by P. T. Phronk
“Why shouldn’t I let him in?” snapped Dalla. “For years, all I’ve lived for is seeing him. Now all I get from him is … this. What’s the point?”
Stan pointed at the mirror above the room’s dresser, both of them in it, side by side. “I see you,” he said. “I see you perfectly. And I know there is more to you than … this.”
Her eyebrows creased. “Stanley, right now I can barely see myself in there.”
She turned to the window and sighed. “Let’s get it over with. Just get in h—”
Before she could finish, Stan dove at the window. He jammed his bleeding arm onto the runes carved into the wood. “No!” he screamed. “This is my room too and you are not invited in! You are never invited in.”
“What you are you two even talking ab—oh.” In the camera, Stan saw Fox go to float through the window, but he stopped before crossing into the room, a look on his face as if he’d just remembered something. “Oh, what a trick. Hey, didn’t my buddy Morgan set up something like this at my place? That didn’t work out too well, did it?”
Dalla sat on the bed with a sigh.
“Just like in the movies, isn’t it? I’ve never played a vampire before though; I wonder, does the invite-only policy apply to every entrance?”
He disappeared from sight.
“Where did he go?” asked Stan.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Dalla, shaking her head.
There was a terrible crash, then the wall beside the window bulged inward, the paint on it splitting in a web of cracks. Another crash rocked the wall, then cool night air filled the room. A hole had formed in the crumbling concrete wall.
Stan glanced at his camera. Fox leaned against the outside of the newly created entrance.
“Nope,” he said, rolling his eyes like he was emoting exasperation for a film. “I still really don’t feel like going in there. Guess I’ll have to make it so there’s no there there.”
He disappeared again.
“What did he mean by that?” Stan mumbled.
“It doesn’t matter,” repeated Dalla.
When a series of rumbles caused the whole room to shake, Stan figured out what he meant by that.
18. Messy Breakup
ANOTHER CRASH CONFIRMED STAN’S SUSPICIONS: Fox was going to bring the whole building down. Requiring an invite to the room wouldn’t much matter if the room no longer existed.
The room’s television was covered in a layer of dust from the collapsed wall, but the words on the screen were still visible. RIGHT NOW: Series of explosions rock Westminster Hotel. Then, in smaller letters below that, Fox connection a terrorist hoax?
Dalla stared sadly into the night sky while another pair of crashes caused the room to shake.
“Let’s go! Let’s fucking go!” he screamed at the torpid vampire.
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she said.
Beads of sweat popped up on Stan’s forehead even though the air pouring into the room was freezing cold. On one hand he had the option to finally escape the monster who had been torturing and maiming him for weeks. On the other hand, there were more monsters outside that he’d be defenceless against without her. The problem was figuring out which hand was the one missing fingers.
Bloody made the decision for him by snorting, then bolting from the room.
“Fuck,” muttered Stan. “Hey, at least put up a fight?”
People were milling in the hallway. Men bellowed at each other while children cried in their mothers’ arms. At the end of the hallway, past the unmoving elevators and in front of the door to the stairwell, a policeman argued with an overweight man in a suit. Stan pushed his way through the crowd, following behind Bloody. People became momentarily distracted from their worries when they noticed the ratty wet dog with the stained-pink chin hairs.
“Sir,” Stan said, cutting off the angry fat man bellowing at the police officer. “You need to let these people out.”
“No shit, buddy,” said the fat man. “This asshole doesn’t seem to be hearing the fucking explosions.”
“I’m doing my job,” said the officer, looking past both of them.
“This whole building is going to come down,” said Stan as calmly as he could.
“This building is coming down,” screamed the fat man, spittle flying from his lips. “You wanna be the one who played right into a terrorist plot?”
The officer’s fingertips rested on his gun. “Stand back, sir. Nobody is leaving until I receive authorization.”
Stan felt a sustained rumble vibrate his toes.
“Are you hearing this?” the fat man screamed. “I ain’t gonna die here.” He inched forward to push past the policeman.
The policeman thumbed the strap from his gun.
“I’m the murderer!” blurted Stan, stepping between them. He held up his blood-smeared arm. “Look! Blood! I ripped his throat right out. That detail wasn’t in the news, was it?”
The policeman finally looked at him. He barked a string of incomprehensible orders into his shoulder-mounted radio as he fully drew his gun.
“Hands in front of you. Put the handcuffs on. Let’s go.”
“Finally,” said the fat man.
“Not you.” He levelled his gun inches from the fat man’s face. “Unless you’re a murderer too?”
“You’re the murderer,” muttered the man as the officer shoved Stan into the stairwell, past another policeman who resumed guarding the door. “You’re the murderer!” His cries were muffled as the door slammed shut.
“I am arresting you under suspicion of murder. Do you understand?” asked the policeman in a robotic tone.
“Yes,” muttered Stan, looking back to make sure Bloody had made it through the door. He jutted his chin, trying to get across that Bloody should stay back. Somehow, the dog seemed to understand.
“You have the right to retain and instruct counsel without delay. You may call any lawyer you want. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” said Stan. He was led down the concrete stairwell by a hand roughly shoving at his back.
“If you wish to contact a legal—” the policeman began, before being interrupted by a loud boom. Stan nearly lost his footing in the subsequent shaking. Dust and dead flies rained down from the flickering fluorescent lights.
“If you wish to contact a legal aid duty lawyer, I can provide you with a telephone number,” he mumbled quickly.
A crack formed in the wall in front of them. The lights flickered again, then went out completely. Muffled screams came from behind the closed doors leading to each floor of the hotel. A moment later, emergency lights clicked on at the top of each stairway, bathing them in dim blue light.
The policeman took a deep breath, then poked Stan’s back. Stan jogged down the steps as fast as he could with his arms handcuffed together in front of him.
“You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say may be—”
The door in front of them burst from its hinges and into the stairwell, propelled by a wall of flames. The policeman shoved Stan past it. “Let’s just book it okay?”
They sprinted down, two steps at a time. An orange glow from above joined the emergency lights to illuminate their way. The sound of clicking and panting behind them reassured Stan that Bloody was okay.
Finally, they reached the door to the parking lot.
Maybe they’d make it after all. If they could just get out in the open, in plain view of the cameras, neither Dalla nor Fox would dare reveal themselves. Dalla for the continued concealment of the undead species; Fox for the good of his career.
When they rounded the building, Stan saw the shanty-town of news vans and police cars across the street. A smile spread itself across his face and he began to laugh. He was going to jail. Thank God, he was going to jail!
“You think something’s funny?” said the policeman, genuine shock in his voice.
A window above them shattered. The policeman just managed to dodge a copper lamp tha
t clanged to the concrete at his feet. He looked at the tenth-floor window with his jaw set in anger.
A pair of hands shot out of the broken window, grasping both edges, then a face appeared between them. Long gray hair framed the old man’s face, which was obscured with a sheet of blood.
“No, don’t jum—” started the policeman, who, for some reason, aimed his gun at the frantic old man. Before he could finish, the man retracted into the building. He wailed as he was pulled back in; the horrible panic in his voice not only grated at Stan’s ears, but triggered something in a nearly-lost corner of his mind.
The old man’s wailing faded.
Bloody had stopped dead in her tracks, with her twitching nose raised to the air. Her eyes met Stan’s, and the dog appeared to nod. Stan frowned and turned his head sideways, confused.
Bloody bolted back toward the door they’d just come out of.
“No! Bloodhound no! What are you doing girl?” screamed Stan.
The policeman roughly turned Stan around. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on, buddy,” he said, leaning forward to speak directly in Stan’s ear, “but you just keep walking. Quick.”
After killing a man and cavorting with monsters, striking a police officer didn’t seem so out-there. Stan jerked his head backwards, driving it into the policeman’s nose. The officer raised his gun as he staggered back, but the broken lamp rolled under his foot. Stan leapt at him before he could regain his balance, and they both crashed to the ground.
Stan rammed his knee into the officer’s crotch. The gun flew from his hand. “I’m sorry for this,” Stan whispered. He struggled to his feet, his arms rendered useless by the handcuffs, then kicked the gun as far away as he could.
The officer tried to stand, but doubled over in pain, grasping his balls.
“You can arrest me later, promise,” said Stan, then he sprinted after Bloody’s bobbing tail, back into the crumbling hotel.
(FIVE)
THIS DIDN’T TURN OUT THE way Morgan hoped it would. Screamin’ people everywhere, a hotel being destroyed, and rumors that Mister Jeffery was killed dead (though that last one wasn’t all bad, if he was being honest). The lobby of the hotel had gone to hell. Police were trying to keep people from leaving, but the people were havin’ no part of that.
Alejandro sauntered to his left, and Howard to his right. He checked the cell phone with the wires in the back, smelling the piney oils that he’d treated the phone with. With the wireless data from the protection array on the truck outside and the signal being picked up by the oil, he whipped up some software that would calculate the difference between the two distances and give him a hotter/colder idea of where the threat was located.
Vampire tracking: there’s an app for that.
He bobbed the phone up and down. “Up,” he said.
“Obvious,” said Alejandro. “What floor?”
“Won’t know ’til we get closer.”
A police officer approached them, hand on her gun.
“Stay where you are. Stand right here. Nobody moves.”
Alejandro continued to swish past her toward the elevators. Morgan looked at Howard. The two of them shrugged, then followed Alejandro.
“Don’t move!” shouted the policewoman, unholstering her gun.
Suddenly, Alejandro took the officer’s wrist in his hand. Her face contorted and steam rose from where he touched her. She dropped the gun. Alejandro kicked it away.
“Fetch,” he said, his unidentifiable accent making it sound like fitch.
Yeah, this definitely didn’t turn out how Morgan had wanted. A rumble from above sent dust sprinkling down from the ceiling and affirmated his discomfort.
“I need a drink,” said Howard. “Seriously. Why we doing this? Mister Fox has gone off the deep end. Even I can see that.”
Alejandro’s slit-like eyes looked Howard up and down. “Go. We don’t need you.”
Howard grunted. “Fine,” he said, then headed for the bar.
Morgan went to follow.
“No,” said Alejandro, squeezing his arm. “You come.”
“He’s right for once,” said Morgan. “Fox ain’t thinkin’ right any more. And we both know what the threat we’re goin’ to flush out actually is. You and me don’t stand a chance against that.”
“You are half right,” said Alejandro, shoving Morgan into the elevator.
It’d become obvious that Fox and his cronies would turn on Morgan sooner or later, but he’d hoped it would be later. Or that Alejandro’s loyalty to Fox would crumble before the hotel did.
“Which floor?” asked Alejandro.
“Dunno.” Morgan checked the cell phone. “Press the top one, I’ll tell you when to stop. We won’t know until we’re there.”
“Useless,” hissed Alejandro, mashing the top floor’s button.
The number on the cell phone got lower, lower, lower. Low enough. “Stop,” said Morgan. “We’re close. Try this next floor, ten.”
He was shoved into a dark hallway. Were those bodies on the floor? He tried left, but the number got larger. Right it was.
One step at a time, he followed the cell phone down the hallway. He held it to each door to see if the number got larger or smaller. It was barely moving now.
It went down one.
They got to the end of the hallway. He bobbed the phone up and down. “Up, I think,” he said. “Wrong floor.”
Alejandro grabbed his arm and shoved him around, back toward the elevators. Morgan shook with the effort of keeping himself from turning and slugging that filthy little moustache right off the scumbag’s face.
He checked the phone. Below the main number was the second one: the output from the addition he’d stuck to the back of the array. The one Fox didn’t know about. The second number began to drop.
The target was moving. Getting away from the hotel. Escaping. Fuck. If Fox turned on him, he’d lose the array, and never have the resources to make another one. This could be his last chance to use it for the purpose he really built it for.
“Hmm, look at that,” he said. “Looks like she’s moved down. She’s outside.”
Alejandro grabbed the phone. “False. I can see the reading as well as you. You do not want to lie to me.”
“No, no, lemme show ya,” said Morgan, grabbing the phone from him. He clicked the top button, putting the phone in sleep mode.
Alejandro grabbed it back. He clicked the phone on. Passcode required.
He sighed. “You have made a mistake.”
Morgan’s arm screamed in pain when Alejandro grabbed it and tossed him through an open door, into one of the hotel rooms. The robed man bore down on him. He tried to stumble away, but there was nowhere to go. Alejandro shoved him forward; he hit a nightstand, which toppled and broke the window behind it. A copper lamp fell from the nightstand and tumbled ten stories to the ground.
Alejandro gripped the back of Morgan’s shirt and shoved his head through the window, cutting his forehead on the remaining glass. Blood poured into his eyes.
“Tell me the passcode.”
He wrenched Morgan back into the room, tossing him to the floor.
Morgan wailed with pain, then gathered himself. “No can do,” he said.
Alejandro removed a knife from a fold in his many-layered cloak. A spotlight momentarily shone through the window, and Morgan recognized, with a surge of terror, that it was the same knife—or at least one identical to—the one he had seen Fox brandish in the basement when he had overheard Fox conspiring with the rest of these freaks.
“Tell me the passcode, or I start to,” he closed his eyes as if recalling a pleasant memory. “Mmm, I start to prod you for information. You understand? Prod? I think I will start with your eyeballs.”
Morgan shivered. He did not like the pleasure in Alejandro’s voice, nor the nasty little bend at the tip of that knife.
19. Falling Action
IN THE MINUTE HE’D BEEN outside, the hotel had become a war zone, though who
was fighting whom seemed to be a source of confusion.
The ominous rumbling of fire told Stan to avoid the stairwell, so he went straight through to the first floor. At the hotel bar, a policeman wrestled with a kid who looked no older than 15 and wielded a steel milk saucer as a weapon. The policeman took a clanging blow to the head before coming down hard on the kid.
At the bar itself, a wide man with close-cropped hair and close-set eyes swirled a glass of amber drink as he watched the fight. After a moment, he turned and asked the bartender where she was from.
There was no sign of Bloody.
Stan jogged past the bar and into the lobby. A group of people hurried past him, some of them holding blood-soaked towels and T-shirts to various parts of their bodies. He opened his mouth to ask one of them if they’d seen a dog, when he heard barking from behind them.
The elevators appeared to be working again. A man stood there scratching his head, mashing the down button. He looked at Stan, took a breath as if he was about to speak, then stopped.
“What happened?” asked Stan.
“I think—um, I think a dog just kicked me out of the elevator.”
“Up or down?”
“I was gonna check the lower level for my wife, and this little dog, it came and started barking at me, and I swear it jumped and hit the button for the tenth floor.”
“Up then,” said Stan, pressing the button.
The two of them got into the elevator when it arrived.
“Ain’t that just the strangest thing you ever heard? A dog using an elevator?” asked the man.
“Buddy, I’ve seen stranger things in the last five minutes.” Stan nodded at the man, who got off the elevator stumbling with confusion.
Darkness met Stan when the door opened on the tenth floor. Only the emergency lights were operational, casting long shadows on abandoned suitcases that littered the floor. Still no dog in sight.
He stepped off the elevator. The hall was quiet, with only a muffled, rhythmic thumping from another floor. He stepped over a duffle bag, looking down to avoid tripping over anything else.