(A sample from Crawlspace.)
© 2009 asotir.
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License.
TWO WEEKS AGO
The Man in the Motel
WATER was swirling down a white porcelain sink. Drops of red blood were spilling down the drain. The movement seemed oddly distorted, unnatural.
A moth was fluttering around a bare bulb on the wall, beating against it.
In the sink, two hands were washing themselves of blood. The hands were a man’s hands, the fingers long and dancing with an odd rapidity, a delicacy, a precision. There was something unnatural about the fingers and the way their joints moved.
The hands were reaching for a white towel and drying themselves, leaving bloody stains on the cotton.
The man was leaving the bathroom and moving into the bedroom of a small, cheap motel room. The TV was on; a lamp was burning at the foot of the bed. The man was shaking his hands dry. Young, handsome, flushed. But there was something about his eyes.
They weren’t quite sane. Not quite human.
A woman’s body was lying on the bed. It was naked and mutilated. Half of it had been torn away. The torso seemed crumpled up on itself. Blood was everywhere.
From somewhere else a whistling sound was rising.
The moth was beating its wings against the bulb.
The whistling was growing louder, turning into the scream of a train—
IT STARTED to go dark. The train whistle seemed to blur and dim the picture. For a second he didn’t know who he was or where. Was he the killer in the motel room? Was he the moth dreaming of the killer? Was he the killer dreaming of the moth?
Then something came to him – a word – a name: Tommy. That sounded right. Tommy. His name was Tommy.
And with that knowledge, Tommy lost the dream of the motel room and the killer. It slipped off a cliff in the cold, wide dark, and tumbled down like a bright window, smaller and farther until it was gone.
It felt like he was sitting somewhere. Somewhere cold. He smelled cigarette smoke. He heard the sound of traffic. It felt like he was leaning against something hard.
I’ll open my eyes in a second, he thought. I’ll wake up and look around and find out where I am.
TOMMY opened his eyes.
The train whistle shifted and died into the distance. He found he was sitting in the rear seat of a van. The van was the fifteen-year-old Dodge mini-van that they were using out here. It was parked at the edge of the street between the train tracks and the town.
At the wheel sat a man in his 20’s, good-looking, well groomed. A real dude. He was the one they all called him Styles. Another man, a man in his 50’s with a strong face, climbed out of the car. They called him the Professor.
The Professor checked his watch. ‘All right. It’s time.’
Another man got out of the van. ‘Right, Professor,’ he said, and walked across the street toward a motel. He was in his 30’s, a fat hairball in ketchup stains. They called him Trickman.
Styles folded his newspaper and stepped out of the van. He headed for the motel coffee shop. Another man, tall, gangly, awkward, 40’s, moved to join Trickman. What did they call him? Oh yeah, Papers.
Tommy slid over and got out behind Papers. In the van’s window he could see his reflection, dark and distorted, but clear enough to tell he was skinny and about 15 years old. That felt right too.
The Professor gave him a look. ‘Watch the car, Tommy. We’ll call you when we’re ready.’
The Professor joined Papers and Trickman. They moved together like a veteran commando unit. Tommy slumped back against the van and watched them go.
Even from across the street, he could smell the stink. And he was starting to feel it again, too, the prickling all up and down his skin.
The motel across the street must be the one from his dream. The killer must be in one of those rooms.
Papers joined Trickman at the door to room No. 6.
Tommy looked back to the coffee shop. Through the shop windows he saw Styles walk in and sit on a stool by the pay phone and the door. That way nobody could come in or get out without going by him.
Outside Room No. 6, Trickman pulled a long metal blade from his coat. He slipped the bar into the door jamb.
The Professor moved between cars.
Tommy felt restless. The stink and the prickling wouldn’t let him alone. He paced by the van. ‘Watch the car, Tommy,’ he told himself. ‘Just watch the car. You’re just a kid. So just watch the car.’
He looked back. Trickman was working the metal blade. Suddenly gunfire blasted from inside No. 6. Papers and Trickman ducked and the door smashed open. The Man in the Motel kicked the door aside and fired shots all over the place and scuttled with unbelievable speed into his car. The car fired up burned rubber and screeched off.
By the door Trickman and Papers recovered. They signaled they were okay.
The Professor gestured from the sidewalk. ‘Tommy!’
‘Coming.’
INSIDE THE DINER, the customers crowded by the window, pointing.
One said, ‘Holy Jesus, what the heck was that?’
‘It isn’t my room is it?’
From a third, ‘Gang stuff. I thought all that gang stuff only happened in Los Angeles.’
‘My room’s at the end. It isn’t my room is it?’
‘It’s not just LA. Believe me, lady, I heard stories. It’s all over. Something weird’s been going on.’
‘It’s only the depression, people losing their heads, is all.’
‘No. Worse than that. I heard stories. I told you.’
The first one shook his head. ‘What the heck is going on out there?’
Styles stood beside the old pay phone and watched them.
He moved outside and looked up and down the street.
TOMMY reached the kicked-open door to room No. 6 and peeked inside.
Trickman and Papers were searching the room.
Papers said, ‘There’s some, some here, Trickman.’
Trickman frowned. ‘No, Papers – not enough of it—’
Tommy pulled back from the door. The sight was gruesome but it wasn’t the blood or the corpse that upset him. It was the smell – the strange, sickening stench that only he could smell. The prickling grew worse, like a thousand ants crawling and stinging under his skin, with a flush like heat, making him sweat. It was always like this when he was close to where something like the young man had been. Sometimes lately it was getting too much for him. He felt like he was about to puke, like his stomach was about to turn inside-out.
He took hold on the door jamb and forced himself back. The other guys on the Team were absorbed in their search. Not even the Professor glanced back at Tommy. Tommy hung onto the door jamb and made himself look inside the room. His skin was on fire and the stink almost made him pass out.
The woman’s dead body stared at the ceiling. The Professor pulled a bloody sheet to cover her. He checked his watch. ‘Two minutes. Another three before the police are going to be here. We need a smear, Papers!’
‘It’s too cuh, clean. This one was care, careful.’
Trickman growled. ‘Fucking Crawlers!’
The Professor’s cellphone chirped. He flipped it to his ear. ‘Styles?’
OUT IN THE LOT, Styles was on his cell, listening. He kept one eye on the customers inside the coffee shop. From far away came the whine of sirens.
‘Professor. They’re on their way.’
THE PROFESSOR glared at his watch. ‘Right. One minute, no more. Come on, guys.’
Trickman rushed about, scattering everything his hands flip through. ‘Okay okay okay okay!’
Papers called out, ‘Something here – under the buh, bed.’
The Professor moved to the bed. ‘Trickman, get the door. Is it enough for a smear, Papers?’
‘Not, not too much.’
‘Okay, Tommy?’
Trickman stood to at the door. He slid his hand inside his coat.
Tommy shook his head. The sweat was in his eyes, stinging. But somehow he could stand it better now. He unbuttoned his shirt. ‘I’m ready, Professor.’
Papers emerged from under the bed holding a slide. There was a strange, sticky Jelly on it. The Jelly was grayish-green. It didn’t look healthy. The Professor snapped open a leather pocket case and took out a modified hypodermic needle.
Papers scraped the Jelly into the needle.
The Professor said, ‘Almost out of time.’ He diluted the Jelly with some cloudy liquid from a vial he took from the leather case.
Tommy gritted his teeth. This was the bad part. As bad as the rest of it was, this was always the worst. He looked into the Professor’s eyes. He nodded. ‘Give it to me.’
The Professor tightened the needle and a drop of the stuff oozed from the tip. He swabbed Tommy’s bare chest and jabbed the needle in. Tommy’s teeth locked – his eyes shut – his head snapped back—
The voice of the Professor came to him from far away: ‘Dose twenty-three,’ it said. Then Papers said something Tommy couldn’t catch.
TOMMY wasn’t in the motel anymore. He was … somewhere else. Green black orange red flashed all around him, hot cold ice grease cascaded over his body. Then a sort of order emerged.
Streetlights – telephone poles – moonlight – a RIVER—
OUTSIDE THE MOTEL, two Police cruisers screeched to a halt.
Styles strolled away from the coffee shop. He crossed the street to the van.
Two cops, guns drawn, converged on the motel. The motel manager was standing in front of the office. He was in his pajamas, about 50, balding, fat. He gestured.
‘It was over there – room six!’
Styles slipped into the Dodge. He eased her into gear and pulled around back of the motel.
THE PROFESSOR held Tommy in his arms. Tommy was rigid, shaking, in a seizure.
The Professor said, ‘Tommy! Tommy, can you hear me? Do you have enough? Did you get a Trace? Is it all right?’
Trickman looked back from the door. ‘Getting kind of hot outside, Professor.’
Papers said, ‘Got to go—’
‘Not without Tommy!’ the Professor snapped.
He pulled the needle out of Tommy’s skin, leaving a small red wound. Tommy collapsed in the Professor’s arms.
Trickman eased back from the door. He drew a gun out of his coat.
‘They’re here,’ he said gently.
THE COPS converged on the door to No 6, guns ready. They signaled each other – moved forward – barged into Room No. 6—
But it was empty.
IN THE ALLEY behind the motel, Trickman squeezed his huge haunches out through the bathroom window. He grunted and swore.
‘Blasted – tiny – motel – windows – ugh!’
He gave a last twist and fell with a grunt from the window. He piled into the front of the Dodge and Styles gunned it as the cops’ faces appeared in the bathroom window.
