Can't Sleep

The motel room is dirty. Not from me, it came that way. The toilet constantly runs and the sheets on the mattress have stains. There’s some mud on the floor near the entrance. Even the TV reception is poor, not that anyone is watching. I can’t say I’m surprised, coming from a place like this. Nobody actually stops here to sleep. They come here to escape, to get away. Maybe some even come here to die. Like one final stop on the roulette wheel. Not me though. That’s exactly what I’m hoping to avoid. 

You can run but you can’t hide.

Thing is, I’ve been running for far too long. I’ve been trying to sprint my way through a marathon, and it’s starting to show. From Boston to some small dusty town in Nevada. A place no one has ever heard of. I couldn’t tell you the name of this place if I wanted to.

Places like this, they’re a dime a dozen in America though. When you drive across the country you pick up on that real quick. They’re usually tucked away, down some exit off the highway. Maybe a couple motels, some gas stations and fast food restaurants. Nothing to see or do, but I consider that a perk. The less eyes the better.

The guy working the front desk didn’t ask any questions when I showed up. Probably doesn’t get paid enough to ask questions. His eyes looked as bloodshot as mine, and after I paid he seemed happy to be done with me.

So now I wait. My friends back in Boston, they think I did something to them. Something very bad. Thing is, I didn’t. I wouldn’t even dream of doing what they think I did. I’d have to be very stupid to do something like that, and I care about living too much. My pleas have fallen on deaf ears though. We’re at that point in our relationship where anything I say only makes me sound pathetic. Like I’m doubling down on a lie.

So we don’t talk. I run, and they chase.

There’s a quietness to this room. The only noise is the clock, silently ticking away. I can barely make out the time unless I squint, which spells out 2:17. Watching the second hand inch down feels like I’m waiting for something. Like I’m getting closer and closer to detonation. If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen soon. In the early morning hours when everyone else is asleep. That’s when the predators like to hunt, and when the prey tends to least expect it. But I know how the game is played, how the natural rhythm of the cat and mouse expresses itself.

Right now, the only light in the room is the dim glow of the night-light coming out of the bathroom. It’s just enough light that I can see, but not enough that anyone outside will think I’m awake.

It feels good to not be running, even if it means pausing in a place as disgusting as this. To be able to catch my breath, even if it’s just for a minute, is refreshing. Doesn’t mean I’ll be sleeping though. No rest for the weary, lest I want to never wake up again.

Crunch. 

The noise comes from outside. There’s a flash of light across the windows, and I can hear the sound of tires groaning as they ease into the gravel parking lot.

It’s about to start.

I sit up in the chair and tighten my grip on the shotgun. Sweat beads across my forehead, and my hands feel clammy. I’m not used to playing this role. It feels unnatural; wrong. I’m used to being on the other side of the door. The one peering through windows before jimmying them open. But today I’m the mouse. Holed up in a small motel room with nothing more than a fake ID and a shotgun. If they kill me, nobody will even know who I was.

The lights on the car go off, and a second later four doors close.

They brought four people?

I suppose I should feel honored. It means they’re not taking me lightly. Not taking any chances.

I pat down the breast-pocket of my shirt. It’s more an instinct than a necessity. There’s eight shells in there, plus another four already loaded. It’s more than enough to wipe whoever comes through that door, assuming I don’t miss.

Lucky for me, there’s no missing when they’re this close.

There’s a murmur of voices outside. The exact words are hard to make out, but the tone says they’re excited.

If they want me, I’m going to make them work for it. Make them sweat. It’s the least I can do.

There’s a pause, but I know what that means. It’s the calm before the storm. They’re taking stock, setting up angles, cornering me in. 

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but my heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest. I can feel it beating harder and harder. I want to scream. To tell my body to stop this madness. I’ve been through this too many times to be having this kind of reaction.

Then the footsteps start.

It’s less of a walk and more of a shuffle, like somebody can’t lift their foot up right. Even stranger, it sounds like it’s moving further away, not closer. 

Some part of me wants to put my face to the peephole and peer out, but I know that’s the most dangerous place to be. I’ve shot enough people through the peephole to know how that turns out.

“If you just confess, we can put this behind us.” It’s the voice of an elderly woman, and she doesn’t sound happy.

“I’m not confessing to anything! I’m not the one who got us lost.” This time it’s an elderly man, and he sounds as unhappy as she does.

I’m fighting every urge within myself to peer through the blinds at the window. It’s a losing battle. Touching the shades is too risky, someone could notice the movement. Instead I position myself in the corner until I can just barely see out. 

Outside in the parking lot is an old Chevy. I can’t say what make, but the logo is visible under the lone street lamp. Walking—shuffling, really—away from it are four elderly people. Two men and two women. It feels like an eternity before they make their way to the room next door.

One of the men tries to open the door, but it doesn’t seem to be budging. “It’s locked,” he says.

“Of course it’s locked. Don’t tell me you lost the key,” the same woman from earlier shouts.

“I… no, I didn’t lose it. I just had it.” He pats his pockets before getting on his hands and knees. It’s hard to see what’s happening in the dark, but it looks like he’s feeling around the gravel. The man slumps his shoulders. “I’ll go back to the front desk and get another.” He sets off, putting one foot in front of the other. At the speed he’s walking, it’s going to take a while.

I step back from the window. I’m getting too invested in whatever this charade is. I don’t know these people. It doesn’t affect me and I shouldn’t care.

I sit back down on the chair and watch the door. I’m trying very hard not to doze off. Trying to remind myself of the horrible things that could happen if I decide to close my eyes. After a point though, it stops working. The body just tunes it out. Or maybe I’ve just desensitized myself over the years. Whatever the case, I can feel sleep pulling at me.

Whatever daze I’m in is broken by a rustling sound at the door. I grip the shotgun just in time to see the door handle turning. The door opens with a squeak.

By some miracle I manage to not pull the trigger. Standing at the door is the old man who shuffled off to get the key. He locks eyes with me and swoons forward.

“I—I must’ve been given the key to the wrong room.”

“Get out of here!”I bark.

But it’s too late. The old man is falling forward and clutching his chest.

A second later I see the three other elderly people come into view. Two of them go down to check on him.

“There—there must’ve been a mix up or something.” It’s the woman who had been yelling earlier. Whatever annoyance had been in her earlier seemed to have drained out. “The front desk clerk gave Charlie the key to this room.” She looked at the shotgun in my hands. “You’re not going to do anything to us, are you?”

Half of me wanted to scream. The other half wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. Here I was with my door wide open, completely exposed. There were four old people in my room, and one looked like he was having a heart attack. I expected something to happen tonight. I didn’t expect this.

“Please, help us get him off the floor. If we can just lay get him on the bed, I can make sure he’s okay,” the woman said to me.

I gritted my teeth and sighed. I could feel my irritation starting to rise. Still, he was sprawled out in front of my door. The sooner I could move him, the sooner I could close the door.

I rested the shotgun against the wall and then dashed over to the old man on the floor. In one quick motion I scooped him up. He felt like he weighed nothing.

“Close the door,” I said.

I placed the old man on the bed and stepped back. He was still clutching his chest and looking up at me. His eyes seemed to be gazing over my face, over and over again.

“None of you can stay here,” I said. I looked at the old man again, and something boiled up in me. Guilt? “It’s too dangerous. Trust me, you’re too old for this.”

“I agree,” the elderly woman said. “And you seem like a very dangerous man.”

Something about the way she spoke unsettled me. I started for the shotgun, but felt something jab at the back of my head.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she said.”

I turned around. The woman had a gun pointed at me. “We’ve been looking for you for a long time Mr. Keys.”

I felt my blood freeze.

“And you’re right. I am old. But not too old to use this gun.”