, you know that you want me to... need me to..." The voice trailed off into taunting laughter. He didn't move, the man‘s voice was cruel and brutal. Someone could be getting killed on the other side of the wall.
He tried to place a face with the voice, it was a gruff man. He grimaced, his sleepy hearing wouldn't behave. It took him a moment to register anything. The man's voice boomed. Evidently, he was accustomed to shouting. The enraged man demanded and degraded. He couldn't imagine how someone could cut someone else down with such obvious excitement. Every now and then, he heard a sharp slap, there was even a muffled punch or two. Feminine cries and gasps suddenly arose over the overbearing voice as it continued to issue unmerciful insults in bursts.
He was talking to a woman? Was she getting raped? If he were a predator, why did he attack in the open? That would draw attention. That man was out in the middle of the motel grounds, doing whatever he was doing, for everyone to see? Oh, yea, Last Chance. He recalled where he was. That cleared up the questions about no other people being in town or at the motel. It sounded horrible enough, who would want to witness it? He tried to clear the jumble of thoughts from waking. Maybe he could recall something that would clarify. He had heard a giggle as his eyes opened, but after that, he heard the sounds of a struggle. He felt helpless. He could burst out to help, only to find it was all willing and mutual.