Undead L.A. 1

by Sagliani, Devan

  He'd gotten used to staying just off campus at the Airport Radisson. It was cheap and they treated him well enough. He wasn't looking for any kind of luxury, but for what he paid he thought he got a pretty good deal. They usually gave him a room with a view of Century Boulevard, but since it was late when he got in, the only room they had available was one that faced the parking lot in back.

  “I'll take it,” he said to the slightly overweight blonde girl with the perky attitude at the front counter. “I just need to lie down now.”

  “One key or two?” He wasn't sure what she meant. Was her eyebrow arching an invitation to something more intimate? The idea made him want to laugh. He'd already passed up the chance to have sex with a beautiful woman earlier and was starting to regret it. He held up his ring finger to show off his wedding band as if that was some universal sign of fidelity. He'd started cheating on his wife three years into the marriage when they'd discovered she was unable to have kids, and if he wanted them they would have to adopt or hire a surrogate. He'd gone as far as suggesting they ask her sister before giving up. A week later he slept with his first flight attendant in a cheap hotel in Tokyo. He'd felt guilty about it for months, but it didn't stop him from doing it again and again. Now he didn't feel anything at all except fatigue and the urge to lie down and never get up again.

  “Just the one key,” he said with a smirk.

  The girl flushed as she finished his paperwork and sent him on his way. The first thing he did when he got in the room was strip naked. He hated the restrictive feeling of clothes, especially after a long flight. Next he ran a hot shower, and used the bathroom once more. He shaved before he showered. He plugged in his iPod. He laid out his uniform for the next day. He set up everything so he could rise and get moving quickly. Keys went on the end of the counter along with his watch, with the alarm set. He no longer trusted the digital clocks in the hotels. He couldn't afford to be late or to oversleep. He was expected to report to operations an hour and a half before departure so he could meet the other pilots and review the flight plans, even though he didn't make a dime until the wheels came off the tarmac. They'd also check the maintenance history and go over the weather forecasts for the day.

  He arranged the complimentary coffee packet and his liquid vitamin shot next to the one-cup brewer at the hotel. The last thing he did was set his pilot's license, airline identification, and security badge on top of his uniform where he couldn't miss it.

  You don't want to be the guy who ends up sleeping in the terminal or in the crew room, he thought, because you forgot your passport.

  He held up the tiny pill Sandra had given him to help him sleep. He thought about her out there just off the end of runway 25L, sleeping with the rest of the pilots in their recreational vehicles in their employee parking lot. After putting in grueling shifts – often working more than several days in a row – these poor souls would recover and decompress before the long flight back to their homes and families in places like New Jersey, Texas, and Florida.

  LAX Ghetto, Edgar thought to himself, that's what the papers called it.

  Since 2005 the quiet community had grown to include mechanics and flight attendants like Sandra. Her husband back in Waco had insisted that she get the used RV to sleep off long hauls overseas before hitching a ride on a competitor’s airline back home to him and her three kids. What he hadn't anticipated at the time was that Sandra would use it as a crash pad to hook up with the lonely pilots she harbored crushes on, guys like Edgar who had long since given up on working out their dysfunctional marriages and were resolved to simply let the state of their emotional lives atrophy until they were beyond repair. Edgar had shared more than one sleepless night in that tiny, cramped RV listening to Kenny Rogers on cassette and trying on different condoms until he found one that didn't completely kill all the feeling. They'd go until they both passed out, generally for two or three hours depending on how drunk Sandra was or when his caffeine buzz would burn out.

  The whole place stinks like fake roses, he thought to himself. It's like the upholstery was soaked in the cheap shit spray they sell at the dollar store for your bathroom.

  Still he'd been there more times than he could count on both hands. His mind drifted back to those intimate moments, the way her tiny hands softly traced invisible lines between the freckles of his chest, the heat of her breath, the impossible wetness that always invited him in. She'd wanted him to stay the night despite his quick turn around, but he knew he couldn't. His spirit was willing but his flesh…well…it just wasn't performing with the same youthful vigor for which he was once proud. The truth was that he just didn't have it in him anymore to drink and screw all night, no matter how exciting it was to fall asleep with a beautiful woman who wasn't his wife.

  “I used to be able to go all night, then pop up and work four days straight like it was nothing,” he reminisced. “What happened to that guy? I miss those days.”

  He was no longer a young man, and every passing day served to remind him of that fact. Everything from the graying hairs at his temples to his utter exhaustion to his flagging libido only reminded him that he was no longer in his prime, no longer thriving and growing, but slowly being diminished by the ravages of time. He'd seen countless commercials for low testosterone on television by this point and they had started to make him wonder about his own failing chemistry. To make matters worse he'd had more than a little trouble performing the last time he'd stayed in the RV with Sandra. He'd even considered scheduling an appointment with his doctor to ask about it. He wasn't very good at following through with things like that though. That was his wife's job and since they were most definitely heading in two different directions now, little things like check-up's were falling by the wayside more and more. In fact it had been over a year since he'd been to the dentist as well.

  “Just one more night,” Sandra pleaded when they got off the London flight. “I need you. I'm heading back home in a couple of days. I'm not sure when I'm coming back. It's complicated.”

  Edgar sighed. It was always complicated with Sandra. She'd threatened to break it off before as well. He stared at the shiny metal buttons that gleamed in the sea of bright blue on her uniform, searching for the right way to say what he had to say. The last thing he wanted was to push her away. He just needed the sleep.

  “It's not you,” he said at last. “I'm just tired is all. I'm flying first and I've got almost no turn around. I'm just praying I can sleep.”

  “That's too bad,” she said, a hardness creeping into her voice as the wall came back up and the soft, delicate creature he'd grown so fond of retreated somewhere back behind it.

  She thinks you're losing interest in her sexually, a voice in the back of his head screamed. He didn't want their sessions to end but something told him that, like everything else, it was inevitable.

  Everything falls apart, he thought. It's just a matter of time.

  “Please don't,” he said, grabbing her gently by the shoulders and turning her back toward him. “I want you so much right now I can barely see straight. I'm just tired that's all. Blame it on the FAA. Blame it on the airline. Hell, blame it on the Grouch if you want or one of the other prick ATC's. Just don't blame it on that smoking hot body of yours. Okay?”

  She looked up with wet eyes that held back tears. He thought about the confession she'd made the last time they'd woken up together, that she couldn't sleep right unless someone else was there with her, that she was deathly afraid of being alone.

  “Do you believe me?”

  “I believe you,” she whispered.

  “Good,” he said, letting her go. He felt embarrassed by his sudden show of emotion. He was usually in complete control of himself at work. He nervously glanced around to be sure no one was watching them. People streamed past them with almost no regard. The only person interested was a curious child of no more than two who was wound between his mother’s legs. He had his fingers in his mouth and openly gawked at them.

  �
��Take this,” she said, holding up the sleeping pill. “You'll be asleep before your head hits the pillow.”

  “How does it work? I don't want to be hung over tomorrow.”

  “It burns off before you wake up,” she said. “I promise. Tomorrow morning you'll wake refreshed and feeling like a new man in a new world. I promise.”

  He took the pill from her and she kissed him on the mouth, pulling back and staring into his eyes.

  “Take good care of yourself until I see you again,” she whispered.

  “You try to stay out of trouble,” he said. “Be safe.”

  She turned and left without another word.

  I wonder who she'll end up with tonight, Edgar thought darkly, knowing with a kind of painful certainty that she would not go to bed alone. He thought of the other pilots out there, the quiet community that had sprung up of cheaters and other lonely souls. He was surprised to realize he didn't know most of them, other than casually, and didn't care to know them. He'd been embarrassed when he'd passed them on the way to her RV while they'd waved and said hello with big smiles. It wasn't what he was doing that left him feeling less than friendly with her neighbors. Far from it. It was because he knew they probably took turns with Sandra when he wasn't around. Behind every one of those big smiles was a secret. As they waved to him they were laughing that they'd had her last, that she was an easy lay, low hanging fruit. Edgar never was one to willingly share his toys. Surely there was a long line to get to that RV and hear 'The Gambler' while she worked her magic.

  Back in the day, women like her were hanged for being witches, he thought with a smirk, by the very men they shared their beds with.

  He popped the pill into his mouth and washed it down with a handful of cupped water from the faucet. It tasted heavy and metallic, as if it was flavored by the dirty pipes that carried it. He winced as he choked it down, then relaxed on the bed until dark waves of sleep took him under. He didn't know if it was the long flight or the frustration of knowing that some other man would be enjoying the sexual ministrations of his favorite flight attendant, but he was out in less than fifteen minutes. In the back of his head he could still hear the country music he hated but had grown to associate with her and that pungent love shack on wheels. One lyric kept repeating as he passed out, his mind finally letting go of everything and surrendering to the chaos of the unknown.

  Know when to walk away…and know when to run.

  He awoke to the sound of his alarm going off. It had been loudly beeping for over ten minutes. The power in the room was out. The alarm clock provided by the hotel was digital. It sat blank and useless, giving him no indication of when the juice went out. He tried the television, but it was dead too. He threw the remote in frustration. It was already getting hot. The AC unit was turned off. He fiddled with the knob, but nothing happened.

  “This is exactly why I depend on my own alarm,” he said to the empty room. Outside in the hallway he heard a loud groan, which he mistook for another tired traveler violently protesting the coming day.

  “Right there with ya, buddy!” He shouted at the door but didn't get a response. He walked into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. It was cold from both faucets.

  “What the fuck is going on? Whole damn world is gone to shit.”

  He walked back into the room and began to dress. Back in London, he could splash on some cologne and take a hot shower. He had a spot he preferred not far from Heathrow's sprawling grounds, a five-minute ride by cab. They always knew just how to treat him there. He enjoyed everything about the United Kingdom better these days. Hell, even the cabs were nicer!

  Maybe I should just give up and move there. After all, it's not like my wife would notice.

  He hadn't talked to Theresa in over a week, but she was never far from his mind. He just didn't know what to do about her anymore. He realized that he should have called her when he landed and explained the change in his work schedule. She'd be expecting him later in the day. He picked up his cell phone and saw that it had no signal. The battery was low too, despite being plugged in all night, because of the power outage. Instinctively he grabbed his iPod. Anger coursed through him as he saw it, too, was almost completely drained now. Listening to his own mix before take off was also one of his rituals, on the rare occasions he flew first. He'd made a fast paced rock mix to get him pumped up for the first leg of the trip. Then later, when it was time for another pilot to relieve him, he'd listen to the chanting of Tibetan monks as he fell asleep. Now all that was out the window.

  “Looks like the day is going to be a total loss,” he grumbled. He picked up the phone to call downstairs and complain, but the line was dead.

  “Guess I won't be talking to Theresa today after all,” he said. He reached over and picked up his complimentary bag of morning coffee. He stared from his hand to the one-cup brewer like a caveman trying to figure out how to use a computer. Slowly the realization dawned on him that he would not be enjoying a fresh cup of piping hot coffee to start his day.

  “Great,” he said aloud to the empty room, his frustration growing. “Just great. No shower. No cell service. No morning news. No iPod, and now no coffee. This is just perfect. Looks like it's going to be a great fucking day.”

  He threw the coffee bag hard against the wall. It opened on impact, spraying fragrant grounds across the bed and nightstand.

  *** *** ***

  Edgar never bothered to check out. It was a habit he'd gotten into when he was in college that had stuck with him. When he was ready to go, he simply walked out and shut the door behind him. Over the years he'd learned to take the keys with him, in case he left something. Later when the bill came in he'd compare it to his check-in receipts. So far he'd never had a problem with being overcharged. Usually he just breezed past the front door in uniform with his aviator glasses on, and didn't bother to acknowledge the employee working the front desk – if they even spoke to him. But as he stepped out the door that morning he decided it was time to have a quick chat with management about the falling standards, and maybe ask for a discount on his room.

  “They can do better than this,” he said. “A lot better.”

  The hallway was dark. The power was out in the whole building. Edgar wondered if it was just this block or all of Los Angeles. He made his way to the stairs. The emergency lighting was on. He held the rail cautiously as he walked down and exited the Radisson, ending up out in front of the hotel instead of in the lobby as he'd planned. He stepped out into the bright sun with his carryon. The door shut behind him and in the same instant his heart leaped into his throat and his mouth went dry. All around him were signs of total chaos. It looked like some psychotic artist had painted the parking lot and grounds with buckets of human blood and entrails. He looked down next to his foot and saw a woman's hand with her engagement ring still on. It looked like it had been chewed off at the wrist. He turned it over with the polished tip of his shoe, and it fell in the grass near the planter. His eyes wandered from it to what looked like a human rib cage resting in the valet parking next to a blood soaked Cadillac Escalade with the doors left wide open. Edgar slowly walked over to it until he could make out the sound of the car door binging. The keys were still in the ignition. The carcass next to it looked like it had been torn apart by savage beasts with dull teeth. There were bite marks on top of the ripped flesh as well as on some of the intestines drooling out the bottom where the stomach and legs should be. Edgar saw that there was hair growing out of some of the skin, and figured it didn't belong to the woman who had lost her hand.

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  He turned in wide circles. The hotel lobby looked empty, but it too was covered with dark, coagulated blood. There were bloody handprints smeared on the glass windows and doors at the entrance. He turned back to the street and saw in the distance that there were figures moving out onto Century Boulevard. Then he spotted an Asian man limping away at the far end of the parking lot. Without thinking he jogged toward hi
m, doing his best to catch up with the slow moving man in the tattered business suit.

  “Hey,” he called out. The man stopped but did not turn around or reply. “Hey, man! What's going on out here? Are you all right?”

  Edgar could see the street more clearly now. It was filled with abandoned cars; some had smashed into each other and were left behind, others were left idling. In between the cars were what looked like dead people slowly moving around. They were all ages and from all walks of life. Men, women, and children, all races, all dressed differently. Some were missing body parts like arms or legs. Some had huge bloody wounds showing through their tattered clothing. Some had blood pouring from their eyes like tears. All of them had the gray skin associated with long-dead corpses. Edgar thought about an article he'd read in an in-flight magazine about a Zombie Walk in Las Vegas during a horror convention. He thought about the images in the article, but they were nothing like this. Those were happy, smiling faces covered in bright red makeup and hand-torn clothing. This was something else altogether.

  The Asian businessman turned around to face Edgar. It felt like having the wind knocked out of him in slow motion. The whole world seemed to tilt sidewise as his half-eaten face came into full view. Edgar fought back the sudden urge to throw up at the gruesome sight of him. Frayed skin tissue radiated out from where huge chunks of flesh had been ripped clean. There were grooves in the remaining skin that made it look like it had been peeled off or scratched away by dull instruments.

  Like human teeth, Edgar thought, or clawing fingernails.

  In some places, Edgar could see down to the boney material he assumed was part of the man's skull, especially near the temples. The man was grinding his jaw absentmindedly like a drug addict. With each movement Edgar could see deeper into the layers of exposed muscle as a dark red, mucus-like substance leaked out over the remaining flesh. Worst of all were the man’s eyes. There was a jaundiced haze forming over them with evidence of blood in the right eye, partially obscuring the cornea. The pupils themselves were dilated and empty of consciousness, like two wide-angle-lens closed circuit cameras pulling everything around them into some unspeakable void.