The Last Motel
By Brett McBean
Dark happenings are afoot in this moody, atmospheric teaser, where the convergence of dangerous men, serial murder, and mysterious travelers weigh the Halloween night heavy with foreboding.
Originally appeared in The Last Motel, published by Wild Roses Productions 2003. Reprinted here with the author’s permission.
PART 1: THE CONVERGENCE
OCTOBER 31
1
9:28 p.m.
He pulled up to the sidewalk, cranked up the hand brake, then switched off the lights and engine.
He had parked three houses down.
That way he was close enough to see, but not enough to be noticeable.
He took another swig from the flask, savored the warmth as the whisky flowed down his throat, then screwed the top back on. He placed the stainless steel hip flask under the driver’s seat, then sat back up and wiped his mouth.
He checked his watch under the faint glow of the moonlight. It was nine-thirty. Helen’s dork of a husband should be gone by now: Sailing high above, on his way to Japan on a business trip.
He huffed loudly. “Fucking dork,” he slurred. “What the Hell she sees in him, I’ll never know.”
For a thirty-five-year-old bank teller, Helen was remarkably sexy. Tall, long, red hair, uncharacteristically tanned. Plus she had a great set of tits.
But, for some reason, she was married to a guy like Gavin. Medium height, receding hair, and growing the sort of belly that only a once thin man can grow-small, yet protruding. A lazy, office-worker’s belly.
Plus, those fucking ridiculously thick glasses that served only to amplify his squinty, little eyes.
No, Helen wasn’t married to Brad Pitt, that’s for sure.
He reached into the glove box and pulled out his Smith & Wesson. He flicked open the chamber, just to check that it was loaded. After all, he was drunk and in a foul mood. A little thing like loading his gun might’ve slipped his mind. But all six chambers were filled with cartridges.
He flipped the chamber back and shoved the revolver down the front of his pants.
Not that he was planning on using it; it was merely a precaution. In his line of work, you learned pretty fast to take every precaution necessary.
As he reached down to switch off the radio, a wave of dizziness overcame him. He suddenly saw everything twice and, for a moment, thought he was going to throw up.
He rolled down the window and stuck his head out.
But the feeling quickly passed and he pulled his sweating head back in.
How much have I drunk? he wondered and smiled lazily.
Now, all houses, trees and cars down the quiet suburban street were back to one of each.
He steadied himself and was about to hop out, when he glanced over at the house for the first time that night.
“What the Hell?” he muttered.
He knew that both Helen and her husband owned one car each-she, a blue Ford and he, a red Alfa Romeo. The Alfa was gone, probably parked at the airport garage, and the Ford was parked in the driveway-he could see it from here.
But there were two more cars parked behind the Ford: a white Volvo and a dark-colored Mercedes.
Fuck! She has people over. Why has she got people over?
He sat back in his seat and thumped the steering wheel. She was supposed to be alone tonight. No husband, and no friggin’ guests.
He switched the radio back on then placed the gun back in the glove box.
“Stupid bitch,” he huffed. “Having a party and not even inviting me.”
It was lucky he brought another hip flask. It looked like it was going to be a long wait.
2
10:24 p.m.
Madge Fraiser switched off the radio. She had heard a car pull up outside-her first customer for the night. She had finished sweeping the office floor, so she propped the broom against the wall, turned around, and sat down. The cushion hissed as tiny pockets of air escaped.
The office door opened, and in stepped a young man. His short hair was mussed from the strong wind and his clothes were faded and a bit grubby. With his thin build and smooth face, he looked around twenty years old. But there was secrecy in his eyes, an intelligence that told Madge he was slightly older.
The man approached the counter, giving her a wan smile.
“Need a room?” she asked.
“What’s that? Oh yeah, a room.”
He had a mature voice. It didn’t suit his juvenile looks. She could also smell alcohol on his breath. It was stale, yet horribly pungent.
She wanted as little conversation as possible with this man. Though judging by his manner, he felt the same way. “Will you be the only person staying?”
“No, there are two of us. Me and my friend.”
Great, she thought to herself. Just what I need.
She could faintly hear the shutters outside, down the back where her living quarters were, crashing against the windows. She would have to go out and close them later.
“You want a room with two singles, or one double?” she asked, not sure if the friend was a guy or girl.
“Yeah, two singles. Just for the night.”
Madge reached under the counter and pulled out the registration book. She placed it flat on the counter top, open at the present date.
She gave him a pen and the man began scribbling down his details.
Madge watched him closely as he wrote down his name, address, and car registration. He hesitated on all accounts.
She smiled guilefully. She had seen this same scenario too many times during her twenty years of running this motel. At least half of her clientele used false names and addresses. It was often a source of amusement to look at what names people came up with. She could always pick the false ones.
The man finished writing down his details, then handed her back the pen. She thanked him and taking the registration book, shoved it back under the counter.
She hopped up from her padded chair and went over to the key rack. She took one of the small cabin keys from off its hook then shuffled back.
“Cabin three. It’s directly in front.” She chuckled. “We’ve only got five cabins, so it won’t be that hard to find.”
The man smiled and nodded. She handed him the key.
“I’ll pay now, if ya don’t mind.”
“Sure,” Madge said. “That’ll be thirty dollars, thanks.”
The man pulled out his wallet and handed her forty dollars.
She thanked him, then opened up her old-fashioned cash register and handed him back the change.
“Okay, thanks,” the young man said, and hastened towards the door.
“Name’s Madge,” she called out. “I’ll be here all night if you need anything. We lock the door at midnight. So just press the doorbell if you need me, okay?”
The man nodded quickly then hurried out the front door. Wind moaned for an instant then all was quiet, except for the clanging of the shutters.
“Strange man,” Madge sighed, shaking her head. Bending down, she slipped the registration book out and opened it to the present date.
She smiled.
It wasn’t a bad name; simple, yet believable.
Michael Clayton.
She placed the book back under the desk and glanced at her watch. The newsbreak would be on the radio about now. She leaned over and switched the knob to ‘on.’
. . . a perfect night for Halloween. The temperature in the city is ten degrees, and there’s a strong wind outside. The rain that was forecast has, so far, held out, but reports say that it is definitely on its way.
And if this night isn’t spooky enough, police still haven’t caught the person, or persons, responsible for the murders of seven young men. They have no leads, and have yet to report any suspects. So please, while you’re out having a good time tonight, take care, and don’t accept any lifts from strangers.
In other news, police are investigating the shooting of an eighteen-year-old male, which occurred earlier tonight in the Lilydale area. We have yet to receive further details, but we’ll keep you informed as the night rolls on.
The time is ten-thirty-one, and this next song is a classic . . .
“Same old nastiness,” Madge said as she switched the radio off. She shuffled from behind the office desk and made her way through the curtains and down to her quarters.
3
“What took ya so long, Eddy?”
“Calm down, man. I had to pay and everything.”
Eddy jumped into the driver’s side and slammed the door.
“Who was in there? How many?”
Eddy laughed. “Fuck. Calm down I said. There was just some old bag.”
“See anyone else?”
“Don’t worry so much.” He gently slapped the side of Al’s face. “We’re in cabin three.”
Eddy released the hand brake and headed towards the cabin directly opposite the office. The car bounced from the undulating forest floor.
“Did ya see any maps?” Al asked.
“In the office? Nah. Not that I could see, anyway.”
“Place is deserted,” Al commented.
Eddy glanced over at Al. His face was a contortion of nervous anxiety. “Relax, Alfred. We’re in the mountains. No one’s gonna find us.”
“I hope not,” Al said.
They pulled up to a cabin, and the headlights lit up, cast in bold black metal, the number “3.”
“Here we are,” Eddy said.
It was a small cabin, as they all were, and looked rather decrepit. It was private, however, which Eddy was glad of. The next cabins were about five or six meters away on either side.
“Shit!” Al spurted out. “You didn’t give ‘em your real name and address, did ya?”
“What do you take me for? Of course not.” Eddy shook his head. “Come on, let’s get inside.”
“Wait a minute,” Al said. “I’d feel a lot better if we parked the car around the back. Out of sight, ya know.”
Eddy nodded. “Good idea. Can’t be too careful.”
He backed the car up, drove through the gap between the two cabins, and around to the back. When the car was completely blocked by the backside of their cabin, he stopped. Bending down, Eddy gripped the two wires under the dashboard and unhooked them. The engine stopped. He then shut the headlights off. They were left in utter darkness. The only sound came from the wind outside.
“What now?” Al asked.
“Let’s go inside. We can talk about what we’re going to do then.”
“What about. . . ?” Al motioned with his head towards the back of the car.
“Leave it,” Eddy told him. “It’s not going anywhere.”
They hopped out. The bitter wind was fierce, and although they weren’t far up the mountain, the night air was noticeably cooler.
Eddy breathed in deep. “Ah, I love the smell of pine. Don’t you?”
“I don’t really give a fuck. Come on.” Al started walking alongside the cabin.
Eddy smiled. “You know, you really need to relax a bit more, Alfred. Take a few deep
breaths. . . .”
“Don’t call me ‘Alfred’,” he whined.
They trudged up to the front of the cabin. Eddy reached into his jeans pocket and fished out the key. “This place is kind a spooky,” he said, gazing around. “Don’t ya think?”
“Whatever,” Al said.
“Kind a fits in with Halloween and all that, huh?”
Al gave him a hard stare. “Come on, be serious, Eddy.”
“Sorry.”
Eddy opened the cabin door, and they stepped inside. Al found the light switch.
“Talk about spooky,” Eddy mused.
“Almost reminds me of when we visited that old Sherwood house last year.”
“Hell, I remember that,” Eddy said. “The one where all the murders occurred. What did the old lady say?”
“Which one. The tour guide?”
“Yeah. Something about a man dressed in a gorilla suit.”
“Can’t remember.”
“That was a great weekend, huh? What was the name of that motel we stayed in?”
“Ah . . . the Sleepy Hollow Inn, I think.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Hell, that dump was a palace compared to this.”
The cabin was small, and very sparse. It housed two modest beds, a closet, one set of drawers, a small refrigerator, and there was a door leading to what Eddy guessed could only be the bathroom. The walls and ceiling were made from logs. The two doors and floor were just ordinary planks.
“And there’s not even a TV,” Eddy said as he closed the door.
“We’re not here on a holiday,” Al reminded him. He was in the middle of closing the tattered curtains.
“True. But it would’ve been nice to have the box on while we think of what the Hell we’re going to do.” Eddy hiked over to the closed door and opened it. He switched on the light.
“What is it?” Al called out. “Bathroom?”
“Yeah.” Eddy chuckled. “Charming facilities. Ain’t exactly the Windsor.” He switched off the bathroom light and sauntered over to one of the beds. He jumped onto the mattress, resting his head on the pillow.
Al walked over to the other and sat down. “Man, I’m buggered.” He rubbed his forehead. “At least we have a radio.”
Eddy glanced over at the small radio. “I wonder if that thing gets FM. So, what’s the plan?”
Al let out a long sigh. “A fine mess we’ve gotten ourselves into.”
“I say we leave the car here and hitchhike back home.”
Al shook his head. “That woman’s seen your face.”
“So?”
“I don’t wanna take any chances. Besides, our fingerprints are probably all over the car.”
Eddy nodded slowly. “I guess so. I really need a beer,” he sighed.
Al licked his lips and groaned. “Yeah, me too.”
“Any left in the car?”
Al shook his head. “All gone. Think the old lady would have any to buy?”
Eddy grinned. “Should’ve picked some more up on the way.”
“Yeah, sure,” Al huffed.
“Well, it’s gonna be a long night,” Eddy said, his hands tucked under his head. “Booze would really come in handy.”
“Yeah,” Al agreed. “I don’t think I can handle tonight if I’m sober.”
Eddy chuckled. “What a night, huh?”
“And it’s a long way from over,” Al sighed. He put his head in his hands and mumbled, “Happy fucking Halloween.”
The Last Motel can be found at www.bitingdogpress.com, www.shocklines.com, www.amazon.com, www.bn.com, www.bloodlettingpress.com, www.clarkesworldbooks.com, and www.booksamillion.com
