Chapter 6
Behind that padlocked door, the wooden steps dropped twelve feet into the subterranean dark.
As Marcus limped behind Arthur, his boots dragging on the thin carpet, a sudden noise rose from the end of the corridor.
*Scraaaape.*
It was the sound of something heavy dragging across raw concrete. Followed by a sharp, hollow *tink-tink-tink*, like a metal buckle striking the side of an iron pipe.
Marcus stopped dead in his tracks.
The hair on his arms stood up. Despite the fever burning behind his eyes, a bolt of icy adrenaline shot down his spine. He raised the .38, bringing it level with the back of Arthur’s yellow sweater.
"Hold it," Marcus whispered, the command sharp as broken glass.
Arthur froze mid-step, his shoulders hitching toward his ears. "S-sir?"
"Listen."
They stood in the dim corridor, illuminated only by the faint amber spill from the lobby behind them. The blizzard outside threw a rhythmic rattle of sleet against the high, narrow transom windows near the ceiling.
Then, from beneath the floorboards near the far door, it came again.
*Thud.*
A dull, muffled impact. A pause. Then two rapid taps.
*Thump. Thump.*
Marcus’s face contorted into a snarl of furious suspicion. He took two long, limping strides forward, shoving Arthur roughly against the paneled wall with his left forearm while keeping the gun leveled down the hall.
"What is that?" Marcus demanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous, feral register. "That's not no damn radiator. Someone’s down there."
"No! No, I told you, it’s the pipes!" Arthur cried, cowering against the wall, his arms shielding his face. "The expansion joints on the hot water return are right under the threshold! When the boiler cycles on, the steam pushes through the air locks—"
"Shut up!" Marcus hissed, stepping toward the padlocked door at the end of the hall.
The padlock was an old, rusted Master Lock, but it wasn't engaged. It hung loosely through the iron hasp, snapped shut around nothing, merely serving as a visual prop. The latch itself was held in place by a simple wooden peg shoved through the staple.
Marcus reached out with his left hand, his fingers hovering inches from the peg.
Beneath the floor, forty inches below the worn runner carpet, lay a sixty-foot cellar lined with reinforced fieldstone. In the center of that cellar, bolted to a steel drainage rack beneath a pair of flickering fluorescent tubes, lay the half-frozen remains of the real motel owner, Mr. Henderson, his chest cavity expertly opened and preserved in clear plastic sheeting. And tied to the support pillar beside him was something else—something Arthur had collected two nights ago when the storm first began to gather.
If Marcus pulled that wooden peg and kicked the door open, the illusion would shatter entirely.
Arthur didn't panic. His heart maintained its steady, sixty-four-beat rhythm. But his performance reached a fever pitch of theatrical terror.
He dropped to his knees on the hallway runner, grabbing the cuffs of Marcus’s filthy jeans with both hands, sobbing openly.
"Please, don't open it! Please, God, don't!" Arthur wailed, burying his face against Marcus’s denim. "The floor collapsed three months ago! The county condemned the whole sub-level! There's black mold, and the septic line ruptured—the fumes will make you sick in two seconds! Mr. Henderson forbade anyone from opening that latch! If you break the seal, the smell will ruin the whole building!"
Marcus looked down at the sniveling wretch clinging to his legs. Arthur’s entire body was vibrating with what appeared to be pure, unadulterated hysteria. Tears were actively dripping onto Marcus’s boots; snot glistened on the boy’s upper lip.
Marcus felt a surge of profound disgust.
He kicked his leg back, dislodging Arthur’s grip. "Get off me, you pathetic little worm!"
"There's nothing down there! Just sewage and rot!" Arthur babied, curling into a fetal ball on the floor, hands covering the back of his neck. "Take my wallet! It’s in the office! There’s forty dollars and a gift card to Denny’s! Take whatever you want, just please don't make me go near that door!"
Marcus glanced back at the heavy latch.
Now that the boy mentioned it, Marcus *did* smell something foul. That sweet, medicinal, rotting odor he had noticed earlier was stronger here at the back of the hall. It smelled like decay masked by chemicals. A ruptured septic line and a dead rat or two in a flooded basement would certainly account for it.
Besides, his ribs were screaming. His head was pounding with a dull, rhythmic throb that matched his heartbeat. The thought of descending into a pitch-black, mold-infested cellar with broken stairs while nursing a gunshot wound was deeply unappealing.
Marcus lowered the gun slightly, sneering down at the crumpled figure in the yellow sweater.
"You really are the most worthless piece of shit I’ve ever laid eyes on," Marcus spat. "Get up. Where’s that coffee?"
Arthur sniffled loudly, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his sweater with a wet, shuddering breath. "I-in the office. Through here. Just to the left."
Arthur scrambled up, keeping his head low, and pushed open the door to the manager’s office.
The room was small, cluttered, and lit by a single desk lamp with a green glass shade. A compact kitchenette occupied the corner: an ancient two-burner electric hot plate, a mini-fridge humming softly, and a battered drip coffee maker. On the desk, beside a stack of yellowed invoices, lay a ring of brass keys.
Marcus spotted the keys instantly.
He shoved past Arthur, his fingers closing around the cold metal ring. "Are these for the truck?"
"N-no, sir. Those are room keys," Arthur said softly, standing beside the hot plate, his hands clasped nervously in front of his stomach. "Master keys for the outer units. Rooms one through twelve. The car keys... my Honda keys... are in my jacket pocket in the lobby closet."
Marcus tossed the brass ring onto the desk with an angry clatter. "Useless."
He pulled out the desk chair and collapsed into it, groaning as the vinyl creaked beneath his weight. He rested his right elbow on the desk, the revolver pointed loosely in Arthur’s general direction.
"Make the coffee," Marcus ordered. "Black. Three sugars. And find something to eat."
Arthur moved with deliberate, timid compliance. He poured water from a plastic jug into the reservoir, scooped dark grounds into the paper filter, and flipped the switch. The machine began to gurgle and hiss, sending the rich, bitter aroma of roasted beans into the air, temporarily masking the chemical tang that lingered in the room.
From a small cupboard above the sink, Arthur retrieved a tin of canned peaches and an old church-key opener.
"Sir?" Arthur asked tentatively, his back half-turned.
"What?"
"If... if you’re waiting for the storm to pass... you should know about the county plows."
Marcus’s head snapped up, his bloodshot eyes narrowing. "What about 'em?"
Arthur set the opened tin of peaches on the desk, along with a plastic spoon. He kept his eyes cast downward, speaking in a hesitant, deferential whisper.
"The maintenance depot is down at Mile Marker 9, near the gorge bridge. When a storm drops more than eight inches, the state highway department runs the heavy rotary plow on a fixed schedule. They always make the first pass up Dunridge Pass at six o’clock in the morning."
