by R. K. Weir
The slot machine rocks so violently that one of the candles slips off and falls to the ground. I pay it no attention and keep kicking, assuming it would have blown out on the way down. Instead, the light glows brighter and I find that the small flame has managed to jump from the wick of the candle and spread to the fuzzy fibers of the carpet. My heart jumps in my chest as my boot swings around from the slot machine and stamps down on the flames. Once it's extinguished, leaving the acrid stench of burning fabric in its wake, I take the other candle and move to another part of the casino. My anger, although distracted by the fire, is still simmering, threatening to bubble up again.
So I stalk between the aisles of machines and tables, waiting until my breathing and temper have settled completely before I start to make my way back. Everyone is sleeping by the time I return, spread out around the room, Maisie huddled in one corner, Gale beneath the table, Stella against the back wall and Rocket curled up near the bar. The bar. . . My eyes linger on it longer than they should. I tear myself away from it and try to focus on the soft breathing that fills the room instead, the mellow light of the candles. Then the pain in my hand flares, and I can't help but think how soothing alcohol would be right now. . .
My feet are moving in the direction of the bar before my mind has made a conscious decision. I don't even know if it's stocked, almost hope that it's empty. But when I open its doors I find it overflowing. Brandy, whisky, scotch. The expensive kind too. My hand grips the neck of a bottle and it takes all the strength I have in me to hesitate from taking it.
But temptation overrules whatever strength I have left and my hand is wrenching the bottle from the bar and in an instant I'm sitting at the poker table unscrewing the cap. I'm passed the point of no return now. My lips, my tongue and my throat all burn from the taste, but it distracts from the throbbing ache in my knuckles. A few more gulps and everything else that aches will be distracted too.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Stella
Sleep doesn't come easily, and when it does, it's fleeting. Something about the candles, scattered all around the room, keep me awake. The wavering light they cast off, ugly and yellow, is just too reminiscent of the hotel room. When I shut my eyes I feel as if I'm back there. When I open them and see the dull yellow that casts a shade over my nightmares in front of me, I have to force myself to acknowledge that I'm somewhere safe. I briefly consider blowing them all out but I don't think the others would appreciate this.
It's just the light, I tell myself. But all I can remember is how it forced the room to shake, how it turned those men into monsters, and how it made all that blood glisten. Suddenly my head is spinning, and I'm sitting up from the floor before the world actually starts to shake again. Maybe I'm not as okay as I had Logan believe – as I had myself believe.
I need air, I think. The door of the room has been left open and I can feel the ghost of a cool wind breathing in from outside. I stand up quietly, careful not to rouse anyone else and begin making my way towards the door. When I reach it though, I stop. I didn't want to take a candle, I wanted to get away from them. But looking out at the wall of black in front of me I doubt I'll be able to navigate my way to and back without one. So I step back, grudgingly pick one up from the poker table and leave.
A few steps is all it takes for the air to grow colder. I can feel my skin beginning to prickle with gooseflesh. It's a welcome sensation, so much better than the frigid confinement of the room. With the dropping temperature as my guide, I weave between the various tables and machines. Eventually I can hear the howl of the wind, but it carries something else with it. I'm too far away to pick up what it is though. Only once the entrance comes into sight, moonlight glowing around its edges, do I recognize the sound.
Voices.
In an instant, the candle is extinguished and I'm ducked down beside a row of slot machines. I'm close enough to the street that I can see them, several figures, milling about between the cars. From what little I can see of their dark silhouettes, barely distinguishable despite being bathed in moonlight, they all appear to be male. Just the sight of them has my heart pounding in my ears, thrumming so loudly that it's impossible to hear anything else.
Have they found us? The bandits? Is this the group of soldiers they've assembled to avenge their dead friends? Or is this a new group of people we need to be wary of? Every possibility makes my heart beat faster.
I force myself to breathe, to quiet the racket in my chest so that I can hear their voices before they move on. But it doesn't look like they're going anywhere, at least not right now. Do they know we're in here? Is that why they're loitering around the entrance? Then I hear a window shatter, see the sparkling flash of broken glass as it falls to the ground, and realize that they're looking for food. The window they've broken belongs to a small eatery. I can vaguely make out two of them crawling inside, like spiders looking for flies.
After a few deep breaths, my heart settles slightly and I can hear the words of the men closest to me.
"Why would he help us? He ain't interested in the living," one of them says. The man he's posed the question to is pacing up and down the center of the road. He doesn't reply right away, but when he does, my heart stops completely.
"He can have them once they're dead." His voice deep and unmistakably familiar, I recognize it instantly. Peter, the man from the hotel balcony, the leader of the bandits. Just the sound of his voice reminds me of his scarred face and a shiver runs down my spine. He stops his pacing and spits on the ground. "And if that's not enough incentive for him then we'll threaten to end that little project of his altogether."
They're looking for help? Help for what? Help to track us down? And what project? My thoughts are choked off when he angles his body to look into the casino. I flinch back and retreat slowly behind the body of the slot machine. Did he see me? Can he see me? The light thrown down by the moon is bright, but it can only reach so far into the casino. I don't think I'm close enough to the entrance for it to catch me. Yet still his gaze lingers, only moving away once the two men from the eatery emerge.
My attention doesn't deviate from Peter even as the other men holler about their victory, holding packets of food in the air for everyone to see. They begin to fight over who gets what. When one man is shoved to the ground, the others laugh, only to have him get up and throw a punch. I'm so focused on the commotion, unwilling to let Peter out of my sight that I don't even notice the ground at my feet turn yellow. When it flickers, my eyes register the light and my head snaps around to find its source. Rocket is approaching me, a candle held out in front of her like a flare.
"Stella? Is that—" Before she even has time to finish speaking, I've sprung up from the ground, hissed out a breath to extinguish the flame, and pulled her back down to the floor with me. A wisp of smoke slithers from the wick of the candle and hazes the flash of confusion in her eyes. I press a finger to my lips and then point towards the men outside who are still fighting over the morsels of food they've managed to scrounge up.
A stunted breath leaves my lips when I see that none of them are looking our way. I can vaguely hear Peter shouting at them now, but his words are drowned out by the beating of my heart. The sudden appearance of Rocket has sent it back into overdrive. Despite this, I still hear her release a shaky breath beside me.
"Do you think they're friendly?" she asks.
I just manage to restrain myself from scoffing. They are anything but friendly. "They're the bandits from the hotel," I tell her. She stiffens at the revelation and doesn't say anything more after that.
I spare her a glance. Even in the dark her bright hair glows like dying embers and I worry that they'll easily spot it from across the road. I hold out a hand and gently push her back, further behind the cover of the machines.
For several tense moments we sit quietly, watching the bandits from the dark as they smash their way into the other stores on the block. Whatever they've found must be worth its weight in gold because all of them erupt in vi
ctorious shouts, throwing packets of food at each other, even leaving some on the ground to be trampled by their feet. Over the course of all this they've moved further and further up the street. Eventually the last one of them slips out of sight, and I breathe easier knowing they've skipped the casino.
Rocket and I remain silent, listening intently as more windows shatter and they continue to howl at the moon. We wait until their voices have faded completely before we even share a look with each other. The lines of her face are pulled tight with concern, but I can only imagine the relief that's on mine. Relief that they didn't spot us. Relief that they didn't seem interested in the casino. I exhale a low breath and kick my legs out in front of me so that I'm no longer crouching but sitting. Rocket stands and cautiously walks out onto the street, peering in the direction they've gone. I briefly consider joining her, to breathe in the fresh air that I was so desperately needing earlier, but quickly realize there's no point.
Whatever comfort I was hoping to find outside is tainted with their presence. Now, the fresh air is just as suffocating as inside, the moonlight just as threatening as the candles. The relief of their leaving has washed away and I'm more unnerved now than I was before, more on edge, and I find myself wishing that I had just stayed and put up with those stupid candles.
"You okay?" Rocket asks, coming over and kneeling down beside me.
I manage a nod. "They're looking for us."
They're looking for me.
"Well then," she smiles, "I hope they're prepared for what they'll find."
I'm glad she's confident, because I'm not sure what I am. Definitely not confident. It was too dark to see if any of them had weapons, but what do they need weapons for when they already have sheer size on their side? Even the smallest of them would be able to stand against Logan without having to crane their neck. And there are six of them and only five of us. Or, three, really. Gale and Maisie won't be of much help. So they beat us in that regard too. And that's even without considering the 'help' they're looking to get.
They don't pose an immediate threat right now though and thinking about them is just making me feel sick. I force them out of my thoughts and decide I'll worry about it in the morning.
I'm not quite ready to go back just yet. As if sensing this, Rocket slides down so that she's sitting too. For a few moments we just rest, listening to the wind and watching the moonlight creep further into the casino. I don't know how late it is but I don't expect the sun to rise for at least another few hours. Plenty of time to exhaust myself chasing sleep that I'll never catch.
"So I've been meanin' to ask," Rocket says. I tilt my head so that I'm looking at her. "This friend of yours, at the coast," she pauses, "they must be pretty important to you."
Something in my stomach twists into a knot. This is not a topic I want to discuss, because if I let myself think about it too much, I'll begin to doubt if he's really there at all. I can't afford to doubt things right now.
"That's not a question," I mutter, hoping she'll take the hint and drop it.
"Well, it's just got me thinkin' is all. There are very few people on the planet that I'd be willing to go to all this trouble for. And since I doubt you have a kid, I'm guessing it's for a hot boyfriend or a lost family member."
"What's your point?" I ask. I think she can sense the malice in my voice because she pauses to look at me.
"I just don't want you to be too disappointed if we don't find them," she says softly.
I don't have anything to say to that so I choose to ignore it completely. For as long as I can remember, since all of this started, I've had one goal, one purpose. I can't imagine what I'll do if it was all for nothing. Rocket catches on quickly that I'm not going to reply, so she casts her gaze back out onto the street as we fall back into silence. But unlike the bandits, who I've successfully shoved from my mind, this conversation refuses to leave my thoughts.
"You think I should give up?" I ask, a little bitter, but not entirely convinced that the idea is unthinkable. She turns back to me.
"Hell no," she says, that subdued viciousness that I remember threatening to shake her voice. "I just think you should be prepared for every outcome."
I think about this for a moment and then nod. There are only three outcomes and I've already thought about each of them in length. I find him and we live happily ever after. I don't find him and I end up wandering around aimlessly, secretly hoping to bump into him somewhere else. Or, the worst case scenario, I find his corpse. I'm not an idiot. I know that only one of those scenarios ends happily, and the odds of that scenario being reality is slimmer than a strand of hair. Yet still, I need to know. I need to be sure.
A cold wind washes in from outside and sweeps over us. Rocket shivers and I realize I'm still wearing her jacket. When I start to take it off, to hand it back to her, she stops me.
"No, you keep it. You got less meat on you than I do."
The wind only grows more intense though and soon we're both shivering uncontrollably. I relish the fresh air for a few seconds longer before suggesting that we head back. Rocket's memory proves better than mine, even without a source of light she's able to guide us back without a single wrong turn.
"Try to get some sleep, okay?" she says, moving to her original position beside the bar.
I go to curl up by the back wall when my eyes land on Logan, hunched over the poker table in an all too familiar position. Gripped in his hand is an almost empty bottle of whiskey. That's not good. I briefly wonder what could have brought this on and even consider waking him, but then realize he'll probably still be drunk for another couple of hours. Best to let him get some rest and see how he is in the morning.
The candles are even worse now that the bandits are fresh in my mind. Pushing both of them from my thoughts is a struggle that keeps me up most of the night. When everyone begins to wake in the morning I'm unsure if I managed to get any sleep at all. Even though I hear them shuffling about I lie still for a while longer before joining them. Lack of sleep has weighed my limbs down so much that it's a concerted effort to get up. This doesn't compare with how Logan must be feeling. Despite sleeping through most of the night he looks like he's been awake for a lifetime. I notice the bottle of whiskey is missing, probably stuffed back into the bar so no one can challenge his lapse in judgment. The hangover looks to be causing him enough grief so I decide not to question him about it for now.
When I finally manage to lift myself from the floor everyone is dividing up the food we found, deciding on what we can have now and what we should save for later. It's a significant shift from our attitude at the motel and no one assumes now that we'll find more food later on. Most of what we have goes into Logan's bag, leaving a meager pile of beef jerky and water for our breakfast. It's not much, but it's enough to keep us from starving.
While we're eating, Rocket and I inform the others of the bandits and their almost-visit last night. Maybe everyone is just too tired to care because very little surprise or fear registers on their faces. Even Logan, who's nursing a bottle of water and trying to look like he isn't in pain doesn't seem concerned. Gale only lifts his gaze for a moment before returning to his beef jerky, and Maisie is too preoccupied with petting her lamp. I try to interpret their indifference as a good thing, but all I can think about is how weak and tired they all look. I doubt I look much better.
"We should leave soon," Logan says, "waste as little daylight as possible."
Murmurs of agreement hum around the table. We finish eating quickly and gather up what little we have. To my dismay, because I was hoping to finally be rid of them, Logan rounds up a few of the candles we didn't use and stuffs them in his bag before swiftly leaving the room. Rocket and Maisie follow him. I'm about to leave as well when I notice Gale lingering behind, his eyes focused on the bar.
"Don't tell me you want a drink too," I say. He looks at me.
"I-I'm sorry?" he stutters, almost frantic.
I shake my head. "Don't worry, let's just get a mov
e on."
Hesitating, he nods and turns to do so, but then, as if deciding against it, he stops abruptly. "I was t-thinking actually, that maybe we s-should take some with us," he says, "maybe to t-trade for gas?"
I doubt alcohol will be considered a valuable commodity when held up against gas, especially in a place like Las Vegas where every bar is probably as overflowing as this one. Still, having something to trade would be better than nothing and maybe if we're lucky the Gas Man will turn out to be a raging alcoholic.
Gale opens the bar and picks out three bottles: brandy, scotch and vodka. He slides them delicately into my bag and I try to ignore how heavy they are. With every step they clink together loudly, like badly made wind chimes. I wonder how long I'll be able to put up with the irritating sound before I'll want to staple my ears shut.
Navigating the casino is easier in the dim light of the morning sun. Even Gale doesn't seem afraid of the place anymore. When we reach the entrance and meet up with the others, I notice our party is missing a member.
"Where's Logan?" I ask.
"Probably gone off to be sick," Rocket says.
So I'm not the only one who knows about his solo drinking last night. For the time being, she seems to be turning a blind eye to it as well. But I figure if Rocket knows, then she can talk to him about it. Whatever she says will be better than anything I have to say. She's better with words than I am.
While we wait for Logan we investigate the scraps of trampled food discarded by the bandits. They left quite a mess in their wake. Shifting through it all with the tip of my boot, most of it proves to be rubbish, save a single energy bar that managed to avoid being stomped. Besides that, nothing else is salvageable.
When Logan appears, pale and sweaty, his cracked lips demand that we leave immediately. The urgency in his voice fails to detract from his horrible appearance. If I didn't know better I might think he's infected. I don't want to hang around any longer than necessary, especially with the bandits on our tail, but I doubt he'll be able to make it far in his state.