Jack and Mr. Grin (14 page)

He got up from her, before she could wonder about why he was straddling her.

“I gotta go,” Jack said.

He began backing away from her, still scanning all around the woods.

Gina had said Mr. Grin would be coming after him but did that mean the man himself would seek him out or did it mean he would be sending the branded after him?

Donna stood up, still dazed, and began drifting back to the freight car. He figured she would make it home eventually. Looking down at the twisted piece of skin in his hand, he realized he didn’t need another one and dropped it on the ground. Then he stopped, bent down, and picked it back up. He didn’t know why. Routine, he supposed. He stuck it in his right pants pocket with the other brands.

Twenty-four

Dusk deepened into night. He continued to wander, lost, through the Wilds.

How big were they? he wondered. How long did they go on?

Things were not right, had not been right for a very long time, and it was easy for him to imagine the Wilds continuing forever. From now until his death. He refused to see that his death was something inevitable, trying to ignore the pain from the buckshot in his legs and the bullet in his stomach. He felt around on his back to see if he could feel an exit wound but he didn’t. He imagined the bullet sitting in there. At times, he thought he could even feel it. He coughed and spat mucous into his hand, checking for blood. He’d always thought that was serious, when blood came from areas it normally shouldn’t.

The air was cooling down again. A mist swirled through the woods. They were impossibly dark. No streetlights or lights from passing cars. No warm glows from the windows of houses. He missed the light. He searched desperately for the light, any light, keeping his ears open for sound. At this point, he thoroughly expected to be attacked by just about anyone. Nothing was outside his sphere of paranoia. Luckily, he had Donna’s gun. Jack didn’t know guns but he figured it was a .22 revolver. Since he had been hit by one of its bullets, he hoped it was only a .22. Those, he thought, were the least lethal. Checking the cylinder, he saw that it did indeed have three bullets left. It was amazing he even knew how to do this. Sometimes watching movies paid off.

Time was running out. He would not hesitate shooting anyone. He probably wouldn’t hit them if he shot at them anyway. As long as he didn’t hit them in the heart or the brain they probably wouldn’t die. Just look at
him
. He was limping along just fine after taking a shot.

He pulled his phone out to check it and noticed it was now dead.

His heart sank, but a part of him was grateful the battery had lasted this long. It was nearly dead this morning. Jack was woefully neglectful about charging it. But that meant all contact was severed until he found Mr. Grin and Gina.

Or until Mr. Grin found him.

He thought again about Mr. Grin coming for him. That made a strange sort of sense. If Mr. Grin could catch him before he made it to Gina, even if Jack managed to take him out, there was no guarantee he would find Gina. If she were even still alive.

He didn’t want to think about that but he had to. He was dealing with a complete and total psycho. Not just any complete and total psycho, either. One who was gifted with something like supernatural powers. To think Mr. Grin would even come close to losing this battle was something Jack didn’t think was possible.

His mind felt fevered.

His stomach burned.

His legs were rubber. He felt like he could collapse at any minute.

But up ahead...

Yes, up ahead, he could see a light. Something that could very easily be a sign for a motel. Only, if it was abandoned, why would its sign still light up?

Behind him, he heard shuffling noises.

He turned around to look in that direction and, in the wan moonlight, he saw them.

All of them.

Everyone he thought might become branded. They were all right there behind him. Joey. The woman in front of him at the cafe. The bus driver. The old lady on the bus. Amber, Tim’s teen bimbo. And, of course, Tim himself.

Jack aimed the gun at them.

What would it help?

He was outnumbered. If he actually managed to hit any of them, which he highly doubted he could, one of them would still be on him.

He didn’t have time to think.

He didn’t have time to stand here and take them on individually or as a group. He had no particular desire to hurt any of them.

So he ran.

He ran toward the light he thought he had seen.

His legs protested but they moved. His stomach burned and twisted in pain. Running, he imagined the bullet in there, jostling all around, a little metal virus. His lungs groped for air and, all the while, he could hear that mob behind him, coming closer and closer.

The Wilds began to clear a little bit and Jack could see the light ahead of him was coming from what
had
to be the motel. It didn’t come from the sign like he had originally thought. It looked like it came from the lobby. As he sped closer, he could see there
was
a sign, standing in the middle of the parking lot, but it was not lighted. Although, it looked like it had been at one time. The letters were blackened, the whole sign looked like it was covered in soot. It announced itself, in a font no longer used on signs, as the Hotel Eternity.

Jack’s feet smacked the asphalt as the bus driver opened fire. He saw sparks from the corner of his eye. Waited for the bite of another shot. Felt the cool, slightly slimy steel of the lobby door’s handle. Pulled the door open. And stepped into another world.

Twenty-five

The lobby was cool and brightly lighted. Jack half-expected the mob following him to come charging through the door or shoot until the glass shattered.

He wondered how the door still had any glass in it at all. The windows were the first thing to go on any abandoned building. Especially one out in the middle of nowhere that had been abandoned for as long as this place.

He could see them out there, standing around in a lame half-circle, looking at one another. They grunted and snarled and for a horrifying moment, Jack thought they were going to rip each
other
apart. And found himself wanting exactly that to happen. If they did that it meant he didn’t have to deal with them anymore.

But they didn’t.

The bus driver pushed his hat back on his head and reached out with his right hand to touch the brand on the cafe lady’s arm. Then he pulled it off. She did the same for him. Joey pulled off the old lady’s brand and she returned the favor. Tim Fox and Amber removed each other’s brands, like some sadomasochistic form of foreplay.

All of them holding a disgusting tab of skin in their fingertips, they approached the door of the lobby and placed the brands on the cement in front of it. Then they drifted back toward the Wilds.

Jack stood there, sick and sweaty, marveling at what had just happened.

He fought the urge to vomit or pass out.

“May I help you?” a voice said from behind him. Jack knew from the voice that it wasn’t Mr. Grin.

He turned and a man stood behind the counter in the lobby.

Looking around the lobby, Jack thought the Hotel Eternity did not look abandoned at all. A little outdated maybe but it looked like a finely restored vintage room rather than some abandoned place. He was not at all surprised to find something he had not expected.

Jack approached the counter.

“I’m trying to find Gina,” he said. “Do you know where she is?”

The clerk was a thin man, wearing a dark red shirt and brown tie. His hair was close-cropped, his eyes a hypnotic blue. The corner of his mouth twitched in a feeble attempt at a smile.

“Do you have something for me?” the clerk said. He had a name tag and Jack read, half-amused, the name ‘Mr. Thick.’

“What do you mean... like money?”

“Something like that.”

“I don’t have any money. And I don’t have time to play games. Look... I’m in a very serious situation here... Maybe you can help me out, huh? Do you have anyone staying here?”

“More people than we can count.”

“Have you seen anyone come through here who looks like, I don’t know, a portly guy who smiles a lot?”

“I can’t help you without some form of offering.”

Mr. Thick’s upper lip again twitched slightly, as though he was trying to stifle a laugh and Jack thought he saw a faint...
flicker
run through the man. Like a line going down the TV when the cable’s getting ready to go out.

Jack pulled out his cell phone and put it on the counter. Mr. Thick quickly slapped it away, sending it thumping onto the floor.

“Vulgar things,” he said, smoothing the front of his fitted shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “That’s all I have.”

“Then I cannot help you.”

Mr. Thick turned and Jack saw another one of those strange ripples course over his body.

“Wait!” Jack said. He reached into his other pocket and pulled out the three brands, laying them out on the counter.

Mr. Thick looked down his long nose at the hunks of bloody, some hairy, flesh.

“That is not nearly enough,” he said.

“Hold on,” Jack said.

He crossed the lobby to the front door. Opening the door, he bent down, his stomach screaming, and picked up the six brands placed there.

“How ‘bout now?” he said, putting those on the counter.

“I may be able to help you.”

“Great,” Jack said.

“But you’ll have to help me get this laundry to the back.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

Mr. Thick ducked down behind the counter and came back up. “I can’t lift it by myself,” he said.

Jack went around behind the counter, looking down at the huge white canvas laundry bag.

“Where you going with it?” he asked.

“Just to the back room there.”

“I’m not in the best condition right now.”

“I don’t really need your brawn. It’s just... awkward is all.”

Together they bent down and hoisted up the heavy laundry bag. Jack thought his insides were going to squeeze out through the bullet wound but the fact this man may be able to help him eased the pain somewhat. They carried the laundry bag through a door and into a room containing a heavy mahogany desk and some gray filing cabinets and not much of anything else.

“On the desk is fine,” Mr. Thick said.

With a final heave, they placed the bag on the desk.

Mr. Thick smoothed his greasy, thinning hair back onto his scalp and said, “Guests really shouldn’t be in the office.”

Jack stared at him. Mr. Thick stared back. Apparently, he wasn’t going to move until Jack went back to the other side of the counter. Jack crossed back over to the other side of the counter, leaning against it for support. Mr. Thick came out of the office and cast a suspicious, sweeping glance around it before shutting the door and turning back to Jack. He again smoothed his shirt, at least as outdated as this lobby. He cleared his throat and said:

“The man you’re looking for is not who you think he is. He smiles because he’s out of his skin. Try looking in the Utility Shed.”

And then Mr. Thick was gone. As though he had never been there to begin with. Jack looked down at the counter, expecting to see that Mr. Thick had taken the brands, and saw nine keys instead. Keys for the rooms, of course, Jack thought.

He felt closer to Gina than he had since staring at her underwear clad bottom that morning.

He gathered up the keys and put them in his pockets.

Twenty-six

He stepped out into the cold night under a sky the color of old milk.

He had keys.

He didn’t know exactly what that meant but the keys were hope. Keys opened doors and Gina might just be behind one of those doors.

He wondered if the motel only had nine rooms or if he would have to be selective about the rooms he entered. But it would all be meaningless if the keys didn’t open the door housing Gina, wouldn’t it? And there was still the possibility she wasn’t here at all. That this was still some part of Mr. Grin’s disturbing game. But he didn’t want to believe that. Despite the incessant moaning of his body, things felt different. They felt better. They had felt better ever since those people had removed their brands and placed them in front of the door. In a way, he felt like that was their way of telling him he had made it. Because they had been sent here to stop him and if they were just giving up then that meant there wasn’t anything to stop, right?

It made sense to Jack.

But again, he wondered if the brands were the work of Mr. Grin or somebody else. In the end, he figured, they had helped him so maybe they weren’t Mr. Grin’s. Of course, if all they did was get him closer to Mr. Grin and, therefore, death, then he supposed that probably wasn’t a lot of help.

The keys were in his left pants pocket. He went to the first door and tried each key. Once a key didn’t work, he placed it in his back pocket. None of the keys opened the first door.