The Hotel at the End of Time

Chapter 10 - Vain discovers a new use for a tire iron.

Vain kept her eyes focused on the rear lights, two floating red blips in the darkness. The vehicle took an off-ramp onto a side road littered with signs for restaurants and gas stations. It turned towards a crowded strip of stores and pulled into the back of a fast-food parking lot.

"Easy does it," she said, while Pranav pulled into a spot several cars behind them.

The streetlights and giant neon signs bright enough to allow a perfect view into the interior of the car. The two Wyatts up front were laughing. One in the back grabbed the woman by the shirt and slapped her.

Vain recoiled. There was no way she heard the meaty thwack of the slap. The distance was too far. But she swore she heard it.

"Your friend looks to be in trouble," said Pranav. He wasn't smiling anymore. "What are you mixed up in? I'm calling the police."

"Don't you dare."

"Get out of my cab," he said, all traces of humor gone. "Get out right now."

Across the parking lot, the Wyatts milled about. They were laughing, swapping jokes; another day at the office. Meanwhile, the woman slumped in the back seat, miserable and huddled up.

The Hotel stripped you of your memories, so Vain didn't remember how they took her. Her first recollection was waking in a small room on a dirty cot. Bruises covered her body, one cheek marked by a welt that took a week to heal. She didn't dwell on that for long, and soon discovered that everyone was in terrible shape when they first woke up.

But now, watching the Wyatts, she wondered about those bruises. Maybe they liked their jobs a little too much. Maybe as long as they brought people in alive, they were free to bang them up to their heart's content.

She rubbed her cheek, her temples throbbing. Pranav's squawking for her to get out became louder. The whole time she had been staring at the red SUV, but now she looked Pranav dead in the eyes. He stopped in mid-sentence.

"Open the trunk."

"Just go. I don't care what you're mixed up in."

"Open the trunk," she repeated. "Then you can get back to your little cab driving world with its funny stories."

Pranav objected, but she continued to glare at him, unblinking. He trailed off and swallowed.

"Are you going to hurt me?"

"You're not the one who needs to worry, Pranav, assuming you open your fucking trunk."

Slightly pale, Pranav reached beside his seat and pressed the release button.

She stepped out of the car, clenching and unclenching her hands. A Wyatt wearing sunglasses chose that moment to amble past. She held her breath, but he didn't so much as glance at her. The throbbing in her temples intensified. She went around to the back of the cab and peered into the trunk. It was littered with crumpled grocery bags, the spare tire hatch visible beneath. She pulled the cover back. A tire iron nestled in the opening.

Perfect.

She grabbed it and walked over to Pranav, holding out a wad of cash.

"Thanks for the ride." She kept her eyes on the SUV. One Wyatt, wearing a green flak jacket, had gotten out of the car to smoke.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

She put on her sweetest smile. "Pranav, I'm going to have a talk with my friends over there and explain to them how hitting people is wrong." She held up the tire iron. "I'll punctuate several elements of my argument with this."

All thoughts of Roman and the Padlock and running were behind her, replaced by memories of those bruises and that welt on her face. She relived the sheer horror she experienced, waking up in a dark, unfamiliar place with no understanding of who she was. The dull throbbing in her forehead reached a crescendo and everything else washed away.

She walked towards the SUV, her steps synchronized with the beat in her temples. The smoking Wyatt leaned against the vehicle and gave her a lazy look. Not concerned, but curious. She'd never once in her entire life approached a Wyatt on purpose.

"Excuse me," she called out using her most cheerful voice. The redheaded woman peered at her from the backseat, misery painted across her face.

"Beat it," he said, disinterested. "Keep walking."

"No problem." She kept her voice artificially happy and kept the tire iron against her thigh. "I have a question for you, though. Do you know why people find juggling so difficult?"

"What?" The Wyatt looked up.

"There are too many balls!" She kicked him in the nuts as hard as she could.

A Wyatt's skill set presumably included defensive countermeasures. Thankfully, protection against a small woman unexpectedly drop-kicking his genitals like she was trying to hit a field goal was not one of them. He dropped like a stone, gasping for breath.

"You bitch," he gasped.

"Bitch, am I?" She drew back the tire iron. "Would a bitch do this?" Her aim was a little off; instead of hitting his head, she caught him on the shoulder. He dropped with a howl of pain. On reflection, hitting a recently ball-kicked person with a tire iron seemed exactly like something a bitch would do, so maybe her quips needed some work.

She leaned over him. "Nice face you have there. It would be a shame if someone stomped the shit out of it." She emphasized her words by stomping the shit out of his face.

Her body trembled with both excitement and pent up anger. The Wyatt rolled around on the ground, covering his head with his forearms. If the rest of her life consisted of nothing more than this parking lot, this moment, forever stomping on his face, she would be eternally happy. This was goddamn fantastic.

The car door opened, knocking her to the ground. A new Wyatt dove out and landed on top of her, driving the air from her lungs. She lashed out with her tire iron, but he caught her hand and slammed it on the pavement, sending the weapon skittering across the parking lot. He walloped her with a brutal punch to the temple. Adrenaline kept her conscious, albeit barely.

"Help me, you lazy bitch!" she yelled at the lazy bitch who sat in the car doing nothing. "They're going to kill us both!"

The Wyatt punched her again, knocking her silly.

Nothing ever worked out the way you expected. That washer final, pithy thought before the blows rained down on her.