"But nobody is going to tell you, darling," Laurie suggested sweetly. "It's their gimmick to keep the location secret."
They looked toward the lake; they saw the ruined beach and they saw something else: The surface was white with the corpses of thousands of fish, bellies up.
"My God, all the fish are dying!"
"They must have been electrocuted by the lightning."
"Well, anyone for a swim?" Dugan asked.
Black humor was still possible at this stage.
* * *
A couple of days later, it was no longer possible.
When the roof tanks ran out, there was no longer any running water, hot or cold, since it was pumped by electricity. The staff toted pails of lake water to the rooms and they used it to bathe and to flush the toilets. They did not drink it: It tasted of dead fish and sulphur.
The heat and humidity were driving them frantic, ruining their sleep and wearing their nerves raw.
Bread was the first food to go. "We bake our own daily," Montenegro explained at the fourth breakfast. "In electric ovens. And, alas, this will be the last eggs and the last cream or milk." He spoke almost cheerfully and was apparently going light in the head from worry and overwork.
At lunch, he announced the last of the meat, the butter and the vegetables. "Everything is thawed and rotting; it must be thrown out. It is already pretty stinking."
"I have a question," Martin Dugan broke in. "You said you were expecting so many guests this week-well, why aren't the planes coming in or trying to come in?"
"Perhaps the plane has developed engine trouble," Montenegro said vaguely.
"You have only one plane?" Woodrough asked in disbelief.
"They were late on the delivery," Montenegro said. "Maybe now the three others are delivered."
"Then why aren't they trying to come in?" Martin demanded. "There's something goddamn funny here. You can rent planes. Why aren't those other guests being flown down here and finding out they can't land and getting the word back to New York that we're in trouble, so they can send down an amphibian and bail us out? Why isn't anybody trying to get us out of this mess?"
"Yes, it is very strange," Montenegro admitted, as vaguely as before. "I do not understand it myself. If only we had the radio…" And he wandered off.
"That man is ready for the funny farm," Pete declared.
Later that afternoon, determined to get some enjoyment out of this vacation, the Dugans made an effort to avail themselves of the facilities offered: They booked a fishing trip, having been assured that the dead fish were along only the shore, not out where the big ones were.
"Tell me about these big ones," Martin said to the captain as they were pulling out. "Fresh-water fish don't get very big."
"Oh, these are beeg, senor," the captain said. "An' fight! In this lake only in whole worl'. Are call puaxtlotl. Two hunnert, five hunnert poun'. Taste good, too."
"Well, we sure can use some fresh food," Laurie said.
The charter boat got them well out of sight of the hotel and then quit. The captain took up floor boards, cursed and muttered; after an hour, he reported that he could do nothing.
"Oh, for Christ's sake," Martin said. "Is there going to be any one single goddamn thing that is right about this place? Well, get them on the ship-to-shore, tell 'em to send another boat out."
"I can send, they can no hear," the captain announced.
"You mean we're stuck out here?" Laurie demanded. "Why, it must be a hundred and ten when we're not moving."
The captain could only look apologetic.
"We're supposed to be back by dinner," Martin said. "Is there any food aboard, by any chance?"
"No, senor, no food."
And so they sat there through the hot afternoon, prickling with the heat. They could not even fish, since one trolls for the puaxtlotl. Martin severely damaged his young marriage by going swimming in his shorts: Laurie could not do the same. At dusk, a swarm of sand flies attacked them; all night, they battled the mosquitoes. Nerves were lacerated; tempers rose and were lost; cruel words were exchanged. By morning, the Dugan marriage had suffered fatal injuries.
During this time, Woodrough, too, attempted to use a facility that was hinted at in the Paradise Plage literature. He approached Montenegro privately and inquired whether that tall hostess in the cocktail bar, the one with the big tits, would be interested in having a little drink in his room after things closed down.
"But certainly, sir," Montenegro said. "I can assure you that she will. You could not have made a better choice."
"Have her come up to my room about midnight," Woodrough said. "And have all the usual stuff there-champagne, canapes, tape recorder with the right, music, you know. Might as well try to salvage something out of this ungodly disaster."
"You are quite right, sir," Montenegro said. "Of course, there is no ice."
"Well, send up cognac."
"And canapes-perhaps some saltines and peanut butter?'
"Oh, my God."
"And our tape recorders run only on house current, alas."
"Well, damn it, send up the girl, anyway," Woodrough had never even spoken with this girl, but he was certain she had the class that he demanded: tall, graceful, with the sullen, smoldering quality that always inflamed him. Probably half-Spanish, half-Indian.
Midnight came and went, but the girl came not. At 12:45, there was a rap on his door and he let her in. She was not elegantly dressed, as he had had every right to expect, but wore a skirt and blouse.
"It ain't my fault I'm late," she said. "I hadda stay in the bar till that old couple got too drunk to keep on fightin'." It was a voice from darkest Brooklyn-a rude shock.
"Please come in," Woodrough said. "May I pour you a snifter of this excellent Remy Martin?"
"You gotta be kiddin'," she said. "I spend all day inhalin' that slop. Well, let's get it over with. That'll be eighty bucks."
Woodrough was outraged. The amount did not bother him-it was the principle: Everything was supposed to be on the house. More important, the girl was simply impossible. He knew how these things should be managed and it wasn't like this.
"As a matter of fact, I've changed my mind," he said. "I shan't be needing you tonight. You can run along."
"Whatsa matter, sport?" she asked. "The price take all the starch outa ya? You ain't jewin' me down, if that's what you're hopin'." She watched him keenly for a few seconds, then opened the door. "Boy, even an expensive joint like this gets its quota of cheap bastards, don't it?" And she was gone. Woodrough drank cognac alone and paced the room a lot.
The Hunsickers, the first guests down to breakfast on the fifth morning, were also the first to learn of the new calamity that had struck during the night. They found an almost hysterical Montenegro trying to set the table.
"The entire staff has quit," he said, his voice near breaking. "Everybody-I alone am left. There was no presentation of grievances or other formality. They just disappeared into the jungle, all of them, in their uniforms. Maybe they think the uniforms will make them chiefs and queens in their villages."
"I can't believe it," Mary said faintly.
"It took months to train them-you cannot imagine how filthy and irresponsible these Indians are. Now they have run away when things got tough. Even the American hooker in the bar. Even my assistant. The charter-boat captain has stolen the boat."
Mary began to cry noisily and Al said to her, "Oh, leave off, will you? Can't you ever rise to an occasion?" And to Montenegro: "The Dugans are on that boat-they didn't come back last night. It must be broken down out there."
"Then there is no way to get them," Montenegro wailed.
"No other boat on the place?" Hunsicker asked.
"Yes, one more that did not sink, but I cannot drive."
"Well, I can drive," said Woodrough, who had come in while this was going on. "Show me the boat."
It was a fast outboard, luckily, and Woodrough rescued the Dugans just in time for lunch. At th
e table, the newly-weds continued a quarrel they had apparently started on the fishing trip: How had they ever got to Hellhole Plage in the first place?
"It was your idea," Laurie said. "I know it wasn't my idea, because I never heard of the place."
"It was your goddamn father," Martin declared. "Gave us the honeymoon for our wedding present. We were supposed to open the envelope on the way to the airport. 'Course, when I opened it and saw the name, I knew what it was all about. Boy, what a price he was willing to pay to unload you."
"Oh," Mary Hunsicker said, "a wedding present? Not your own eight hundred and sixty bucks a day? No wonder you're reluctant to pay my husband what you owe him."
"How the hell could you have opened the envelope, Mr. Know-It-All?" said his bride. "You were driving."
"I was driving?"
"Well, who else, stupid?"
"Boy, I must've been really drunk," Martin said. "I thought you were driving."
"Do you remember getting on the plane?" Desiree asked in a peculiarly intense, throbbing voice.
"No, not me," Laurie said. "I had to drug myself to get through the ceremony."
"Me neither," Martin said. "Me neither. Boy, that must've been some wedding reception. Was there a reception?" This gave him a big yak; no one else saw much humour in it and Desiree's expression was grave and abstracted.
After the meager and sweaty lunch, Woodrough took Desiree Brooks aside. "I've seen faces peering in at us from the jungle," he said. "Already they know that this place is in trouble. If I were one of those savages, I'd start figuring how I could get a piece of it, too. Listen: I'm going to try to get through to Montenegro. He's holed up in his room and I think he's gone off his rocker. I'd appreciate it if you'd sort of stand by and be ready to help out."
Desiree felt a great upwelling of pride and affection. "Oh, Pete," she said. There was that quality of melting and surrender in her manner that commanded Pete to take her in his arms and kiss her. "Oh, Pete," she whispered.
"Oh, baby," he whispered. "Oh, I do want you."
He went to Montenegro's room and found him crouched on his bed with his back in the corner of the room, his knees drawn up to his chin, his hands braced against each wall.
Woodrough sat on a chair and said gently, "Mr. Montenegro, I am your friend. Please believe me. Now, we need certain things that are locked up, so I want you to give me the keys."
Montenegro's eyes went wide with terror and he drew back. Anyone who wanted his keys was clearly an enemy. Apparently, he was in the grip of a full-blown psychosis.
"OK," Woodrough said. "Don't be worried, Mr. Montenegro, I am your friend. Take it easy."
He went back to Desiree. "He's been taught to guard his keys," he reported, "and now he's insane. The guns are locked up somewhere-we'll never get them. We'll have to arm ourselves with whatever we can find-hatchets, knives, hammers." A wondering look came over his face and he said, "I am dumbfounded that an elaborate establishment like this could simply disintegrate in a few days into nothing." Then he saw that a change had come over Desiree: She had become serene and somehow clarified.
"It doesn't matter," she said, in a strange tone.
"Have you gone loco, too?" he cried. "Those Indians out there mean business. They'll probably attack tonight."
"They won't kill us," she said calmly. "They can't kill us."
"The hell they can't!"
"Peter, don't you understand? We're already dead."
She saw the look on his face and she said, "No, I'm not crazy. It's true. Think about it. Everything that's happened here-even the manager going conveniently insane. Pete this is all planned."
"Darling," he murmured, "what are you trying to say?"
"It was the Dugans who gave me the final clue, when they couldn't remember getting on the plane. All of us have a blank space in our lives, just before this trip. Pete, tell me what happened after your heart attack. All the details. From then until now."
"After the heart attack, they kept me on heavy sedation for a month," Pete said, "so, of course, I don't remember that period. But then my first vice-president came out to the house and told me about this vacation they'd cooked up for me and, in fact, he drove me to the airport. I can remember getting on the plane."
"A month on sedation for a 'nothing serious' heart attack?" Desiree asked. "Does that sound likely to you? And then this expensive sick leave-does that make sense? Pete, darling, that was a fatal heart attack." She took him in her arms and said compassionately, "Darling, it's not so bad, once you know it and accept it; I've found that out already. After the Dugans said what they said and I realized that there was a big empty space in my life, too, I accepted it and began to live with it." A laugh that was not quite a laugh-perhaps a sob. "That's good, 'live with it.' "
She looked up now into his face and found what seemed to be a strong, stoical acceptance of her terrible insight. In point of fact, Woodrough was masking the exasperation he felt at the prospect that this luscious piece, so nearly within his grasp, was about to slip away into some nutty obsession. He stared across her shoulder, across the empty and darkening room, out of the window and across the lake toward the fuming, hellish volcanoes on the horizon, with their coronas of red. He did not for one instant believe that he was dead. He was alive and he knew it. His immediate problem, however, was to gain this woman's sympathy and confidence.
"I don't feel dead," he said, with feigned uncertainty.
And she replied, "How could we know, until now, how the dead feel?"
"If what you believe is true," he said, feeling foolish, dishonest and ashamed, "then the Hunsickers will have had the same experience."
"Let's look for them," Desiree said gravely. "They'll have had it."
They kissed; then, their arms around each other, they went in search of the Hunsickers. Things were going so well that Woodrough could permit himself the indelicate reflection: If this really is an afterlife, this is a hell of a lot better way to be spending it than in the company of my wife.
They passed into the dining room and saw the Hunsickers and the Dugans seated at a table in the twilight, amid a clutter of tin cans and liquor bottles. The evening inshore breeze carried to them an overpowering stench of rotting fish but no relief from the heat.
They sat down at the table and discovered at once that all four were drunk.
"Where you been, you two?" Martin asked, leering. "Don' answer. Jus' have a drink."
"Listen," Woodrough said, playing his role, "I'm trying to put together how we ever got into this mess. Tell me, Mary, did you and Al decide on this vacation together?"
"Well, in our family," Mary said, "it's the commodore who decides what he wants to do and then we do it."
Woodrough turned to Al. "You picked out this place?"
"I'll have to take the blame. It sounded great. I forget where I heard about it and the travel agents couldn't help me-they really keep it exclusive. I had to deal direct with the New York office."
"And what did you do the day before the flight?"
"We went boating," Mary said promptly. "Old Commodore Hunsicker here massages his ego by getting into a speedboat and scaring the sailboats in Long Island Sound. They should be scared, too, because the old idiot is dead-drunk the whole time. And I'm dead-drunk, because that's the only way I can put up with him."
"You were along on the boat trip?" Desiree asked.
"I'm always along," Mary answered. "He has to have me along to show off to."
Desiree asked very gently, "And do you remember coming back from that boat trip?"
"Not me," Mary stated.
"But you remember," Woodrough said to Al. Al looked embarrassed and said nothing.
"When he gets stoned," his wife said, "he hasn't the vaguest idea where he's been or what he's done. Which is usually something utterly obnoxious."
Peter turned to Desiree. "You're right," he said. "It's the same with them."
"What's the same with us?" Hunsicker demanded.
&n
bsp; Woodrough told them, skillfully play-acting, citing all the "evidence."
And was met with disbelief and derision, of course.
"It doesn't matter," Desiree said to Pete. "Let them find out in their own time."
The hooting and scoffing continued, and then it ceased and all of them jumped to their feet and ran out to the terrace. They had all heard the noise of a plane motor. A small amphibian was circling and about to land. The Hunsickers and the Dugans skipped about, shouted, waved their arms, hugged each other. The plane taxied through the rim of dead fish to the dock. A man stepped out and came up the lawn toward them.
"Why, that's Johnny Delmonico, the rock singer!" Laurie cried. "I'd know him anywhere!"
And then they looked at each other with terror and despair. It was Desiree who put it calmly into words: "Johnny Delmonico is dead. We all read, it in the paper the day we left-we were talking about it on the plane. An automobile accident in Mexico City."
White-faced, Martin Dugan turned to his bride. "It's true," he whispered. "It must have happened on the way to the airport."
Mary Hunsicker began to sob quietly; Al turned away and stared stonily at the mountains. Pete and Desiree put their arms about each other.
Johnny Delmonico came up to them. He did not bother to introduce himself. "Boy, have they been worried about you!" he exclaimed. "Is everybody OK? Just look at that landing strip! Where's the manager?"
No one answered. Finally, Al Hunsicker said, "Make yourself at home, Delmonico. Welcome to the land of the dead."
"No, I can't stay," said Delmonicb. "Gotta get right back or it'll be too dark to land. But you all seem to be OK." He looked around. "Boy, is this place a mess! Been dynamitin' the fish, huh? Where's all the staff?" He turned to go, "Don't worry, they'll send a rescue plane in the morning. Sorry, I can't take you now, but my plane won't hold but one person. I'll let 'em know you're all right." He strode back down the slope, got into his plane, revved up and flew off down a valley. The whole visit had lasted less than ten minutes. They watched until he was gone.
"That was to make sure we know," Desiree said. "And to give us false hope. There won't be a plane tomorrow. Johnny Delmonico is flying back to his particular hell."
Richard Davis (ed) - [Year's Best Horror Stories 02] Page 16