The freezing rain stopped as if someone had switched it off. Clouds rent apart. Max looked for stars in a patch of blackest sky. Void. Smoke tatters closed the gap, hiding the heavens once more. But he knew what was there above him—a nothingness shaped like a great jet eyeball.
To his left, a midnight cellblock concealed its threats.
The motel.
His low chuckle escaped at the name painted on a sign in the dark.
THE RENDEZVOUS . . . WHERE VISITORS ARE ALWAYS WELCOME!
He couldn’t trust his eyes.
He trudged through the snowy lot. A block of ice on wheels was parked in the rear. That’s my camper. It phosphoresced greenly as if it were made of glow-in-the-dark plastic. He was drawn to it, first his eyes, then his footsteps. I have to get inside the camper. The marauders hadn’t touched it. Why not? The tires were full, half buried but full. Snow gathered like the sands of time. He unlocked the driver’s door. Ice crackled as he broke the shell. He climbed in.
Quiet as a crypt.
He drummed his hands on the steering wheel. What now?
He watched as his hands took a set of keys from his pocket. I’m not doing that, he thought, amazed. In an absolute sense, of
course, he was doing it. What he meant was, I may be doing it alright, I’m just not willing it. He tried to stop his fingers from moving around and found he couldn’t. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t feel them. He could. The nerves were working fine—so, too, the muscles, tendons, and bones. The mechanics of him were being set in motion. But his conscious thoughts weren’t at the controls.
The fingers inserted the correct key into the ignition.
They didn’t start the motor. Instead, they fluttered above the dashboard. Rising upward, afloat. Like a schoolboy nervous to ask his question.
Waiting for the next command.
He had to think.
I know I’m not leaving this place. I’m going inside the Rendezvous. I have to make them believe me, convince them to follow me. But what is it I have to tell them and why . .. ?
The fingers were moving again.
They turned the key.
His foot pressed the gas pedal. The motor coughed and came to life, chugging, shaking. He gave her a little more gas. His foot did. She settled down.
He put the camper in gear, tried to rock her out of her icy boots. The tires spun. They sounded like sawmill blades whirring. He smelled burned rubber.
“C’mon, c’mon . ..”
Into reverse. Then first gear. Reverse. Drive forward. Find pavement.
Yes. That’s it. She bumped clear of her rut.
He eased her into the lot, feeling proud. The compacted snow squeaked.
Where to?
Idling outside the motel lobby door, he stared in at the locked apartment door behind the counter. He squinted.
At the Fuel ’N Snacks across the highway, a police cruiser’s gas tank exploded.
A plume of fire, tall as a lodgepole pine, lit the sky.
Peering inside the office, Max saw spikes poking through the drywall around the doorway. Nails. They’re barricaded in .
He pulled the front end around and positioned the VW camper perpendicular to the glassed entrance. Straight ahead of him was the highway. He used the side-view mirrors to line the camper up. Backing until his trailer hitch nudged the doors. Satisfied, he pulled forward allowing for the necessary space to run up, building the momentum he’d need. If the gas tank on the camper ignited, then he’d fry . . .
Act. Don’t think. That was the message he heard in his head. In taking action, he thought less about what he was doing. Forget why.
He became preoccupied with simple execution.
He meant to do this thing right.
Reverse.
His foot clamped down on the brake. He took a deep breath. Checked his seat belt. In his mirrors, he found the glass doors and behind them the apartment entry. Okay, let’s do it.
He lifted his foot off the brake and stomped on the gas.
No trouble finding traction this time. His maneuvering had eaten away a path. The camper lurched backward. He watched the glass doors getting bigger. Then he saw them webbed with whitish cracks. But only for an instant because the glass shattered, flying, and the rear end of the camper lifted, dropped, the counter buckled in two; the motel enveloped his RV, the rooftop peeling off like a can of kippers, ceiling tiles and wires falling, the drawers opening in his tiny kitchenette and dumping knives, forks, spoons, and playing cards, ballpoint pens, a Ziploc bag of chalk, scraps of paper, campsite brochures, maps, bins of food tossed, his spare clothes jumped out of the closet; Max gazed into the mirrors, distracted for a microsecond by his own bloodshot eyes— who am I ?—with a final jolt, the apartment door smashed to splinters.
He jammed on the brake.
He was standing outside the camper. Disoriented. His forehead
hurt. He touched it and his fingertips came away tacky with blood.
Must’ve bit my bead on tbe steering wheel.
He limped to the rear of the camper. The hole caved into the wall. He could see carpeted stairs. He leaned into the hole.
“Vera! Opal! Guys! It’s Max!”
The camper’s motor was still running. Exhaust fumes filled the lobby. His eyes burned. He felt around the small of his back for the Ruger. It was there.
“Can you hear me?” he shouted.
Voices? Were people talking upstairs?