XI. The Hotel Maravilloso: Jake
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The hallway was dark and cluttered with a couple of housekeeping carts that had been overturned, towels and sheets were sprawled across the floor. It gave Jake the impression that people had left in a hurry. He worked his way around the carts and towels carefully, as if he were navigating a crime scene. Mostly, he just didn’t want to make any noise. In the perfect, horrible silence Jake could hear his own heartbeat; the thudding stomp making his trigger finger twitch. He moved it to the trigger guard to hold it steady. Last thing he wanted to do was get surprised by Creek or Stumpy and make a costly mistake. There was a sudden crunch beneath his boot—the unmistakable fracturing of glass. Jake quickly turned on his flashlight, looked at his feet, then looked up at the wall. One of the hallway lights had been shattered. He killed the flashlight and kept walking, stepping over the remaining glass on the carpet ahead of him. There were some room doors wide open ahead, the daylight coming through their windows and bleeding into the hallway, giving Jake some light to work with.
There was an otherworldly tearing sound, like spectral static, ripping its way through the air. It was so close and unsettling that Jake instinctively ducked into one of the office doors and hid behind a desk, shotgun barrel trained on the doorway, his trigger finger resting on the trigger now. Whatever he’d heard wasn’t Stumpy or Creek—it didn’t even sound human. His heart pounded so loudly that he couldn’t hear anything outside of it. Jake held his breath to steady himself and slow his heart rate. He leaned toward the doorway, never taking his eyes off it. Nothing. No hint of a shadow, no one calling out, not even so much as a soft footstep on the carpeted floor.
Jake inched his way back toward the doorway, barely poking his head out, checking the way he’d come. All clear. When he turned his head toward the uncharted territory of the dark hallway before him, at the end, some 30 yards away, stood a phantom—a blackened silhouette. It was still and facing him, that much Jake could tell. His heartbeat crept back up, but he paid it no mind. Shouldering the shotgun, Jake pivoted out of the doorway and called out to the shadow at the end of the hall, “Enesto?”
No sooner had the name left Jake’s lips, the shadow disappeared into the stretch of hallway to the left of where it had been standing. Jake pursued, slowing as he turned the corner. He wanted to make sure whoever, whatever it was wasn’t waiting on the other side to ambush him. Nothing. The hallway was empty and dark, save for a large plate glass window at the end, allowing the flow of light from the gloomy midday to highlight the fact that there was nowhere to run.
Jake waited silently in the hall for a moment, wondering which move to make. He was afraid. And he was angry because he was afraid. He let the tempest between the two emotions build, creating the violence inside of him that he thought he might need. One door—one door in the whole hallway was perfectly pulled to a close. The rest remained open. There were no exits, no stairwells or elevators. The only way out of this hallway was through a broken plate glass window or back the way he’d come. Jake narrowed his focus, let the fury of his whole misadventure fuel the movement of his feet. They carried him to the door, and he put his left foot into the space just above the deadbolt—simultaneously cracking the door and breaking the locking mechanism. The door burst open and Jake barreled through it.
It was an office, large and somewhat lavish with dark leather couches and chairs. Several battery-powered LED lanterns were staged throughout the room. One of the lanterns in Jake’s periphery went dark. He turned and found a man standing in front of it, blocking the light. The man’s eyes were wide, and he was shifting his weight nervously, rocking side to side. He was breathing heavy from fear. His long black hair was slicked back with sweat, and he was nicely dressed—a white, button-up collared shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, gray slacks, and black dress shoes. The man’s clothes were wrinkled, as if he’d been wearing them for a while. In his hand he held a collapsible baton, but he’d extended it, showing that he was ready to strike if he needed. Jake took a step away to put more distance between him and the man but kept the end of his shotgun pointed right at the stranger.
“Habla ingles?” Jake asked the man, and he nodded a slow “yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“You seem to already know my name. You called it down the hall.”
“If you’re Ernesto, then why’d you run?”
“I see a gringo with a shotgun calling my name and coming toward me, I don’t usually stick around.”
“Maybe you know the gringo with a gun I came here with, then. Stumpy?”
“Stumpy’s here, with you?”
Jake nodded.
“You really should have led with that.”
“I’m done with taking suggestions on how I should do things right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean how is it that this whole area becomes a wasteland overnight and, as you put it, there’s not ‘a soul’ around, but here you are. Stumpy just happens to come across us in the middle of the night, in the middle of the barren desert, and everyone has seemingly vanished—but we come to find you and, lo and behold, we do. What are the odds, Ernesto?”
Ernesto looked confused.
“This whole situation feels more calculated than miracle to me,” Jake snarked.
“You think I’ve got something to do with the whole world just disappearing? Where do you think I’m keeping them? In a box under my bed? Get a grip, gringo. I’m not you’re enemy. I’m in the middle of this, just like you are!”
Ernesto took a step toward Jake while making his case. Without hesitation, Jake fired a slug into the wall far to the left of Ernesto, who had fallen to the floor to get out of the line of fire. He was shaking, looking at Jake like a scared puppy, then looking at the hole in the wall. He dropped his baton and made no attempt to pick it back up.
“I won’t miss the next time,” Jake said, and motioned for Ernesto to scoot back against the wall, while kicking the baton to the far side of the room.
“Where is everyone else, Ernesto? The guests, the staff—where are they?”
“I told you, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happened.”
“Something is off here! I’m not crazy! How is it that you’re the only one here—just you!”
“I could ask you the same thing! Everyone goes missing but you show up here looking for me?! And I haven’t even seen that Stumpy’s really with you. How do I know you’re not lying?”
“How else would I know about him?!”
“This is Mexico, gringo. Everybody knows enough to get what they want, or else you’re at the bottom of the barrel.”
“Then tell me what you know, Ernesto, because you know something!”
“I already told you. You just don’t want to believe me.”
“No! give me a good answer or I’ll make it so you won’t answer anyone ever again!”
Jake inched closer to Ernesto, bringing the barrel just inches away from his head. He could feel himself losing his grip on the situation, on himself. Ernesto’s eyes shifted to something in the doorway and before Jake could take a look for himself he heard Stumpy’s voice, “ Since you seem so keen on giving people choices today, I’ll give you one—either put that gun down and let my friend be, or I will put you and it down together.”