“There?” Eve sounded appalled, and Claire could see why. It wasn’t exactly the Ritz. It wasn’t even as good as that motel in the movie Psycho. It was a little, straight line of cinder-block rooms with a neon sign, a sagging porch, and one big security light for the parking lot.
And the parking lot was empty.
“You can’t be serious,” Eve said. “Guys. People get eaten in places like this. At the very least, we get locked in a room and terrible, evil things get done to us and put on the Internet. I’ve seen the movies.”
“Eve,” Michael said, “horror movies are not documentaries.”
“And yet, I really think a serial killer owns this place. No. Not going to—”
Michael’s phone buzzed. He flipped it open and read the text. “Oliver says to stop here. He’ll join us in about another hour.”
“You are kidding.”
“Hey, you’re the one who had to have the ice cream. Look what kind of trouble we got ourselves into. At least this way we’re safe in a room with a door that locks. And the sign says they have HBO.”
“That stands for Horrible Bloody Ohmygod,” Eve said. “Which is the way they kill you. When you think you’re safe.”
“Eve! ” Claire was starting to get creeped out, too. Eve put her hands up, briefly, then back down to the wheel.
“Fine,” she said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, while we’re all screaming and crying. And I’m sleeping in my clothes. With a stake in both hands.”
“It’s probably not run by vampires.”
“First, you wanna bet?” Eve hit the brakes and put the car in park. “Second, sharp pointy things tend to work on everything else, too. Including cannibals running creepy motels.”
They sat in silence as the engine ticked and cooled, and finally Shane cleared his throat. “Right. So, we’re going in?”
“We could stay in the car.”
“Yeah, that’s safe.”
“At least we can see them coming. And also run.”
Claire sighed and got out of the car, walked into the small office, and hit the bell on the counter. It seemed really, really loud. She heard doors slamming behind her—Shane, Michael, and Eve finally bailing out. The office was actually nicer than the outside of the building, with carpet that was kind of new, comfortable chairs, even a flat-screen TV playing on the wall with the sound turned off. The place smelled like ... warm vanilla.
Out of the back room came an older lady with graying hair tied back in a ponytail. Claire couldn’t imagine anyone looking less like a serial killer, actually—she looked like a classic grandma, even down to the small, round glasses. She was wiping her hands on a dish towel and was wearing an apron over blue jeans and a checked shirt. “Help you, honey?” she asked, and put the towel down. She looked a little nervous as the others came in behind her. “Y’all need a room?”
“Yes ma’am,” Claire said softly. Michael and Shane were doing their best to look like nice boys, and Eve was, well, Eve. Smiling. “Maybe two, if they’re not too expensive?”
“Oh, they’re not expensive,” the lady said, and shook her head. “Ain’t exactly the Hilton, you know. Thirty-five dollars a night, comes with breakfast in the morning. I make biscuits and sausage gravy, and there’s coffee. Some cereal. Ain’t fancy, but it’s good food.”
Michael stepped up, signed the book, and counted out cash. She read the register upside down. “Glass? You from around here?”
“No ma’am,” he said. “We’re just passing through. Heading for Dallas.”
“What the hell possessed you to come all the way out here?” she asked. “Never mind; glad you did. Fresh sheets and towels in the rooms, soaps, some complimentary shampoo. You need anything, you just call. You kids have a good night. Oh, and no hell-raising. We may be outside of town, but I know the sheriff personally. He’ll make a special trip.”
“Why does everybody think we’re so insane?” Eve asked, and rolled her eyes. “Honestly, we’re nice. Not everybody our age rolls with anarchy.”
“You would, if anarchy offered free ice cream,” Michael said. He accepted the two keys and smiled. “Thank you, ma’am—”
“Name’s Linda,” the lady interrupted. “Ma‘am was my mother. Though I guess I’m old enough now to be ma’am to you folks, more’s the pity. You go on. Let me finish up my baking. You stop back later. I’ll have fresh chocolate chip cookies.”
Eve’s mouth dropped open. Even Michael looked impressed. “Uh—thanks,” he said, and they retreated out to the parking lot, staring at one another. “She’s making cookies.”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “Terrifying. So, how are we doing this thing?”
“Girls get their own room,” Eve said, and plucked one of the keys out of Michael’s hand. “Oh, come on, don’t give me that face. You know that’s the right thing to do.”
“Yeah, I know,” Michael said. “Looks like they’re right next door to each other.”
They were, rooms one and two, with a connecting door between. Inside, the rooms—like Linda’s office—were really pretty nice. Claire checked out the bathroom; it was nicer than the one at home—and cleaner. “Hey, Eve?” she called, sticking her head around the door. “Should I be terrified now, or later?”
“Shut up,” Eve said, and flopped on one of the two beds, crossing her feet at the ankles as she reached for the remote on the TV. “Okay, it’s not Motel Hell. I admit it. But it could have been.... Hey, check it out—there’s a Saw marathon on HBO!”
Great. Just what they needed. Claire rolled her eyes, went out to the car, and helped the boys unload the stuff they needed—which was, actually, pretty much everything by the time they finished. Eve remained loftily above it all, flipping channels and searching for the most comfortable pillow.
Shane dragged her suitcase into the room and dumped it on the floor beside her bed. “Hey, Dark Princess? Here’s your crap. Also, bite me.”
“Wait, here’s your tip—” She flipped him off, without taking her eyes off the TV. “Nice to know we can still be just the same even outside of Morganville, right?”
He laughed. “Right.” He looked at Claire, who leaned her own suitcase against the wall and looked around. “So I guess this is good night?”
“Guess so,” she said. “Um, unless you guys want to watch movies?”
“I’ll bring the chips.”
Two hours later, they were lying on the beds, propped up, groaning and wincing and yelling stuff at the screen. The sound was turned up loud, and what with all the screaming and chain saws and such, it took a few seconds for the sound outside the room to filter through to any of them. Michael heard it first, of course, and nearly levitated off the bed to cross the room and pull back the curtains. Eve scrambled to mute the TV. “What? What is it?”
Out in the parking lot, Claire could now hear hoots, drunken laughter, and the crash of metal. She and Shane bounced off the bed, too, and Eve came last.
“Hey!” she screamed, and Claire winced at the rage in her voice. “Hey, you assholes, that’s my car!”
It was the three jerks from the truck stop, only about a case of beer more stupid, which really didn’t seem possible, in theory. But they were going after Eve’s car with a great big sledgehammer and two baseball bats. The glass in the front window shattered at a blow from the sledgehammer, which was swung by Angry Dude. Orange Cap swung a baseball bat and added another deep dent to the already horribly damaged hood. The last guy knocked off the side mirror, sending it to left field with one hard blow.
Orange Cap blew Eve a gap-toothed kiss, reached in his back pocket, and pulled out a glass bottle filled with something that looked faintly pink, like lemonade....
“Gas,” Michael said. “I have to stop them.”
“You’ll get your ass killed,” Shane said, and flung himself in the way. “No way. This ain’t Morganville, and if you end up in a jail cell, you’ll die. Understand?”
“But my car!” Eve moaned. “No no no ...”