Wanted: Undead or Alive

Hot Apple Cider

"Nothing wrong with your follow-through. You're just in search of a higher purpose. Nothing wrong with that."

"Yeah, well, at the moment I'm in search of a paycheck." I waved on my way out the door. "See you tomorrow, Drake."

"God willing and the creek don't rise," he said. "Watch out for deer this time of night." Whatever else he might be, Drake was a quintessential Midwesterner.

I crawled into the tiny box on wheels, pressed the clutch, cranked the engine, and gave thanks to a merciful God when it started. I'd have to get a battery before it got any colder. Add that to the list of things I couldn't afford.

~*~

With five minutes to spare before my shift started, I strolled through the sliding glass doors into the glorified hallway that passed for a front lobby at the hotel.

Mindy looked up from her seat behind the desk. Technically, the day clerks weren't supposed to sit, but Mindy was approximately a hundred and fifty years old and trembled like a willow in a windstorm if she was on her feet for more than a few minutes. She had a long, skinny, horse-like face. The mask she was required to wear to make the customers feel safe from disease while checking into their grubby rooms dangled beneath her pointy chin like a feedbag,

"Heather is covering the morning shift," she said. "Casey's sick."

"Of course he is." Somebody was always calling in sick, or with a family emergency, or they simply vanished without explanation. On paper, we had a staff of twelve; more than enough. In reality, we were forever shorthanded.

"You'll have to take care of these." She gestured to a stack of registration cards. "I didn't have time."

I glanced around the empty lobby. "Right. I can see you were overwhelmed."

She nodded before grabbing the counter with both hands and hoisting herself to her feet. Both of her hips popped, and she farted loudly. Without excusing herself, she shuffled away to gather her coat and purse. "See you tomorrow," she said on her way out the door.

"God willing and the creek don't rise," I muttered.

The space behind the desk was slightly larger than the average coat closet. I swallowed a mouthful of cider. Spicy comfort slid down my throat and coiled in my belly. In ten minutes, I had my oldies playlist going, the registration cards were sorted and filed, I'd double checked that all the day's reservations (all four of them) had already checked in, and I'd opened the spreadsheet to start the daily audit. If I could get the numbers right on the first go, I'd have time to watch a couple episodes of The Witcher before I had to set up the crappy continental breakfast.

As I typed the first numbers, the doors rattled open, and a man walked in.

At least, I thought it was a man. I couldn't be sure.

They were over six feet tall. A raggedy old cowboy hat that might have once been beige tilted low, hiding their face. They wore leather work gloves with unsettling dark stains on them and a grubby trench coat, buttoned up tight. An odor rolled off them that reminded me of the kitchen trash can when it had gone too long without a good scrubbing.

Without speaking, they dropped a driver's license and an American Express card on the counter.

"You need a room?" My fingers inched toward the panic button under the counter.

They nodded, wordlessly.

Ok, then. I looked at his ID. It said his name was Randy Hannity. Age forty-one. Height five feet, eleven inches. He seemed taller than that. Maybe he had tall shoes. Impossible to see from behind the counter.

"Would you like a single, then?" God, please don't let him be one of the creepers who occasionally showed up with a prostitute. It was too gross to consider.

He nodded again, so I typed the info from the ID into the computer, swiped the card, programmed the keys, and asked him to sign the registration form.

With stiff, jerking motions, he wrapped his gloved fingers around the pen on the counter and scrawled what amounted to a wavy line in the space marked signature.

Good enough. The manager had made it clear our job was to get heads in the beds and ask as few questions as possible.

I told him his room was at the end of the hall—as far from me as possible—and invited him to join us for a free continental breakfast. Free breakfast meant cheap wrapped pastries and water bottles, but we were instructed to paint things in a positive light.

Wordlessly, he took the keys and drifted off with eerie silence. The stink had almost evaporated when the doors opened again.

I chucked my pen down on top of my pile of paperwork and looked to see who it was.

The largest man I'd ever seen strode to the counter. His shoulders must have been three feet across, and his biceps were as big around as my waist. He had a head like an enormous black bowling ball and a little pencil-thin mustache over his scowling lips. One gargantuan hand dipped into the pocket of his black cargo pants and came out with a badge in a leather case—just like TV cops have.

"Recovery Agent Drew Freeman." His voice brought to mind the distant rumble of stampeding buffalo.

Before I read the details on his ID, he closed the case and tucked it away.

"You recently swiped a credit card registered to Randy Hannity."

I inched closer to the panic button again. We weren't supposed to give out details about our guests without permission.

"Randy Hannity was found dead in the mall parking lot three hours ago." He produced a folded printout of a grainy security camera screenshot. "I'm looking for this."

Cowboy hat. Trench coat. No visible face.

Rules be damned. I had no intention of following in the late Randy Hannity's footsteps. "I checked in a guy dressed like that maybe twenty minutes ago."

"What room is he in?"

Toward the end of the hall, a baby started crying.

In hotels, a person heard things; voices, running water, cheerful noises, angry noises, sexy noises, and babies.

This was different.

This baby wasn't just crying. It was wailing, screaming, wordlessly begging for rescue.

Recovery Agent Drew Freeman took off down the hall at a full sprint.