The Nightly Disease (Serial Novel)

by Max Booth III

  “And the other guy?” He nods to the closet. “That’s the guest you and my little brother tossed off the roof, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Last time we met, you informed us you’d done taken care of that mess. I don’t appreciate liars, boy. I don’t appreciate them one bit.”

  “I’m fucking sorry, okay? You act like I’m one of you. Well, I’m not. I’m fucking not.”

  The cowboy laughs. “What’re you sayin’, then?”

  “I’m saying I don’t know what the fuck you expect from me. I’m just a night auditor. I can’t…I can’t fucking do this.”

  The cowboy laughs harder and it reminds me of when I was a kid and my older brother would tease me in front of my friends, only on this occasion we’re instead surrounded by owls and dead bodies. And I’m pretty sure at least one of them exists only in my head.

  “Boy, you’re all cute and shit, I tell you what.” He rubs his chin. “Okay, listen. Gettin’ rid of bodies ain’t no thing, really. Movies and shit, they put it in your mind that it’s this impossible task, but really, all it takes is a shovel and a quality level of seclusion. Now, you got a shovel?”

  “No.”

  ‘Well, I got one in my trunk you can borrow. You know the woods out on thirty-five? Behind those ghetto strip-malls.”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, here is what you do. You gather up this entourage of death you’ve done collected and you take them out in them woods. You dig yourself a great big hole. In fact, you dig yourself three great big holes. One for each body. Wait. I assume there’s just the three, right? Have I missed anybody?” He looks around the apartment.

  “Just the three.”

  “Okay, good. So you dig up three holes and you bury ‘em deep, deep, deep into the earth. This ain’t a funeral, so you best stretch beyond the standard six feet. You might wanna bring a stepstool or somethin’ to get yourself out of the hole once you’ve dug it up, or you’ll find yourself slapping off vultures come mornin’.”

  “I have to work tonight.” Wait, do I? What day is it?

  “Well, you best hurry up then, I reckon.”

  “What about the detective’s car?”

  “Huh?”

  “She probably drove here. Don’t cop cars have a GPS installed or something?” I’m sure I once saw that in a movie, so it must be true. “It’ll be tracked once she doesn’t show back up at the station, right?”

  “Hmm. Good call.” He scavenges through Detective Garcia’s pockets and scoops out a set of keys, then examines the various tools connected to the chain. He pulls out his cell phone and dials a number. “Hey, yeah, it’s me. Listen. Word is, if you bring yourself down to Universal City and take a stroll through an apartment complex called The Meadows, you’ll happen upon a Crown Vic with the keys on the hood. I reckon it’ll probably be black or dark gray. Yeah, Carl, that’s right, like a cop’s. Well, who gives a shit? You best move your ass, though. You have an hour and it’s gone. But you ain’t heard shit from me, and if you say you have, well, yeah, come on, I don’t think I need to discuss consequences.”

  The cowboy returns the cell phone to his pocket. “The car is no longer an issue. Help me find which one is hers so I can drop the keys on the hood, then I’ll lend you my shovel.”

  “This is really happening.”

  He nods. “Yes. This is really happening.”

  Part 25

  As it turns out, tonight’s one of my off-nights at the hotel. Despite this, I still have no intention of wasting my time out in the woods. With the bodies gone, I would have no upper hand. I would be the Hobbss’ slave. Fuck that and fuck them. These dead bodies belong to me.

  I realize this train-of-thought is unhealthy to whatever sanity remains in my hard drive and is probably what most people tell themselves the day before a flock of white-coated doctors drag them into a padded van. But I am not like those people. My horrors are real. These bodies are not my fault. The Hobbs brothers are not my fault. The owls are not my fault. It’s pretty clear what is to blame. The hotel. The hotel is behind all of this. At the root of this dumb conspiracy is a giant hotel sporting a throbbing erection and we’re sucking it off and soon it’s going to finally come all over our faces.

  I allow the cowboy to help me drag the bodies into my trunk. Of course, only one fits, so we store George and Detective Garcia in the backseat. The idea is that the least decomposed of the group will be the most pleasant to see while passing by the car. It amazes me the amount of times I’ve transported corpses around my apartment without anyone saying something to me. Although, if I saw some dudes dragging a body outside, I sincerely doubt I would interrupt them. That shit’s nobody’s business.

  After the cowboy leaves, I still drive away with the bodies and his shovel in my car. He might still be hanging around, watching to confirm I’m not ignoring his orders. But I don’t drive to the woods. Hell, I don’t even know how I would carry three individual corpses far enough to locate a spot isolated enough to dig holes. Most days I can barely carry the hotel coffee pots without struggling. I drive aimlessly down I-35 with no real destination in mind. I can’t sit down somewhere and eat. My bank account is mostly bone-dry, plus there’s the matter of two dead bodies chilling in my backseat. Someone’s bound to take notice.

  An hour passes and my car’s on its last few trickles of gasoline and the radio has been overthrown by a strict commercial-only broadcast and my bladder’s one bump away from bursting and the bodies in the backseat smell so fucking terrible that at this point I’m perpetually swallowing my own vomit and it’s all fucked, every last second of my life is a virtual KICK ME sign, and I’m the one doing the majority of the kicking.

  When I regain consciousness, I’m parked at the San Antonio Zoo and Aquarium. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I can’t afford to enter. I can’t even afford to drive back home. I don’t have time for zoos. I have to strategize. If this was a video game, the final boss fight wouldn’t take it easy on me. I’d already be torn to pieces.

  On the other hand, if this was a video game, I could just press PAUSE.

  So I press PAUSE.

  On the floor of the passenger’s seat, the bag of stolen cash deposits from the Other Goddamn Hotel calls my name. I take out a few envelopes and count out a hundred dollars. I don’t remember bringing the bag back out to the car. I had taken it inside to count. Why did I return the money to the envelopes?

  All of my memories are lost film reels. When I struggle and try to think back, volcanoes burst in my skull.

  I pay the ticket holder at the zoo the eight dollars to enter. It’s late in the evening and the lady at the front booth informs me they’ll be closing in less than an hour. Perhaps I would like to save my money for tomorrow. I tell her perhaps I wouldn’t. Inside, the zoo is absent of all other human beings besides myself and the few stray employees still unfortunate enough to be on the clock. They all stare at me the same way I stare at my guests. They hate me and I haven’t even said anything to them. My presence alone goes against everything they stand for. I am the enemy.

  The various animals in cages stare at me, confused, wondering what I’m still doing here. I could set them all free, I realize. I could be a hero in the animal kingdom. But I don’t. These animals are not part of my story. They would only become distractions. What if a tiger ran out onto the highway and got plowed by a semi-truck? It’s bad enough I have George’s death on my conscience. I couldn’t handle a tiger, too.

  I don’t stop to inspect the other animals. I ignore them and continue to my destination. There’s only one reason I would come to a zoo.

  The barn owl stares at me from inside its cage, claws curled around a wooden perch. Its head remains cocked as it takes me in. Our eyes become one. I try to ask it what the meaning of life is and it refuses to answer. Mandy 2 would be proud. I finally made it. This trip is for her. Everything is for her. All she wanted to do was pet an owl. In the end, the owl had petted her.

  Ne
xt to the cage stands a standard information sign about the inhabited animal:

  COMMON BARN OWL

  Tyto alba

  Range: The length of a scream.

  Habitat: Behind you. Watching. Waiting.

  Size: Equivalent to a shadow stretching infinitely across sizzling cement.

  Diet: Hotel night auditors.

  Fun fact: Death is inevitable.

  I blink hard and long but the words don’t change. Hallucinations don’t mean a damn thing when reality’s never entered the equation. I ask the owl what I’m supposed to do. How do I climb out of this hole I’ve dug myself? Save me, goddamn, just please save me.

  The owl doesn’t respond. Maybe because it finds amusement in teasing me, or—more likely—it’s an owl and understandably doesn’t understand English.

  “You fuck,” I whisper, and the owl flinches. “I know you can hear me, you crafty piece of shit. This is all one big game to you, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

  “Hoot,” the owl says.

  A woman next to me clears her throat. “Uh, sir, you can’t curse at the animals. It’s against regulations.”

  “Is it?”

  She points at a sign that reads: PLEASE DO NOT INSULT THE ANIMALS.

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, sir.”

  “Okay.”

  We stand in silence for three very awkward minutes before she finally throws her hands up in the air. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “I said I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

  “But you haven’t asked yet.”

  “Get the fuck out of here, dude.”

  On the way out, I notice another sign next to an empty cage. Well, mostly empty. The only object inside is a mirror propped up on a stand, so whoever’s in front of the cage can look at their own reflection.

  The sign is very similar to the owl’s.

  HOTEL NIGHT AUDITOR

  Hospitality dicksnot

  Range: Just low enough to be perpetually stomped on by the human race.

  Habitat: A bottomless ocean of his own tears and cum.

  Size: Chris Farley.

  Diet: Will literally eat anything that incorporates grease.

  Fun fact: Nothing is real.

  I try to kick the sign down but miss and tumble to the ground. A crowd of zoo employees surround me like vultures and laugh. “Are you all right?” they ask. “Were you trying to destroy our sign?” they ask. “Do you even hoot, bro?” they ask.

  Then, in unison, they begin chanting: “Where are the owls? Where are the owls? Where are the owls?”

  The owl cage is opened and the prisoner has escaped. Did I free it? Did it free itself? Was I the one in the cage?

  Am I free?

  “Where are the owls? Where are the owls? Where are the owls?”

  I push past the zoo employees and flee the property. Hundreds of footsteps seem to echo behind me as they give chase, but when I glance over my shoulder there’s not a single soul present. I turn back around and the lady from the ticket booth is in front of me, telling me the zoo’s been closed for over a century and there’s no way in hell I’m getting a refund over some bullshit bird attack that occurred when I was on an elementary school field trip.

  Her face melts as she talks and drips down her cleavage. What bird attack? What field trip? This isn’t a zoo. This is hell. I’ve died and gone to hell and there is no escape, there is no escape.

  I have escaped.

  In the parking lot, an owl waits on top of my car. It is not Owlbert or Chowls but the owl from the zoo. The one everyone accused me of stealing.

  Did I steal it?

  “You aren’t real,” I whisper, and unlock the car.

  “Yes I am,” it says.

  “Oh.” There’s really no arguing this kind of hard evidence. “Okay, get in, I guess.”

  I open the door and let the owl fly into the passenger seat. Did George switch seats with Detective Garcia? Fuck. Someone is messing with me. Maybe the cowboy has been following me. Maybe he’s watching right this very second.

  “Right. Okay. What’s your name?” I ask the owl, and begin driving.

  “Steve.”

  “Steve?”

  “Yeah. You got a problem with ‘Steve’?”

  “No, uh, it’s just not what I expected.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” The owl emits a loud hoot.

  “Nothing, nothing. Just other owls I know, their names are ridiculous.”

  “Well, my name is Steve. I am quite proud of it.”

  “It’s a good name.”

  “Thank you, Isaac.”

  “I never told you mine.”

  “Sure you did, Isaac,” Steve says. “Sure you did.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “Hey, man, you’re the one who busted me out. What do you want with me?”

  “I want everything to go back to normal.”

  “What’s normal?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Has there ever been a ‘normal’?”

  “No.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “I want to leave.”

  “Then you should leave.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  We drive into the night. I don’t want to go back to the apartment. Cops might be there, waiting for my arrival. I walk up to my front door and I get swarmed by a hail of bullets. Cop-killers don’t get brought into the station without a few obliterated organs. Even if I wasn’t the one who slit Detective Garcia’s throat, they won’t know any better. My apartment, her blood. My backseat, her corpse.

  I stop at a truck stop and use the stolen hotel money to refill my gas tank. I park in the shadows of the parking lot and head toward the promised restaurant inside. Steve follows.

  “I don’t think you’re allowed in here.”

  “It’s okay,” he says, “I’m friends with the owner’s nephew.”

  “Oh, cool.”

  The server looks at me strangely and I can’t tell if it’s because of me or my dinner companion. She leads us to a booth without a word and hands me a menu.

  “What do you want?” I ask Steve, who’s sitting across from me.

  “A mouse would be superb.”

  “I don’t think they have mice here.”

  “At least not on the menu.”

  I order a coffee and a cheeseburger. The way my stomach growls, it might have been days since the last time I’ve eaten. The best diet in the world is accidentally stumbling into a series of murders. Forget about Atkins and South Beach. Just go kill a couple motherfuckers and deal with the ensuing fallout.

  The truck stop coffee reminds me that not all coffee is terrible. The hotel has ruined me in more ways than one. I tell Steve he should try some of it. It’s really good.

  “I don’t drink coffee,” he says, “but thanks.”

  “What kind of owl doesn’t drink coffee?”

  “I’m pretty sure coffee would give me a heart attack.”

  I laugh. Steve’s got jokes. “Owls don’t have hearts.”

  “Well, fuck you too,” he says.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  Steve steps forward on the table. “Where do you want to go?”

  “What do you mean?” Mayo drips down my chin and I shamelessly lick it off.

  “You said you wanted to leave. Leave where?”

  “Oh. Uh. I don’t know. Anywhere but here sounds good. The plan has been Mexico, since that’s what everybody does in movies. But I don’t speak Spanish, and I’m afraid of the cartel confusing me for someone else and decapitating me due to an awful misunderstanding.”

  “That might be racist,” Steve says.

  I nod. It certainly might.

  “Then if not Mexico, where?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe London.”

  “Lon
don?”

  “Yeah. There’s this hotel there called the Langham Hotel. Mark Twain and Oscar Wilde stayed there before. It’s supposed to be crazy-haunted.”

  Steve laughs. “Do you believe in ghosts, Isaac?”

  “Well, you’re here.”

  “I’m not a ghost.”

  “You’re something, all right.”

  “Why would you leave a hotel to go to another hotel?”

  I shrug, hating this spotlight treatment. But it is a good question. “Hotels are all I know.”

  “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “If Shakespeare wrote my biography, they’d be teaching that shit in high schools right now.”

  “The Great Hotel Tragedy.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Or maybe the Great Whooo-tell Tragedy.” Steve chuckles a little too loudly.

  “Ugh.”

  “Get it?” he says. “Whooo-tell. Whooo. Because I’m an owl.”

  “Yeah, I…I get it, man.”

  I finish the cheeseburger and drain the coffee mug. I feel like I could sit here for the rest of time, drinking coffee refills until my flesh deteriorates and my bones turn to ash. The scene would make a great painting, at least. Not so much a great way to live, though.

  “Okay,” Steve says, “so the plan is to go to London and get a job at this Langham Hotel.”

  “I don’t know. It’s a possibility.”

  “How are you going to get to London? Do you have any money?”

  “A little. Just what I got from George’s hotel. I’ll need more. A lot more.”

  “And how are you going to do that?”

  “I guess I could bust open the safe at my own hotel. Empty it and get the hell out of Texas before anyone notices I’m gone.”

  Steve steps closer and whispers, “What are you going to do about the bodies in your car?”

  No response. I don’t have the answers to everything—hell, anything.

  “Well, you can’t just leave them where they currently reside. That’s a wee bit suspicious, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Make them the cowboy’s problem.”

  “How?”

  “You’re asking questions you already know the answers to.”

  “I’m taking advice from a hallucination.”