by D. Gideon
“Does Target sell guns?” Marco suddenly asked, sitting up straight.
“No,” Corey and I said together. Marco seemed to deflate. Corey flipped a page in his ICOE book and handed it to Marco.
“They’ve got a sporting goods department with stuff like tents and a few knives, but no guns,” he said. He pointed out a section of notes, and Marco started reading over it.
“Well, while you guys make out your shopping lists, I’m going to go get a room,” Mel said, standing and swinging a leg over the guard rail. “I can’t walk any more today, and my ass sure as hell is not sleeping out here with the mosquitoes and weird people walking by. You criminals come find me when you’re done.” She started down the off-ramp.
“They’re not going to sell you a room, Mel. The credit card machines aren’t working,” I said.
“They’ll pull out the manual machine when I show them my black diamond Amex,” Mel said. “That thing opens doors.”
“And leave a paper trail of where Speaker Rhodes’ daughter has been?” Marco asked. “Not a good idea.”
Mel stopped and turned around, frowning. The breeze caught her scarf and tried to pull the parasol out of her hands. She opened her mouth to speak, but Marco held up a hand.
“You’re right,” he said. “We need to stop and really rest. We need to plan, now that we see what it’s like out here. But you can’t go in there announcing who you are and demanding…a…room.”
He stood, handing the ICOE booklet to Corey and then pointing to Mel’s bags.
“Do you have something more modest in there? Something black?” He pulled off the baseball hat and tossed it to me.
“Black I can always do, but modest?” Mel cocked her head, thinking.
“We packed that long-sleeve shirt in case it got chilly at night,” I said. “Was it black or dark blue?”
Mel stood silent for a moment, brows furrowed over her stolen sunglasses. “Oh! That one. Yeah, it’s black.”
“Put it on. And give me this,” Marco said, stepping over and taking her makeshift parasol. He began untying the little knots holding the scarf to the tree branch. I expected her to tear into him, but she just shrugged, slid her bags off, and started going through her backpack.
“Marco, what are you planning on doing?” Corey asked.
Marco flashed us a grin and wiggled his eyebrows. “I’m planning on demanding a room.”
“Sir, why are you taking my picture?” Trent, the desk manager asked, eyes wide.
The man photographing him pressed buttons on his cellphone and answered in a thick middle-eastern accent. “So I show all of social media the man who refused to release room to customer with reservation because he discriminates! You will lose job. There will be protests outside of hotel. Your management-”
“Sir I’m sure we can work this out,” Trent said, shuffling papers behind the raised counter. Where was the damn list of the rooms that Sylvia had been able to clean? “I’m just not sure I have a clean room available-“
“I told you I take clean sheets. My wife will clean room,” the man said, gesturing to the woman who stood behind him, silent and staring at her folded hands. In an intricate wrap around her head was a deep purple head scarf that cascaded down over her shoulders. She wore a long-sleeved black shirt that must have been hell in this heat, and a long black skirt that brushed the ankles of her dark boots. The only thing showing on her were her hands and her dark face, but Trent still hadn’t been able to get a good look at her. She’d never lifted her face, never uttered a word.
The man in front of him was fuming. He and his wife had walked through the front doors carrying nothing but laptop bags, and had stood for a few minutes watching another couple at the desk who were arguing for a room. Then without warning, the man had pushed his way to the counter, demanding that he not be forced to wait any longer and that his reservation that he had made last week be honored. Seeing what looked to be an angry middle-easterner, the other couple had fled.
Trent had no way to verify the reservation. The computers hadn’t worked since the power went out, even when the emergency lights were still working. He had asked the gentleman, who claimed his last name was something like Al-Abib, if the man could show him the email confirmation on his cellphone, and that’s when all hell had broken loose. The man had raised his voice, started accusing Trent of bigotry, turning and yelling at his wife in both English and what sounded like Arabic, and had promised to turn this into a media nightmare.
Trent did not need this shit. He’d been promoted to Front Desk Manager just three months ago, and already the owner had been assuring him that he was next in line for full Hotel Manager if he could keep up the good work. A blunder of this scale, not just a missed reservation but an accusation of discrimination, would torpedo his promotion and likely get him fired.
Abib raised his own light scarf, a long black affair that he wore wrapped fully around his neck to fall from either shoulder, and dabbed at the sweat on his face. His hair was soaking wet and combed back, and he had a dark, closely-shaven beard. Trent couldn’t help but notice the Rolex on the man’s bare arms—unlike his wife, he wore a plain black t-shirt tucked into khaki pants topped with a fine leather belt—and his loafers, while beat up and even sporting a bit of tape, were obviously of high quality and very expensive. He certainly didn’t seem American, with his dark bronze skin, dark hair, and thick accent.
“Okay Mr. Al-Abib-“
“Hal-Abab,” the man corrected with a sneer.
“Mr. Hal-Abab, as long as I can have you sign a waiver stating that you accept that the room may not be clean, that the power is out and the water is not working, I’ll honor your reservation,” Trent said, pulling out one of the backup printed room agreements that they kept on hand. “Will that be acceptable?”
“You will give us clean sheets?” Hal-Abab asked. “Towels, little shampoo, soaps?”
“Yes sir, of course. But like I said, the water is not working, so if you wish to bathe, you’ll need to come down and carry up water from the pool,” Trent said. “My apologies for that, and I am going to put a deep discount on the room price to make up for it.”
“This is ridiculous,” Hal-Abab muttered, pulling a thin leather wallet from his pocket. “We made reservation over a week ago. Our rental car run out of gas two mile from here, and we walk all the way, looking forward to refreshing bath, and now this.”
“I’m deeply sorry, sir,” Trent said, quickly scribbling a disclaimer on the room agreement. “With the statewide power outage, I’m afraid that’s the situation you would find at any hotel right now. Hopefully the power will be back on by morning. But-” he hesitated, not wanting another outburst. “Because our power is down and our credit system is not working, I’ll need a cash deposit on the room.”
Hal-Abab pulled a photo ID and a one-hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and slapped them on the desk. His glare dared Trent to argue for more, but Trent just nodded and pushed the room contract and a pen across the counter. Hal-Abab signed it with a flourish and held out his hand. Trent opened a drawer, pulled out the backup keys for room 414, and handed them over.
“No key card?” Hal-Abab said, looking at the metal keys as if he’d been handed a live bug.
Trent copied the man’s information from the ID onto the room agreement as quickly as he could write. “Without the computers, I can’t program the key cards,” he said. “The larger key on the ring will open the main hotel doors, and the smaller key is for your room.” He slid the ID back across the desk and took the money and signed room agreement. “Give me just a moment and I’ll get your sheets.”
Trent slipped the money and agreement into a drawer, locked it quickly with a key from his pocket, and walked quickly around a separation wall. Hal-Abab barely had time to slip the ID back into his wallet when Trent was back, placing a stack of sheets and towels onto the counter. On top of them were the usual travel amenities and two bottles of water.
“There should also
be another full set of sheets in the top of the closet,” Trent said. “If you need more towels, just come ask me. I’ll be happy to get them for you.”
“Take that,” Hal-Abab commanded, and his wife finally stepped forward. She pulled the bundle from the counter, still not looking up to meet Trent’s eyes.
“The stairs are at that end of the hall,” Trent said, pointing. “When you come out of them, turn right and your room will be the seventh one on the right.”
Hal-Abab started down the hall, his wife following. Then he stopped and spun.
“Room faces east?” He asked.
“I’m sorry sir, I honestly don’t know,” Trent said. “If it’s not satisfactory, I can try to-“
Hal-Abab made a disgusted noise and spun again, stomping off. Trent could hear him muttering in some other language, and he waved his arms as if to punctuate what he was saying.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Trent headed into the office to hit up the bottle of vodka he kept in the bottom of his locked desk. Come 11pm, it didn’t matter if Shawnelle showed up for her shift or not—his ass was going home. Even with another promotional carrot hanging on the end of a stick, he didn’t get paid enough to deal with this shit.
Hal-Abab pushed open the door to room 414 and quickly crossed the room, pushing the curtains wide and sliding open the windows. His wife dropped the stack of laundry onto a small table and pulled the scarf from her head.
“That is the one and only time you get to order me around like that without dying, so I hope you enjoyed it,” Mel said, pulling her hair from the low bun she’d tied it into. “I thought that man was gonna piss his pants when you started gibbering. Was that real Arabic?”
“It was,” Marco said, pulling the scarf from his neck and rubbing a hand over his head to shake some of the water off. They’d poured half a bottle over his head to make it wet so that it would look nearly black, and the entire time he’d been downstairs, water had been running in rivulets down his back. “It’s a good thing he didn’t understand it though, or we’d have been caught. I only know a few phrases, and I kept repeating them.”
“Really? What were you saying?”
“Hands in the air, get on the ground, drop the weapon, drop the rock, where is your husband…stuff like that.”
“From your time in Israel,” Mel guessed. Marco made a grim face and nodded.
“Okay, I’ll buy that, but what are you doing with a fake ID in your wallet?” she asked, one hand on her hip.
“That’s an interesting question, seeing as the ID in your bra says Leandra Jones,” Marco said, flashing her a grin. “It helps sometimes, overseas, to be able to say you’re someone else.”
“I know how that is,” Mel said, rolling her eyes. She looked around the room. “This isn’t so bad. They didn’t leave anything dirty laying around, and it looks like they only slept in one of the beds.”
Marco stepped into the bathroom. “Must have been someone by himself,” he said. “Only one of the towels has been used. Toilet’s not backed up, either.” He re-appeared with an empty ice bucket in his hands. “This must have been what he was flushing with.”
“Why did you tell him you wanted the top floor?” Mel said, crossing and sitting on the made-up bed. “I do not want to go up and down those stairs with a bucket of water.”
“Because no one else will want to come up those stairs either,” Marco said. “Too much effort for too little reward. We’re safest up here, unless there’s a fire; and in that case we’re pretty close to the stairs.”
He pocketed the keys and went back to the door, opening it and looking out both ways before stepping into the hallway.
“Where are you-“ Mel started, but he held up a finger and then closed the door. The handle jiggled a bit, and she heard a distinct beep. He opened the door, holding up the dry erase marker that was their all-access pass for the electronic door locks back at the University.
“Did you know that one manufacturer sells 90% of the electronic door locks used in the United States?” He asked. “This worked at the hotel I was staying in at Hacker’s Camp, too. Do you have yours?” He wiggled the marker.
Mel shook her head. “I dumped it back at the shelter. Didn’t think I’d ever need it again, and if this all blew over, you could just make me another one.”
Marco clucked his tongue and sat his marker on the little counter just inside the door. “Don’t forget to take that with you if you leave the room, then. I’m going to get the rest of the gang and bring them up the far stairs,” he said, stepping back into the hall. “Be a good wife and make up that second bed, would you?”
He could still hear her cussing at him when he reached the stairwell.
CHAPTER 29
M onday, September 3rd
Bowie, Maryland
From our room on the fourth floor we had a clear view over the parking lot’s trees, and could see the crowds still gathering in the shopping plaza. Added up, there had to be at least a hundred cars out there just…sitting.
“What are they waiting for?” I asked, pulling down the binoculars.
“Sunset,” Marco said. “No one can do anything about them sitting in a public parking lot in the daytime, and it’s better to loot in the dark when it’s harder for someone to see what you look like. Has there been anyone sniffing around the hotel?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Think they’ll leave it alone?”
“Why hit a hotel when there’s plenty of stores with brand-new stuff ripe for the taking?” Corey said, sitting up. He and Mel had stretched out across one of the beds and had been dozing off and on for the past couple of hours. King lay on the floor at the foot of their bed, snoring softly.
Marco nodded from his seat at the table, where he was going over the map. “The hotel is relatively safe while there is such a large, juicy target nearby. They shouldn’t come here until the stores are cleaned out.”
“You should get some rest,” Corey said, walking over and ruffling his hand over the top of my head. “If this goes south and we have to leave in a rush, who knows when we’ll have another bed to sleep in?”
“I know,” I said, sitting back in the overstuffed chair and putting the binoculars on a little end table. “I just can’t stop watching, though. I don’t want to miss anything.”
“Well nothing’s going to happen until it’s dark, and then you won’t be able to see anyway,” Corey said. “Stretch out and rest, Rip.”
“If y’all can’t be quiet, go find something to do,” Mel muttered, rolling over and dragging one of Corey’s pillows over her head. “I don’t care what it is. Just shut the hell up.”
“I’m going to go down there,” Marco said, standing. “Maybe someone has information we can use.” He rifled through his pack, pulling out a long sock. Taking my combination lock from his pocket, he slipped it into the sock and tied a knot in the open end. He spun it a few times, as if testing the weight, and then slipped the lock end back into his pocket. The knotted top of the sock hung out, just enough to grab onto. I watched him, cocking an eyebrow.
Seeing my look, he pulled the sock from his pocket and swung it—all in one quick motion. It thumped hard into his open hand. “In case someone gets testy,” he said. “I can convince them to leave without having to cut them.”
“Rest?” I said. “Make plans? Hello?”
“I’ll rest later,” Marco said, opening the door. “For now, I’ll make plans. Corey?”
“Yeah, I’m coming with,” Corey said. “I had an idea I wanted to check out. Don’t worry, Rip. We’ll be back before it’s dark.”
They closed the door quietly behind them and I shook my head. All I could do was worry. I stood and plucked a pillow from the second bed, then stretched out beside Mel. At least I could give my back and feet a break; I was sure I wouldn’t be able to rest with all the thoughts going through my head.
Between the heat, my exhaustion, and the stillness of the quiet room, it was only a couple of minutes before I was sound as
leep.
“Wake up ladies, it’s almost party time,” I heard Marco say, and the bed shook a bit.
“We brought you something,” Corey teased.
“If it’s not coffee, go away,” Mel said, and I felt her roll over and sit up beside me. “I don’t smell any coffee.”
“It’s better than coffee,” Corey said, and I felt his hand on my shoulder, shaking me gently. “C’mon, Rip. Up and at ‘em.”
I groaned and pushed myself into a sitting position. Everything I had ached. My hair and my clothes were damp with sweat. The room was dim, and glancing towards the windows, I saw that it was nearly dark. We’d been asleep for hours. King was at the window, either sniffing the air or the socks we’d laid there to dry out. He’d need to be taken out.
“Come see,” Corey said, moving to the window. “Look at your present.”
I started to stand and groaned, stopping halfway up. What had been aching while I was lying still turned into actual stiffness and pain when I tried moving.
“Yeah,” Marco said, backing away from the bed. “Move slow for a while. After a day of putting your body through this, it’s not going to be happy with you.”
“Holy hell,” Mel said from her side of the bed. She had stood and was leaning against the wall, one hand massaging her shoulder muscles.
“Ibuprofen,” I croaked, straightening the rest of the way. “I need lots of ibuprofen.” I felt the way I had the morning after my first day at Appleseed Boot Camp. A full day of standing, kneeling, standing, going prone, more standing, and holding the weight of a rifle hadn’t bothered me while I’d been doing it. The next morning, though, I could barely move. Luckily my Dad had anticipated that, and had a large glass of water and ibuprofen waiting for me when I woke. Stretching and getting back on the range to get those muscles moving had loosened me back up, and every morning for the rest of the week it was the same thing—wake up and try to convince my body that it really could move if it would just try.