Piranhas, “Pine Motel”

The Pine Motel

Neslon had leaned against the back door of the motel room, his head close to the doorknob. He was quiet as he used a dental floss pick to enter the room. It buzzed open when the pick engaged the lock sensor inside the knob, and he pushed it open with his narrow shoulders.

The double-birch dresser held a hidden bottom drawer. Nelson saw it while he squirmed and pulled his broken legs across the dirty navy carpet. He was desperate to inch his way into total concealment and safety from the Surreal Red Forces. Nelson rubbed the raw cuts on his brows against the carpet’s wool fibers, soothing the pain in his forehead and swollen eyelids. His vision flickered like a candle wick between pure light and the fogginess of darkness.

The awareness of his reality after being cut, hit, and choked, his face dangling over a bathtub filled with red-bellied piranhas, had snapped his mind lucid and into cold focus. The Surreal Red Forces had made a mistake: the walnuts were not a prank, and, although carelessly crumpled in one of the pockets of his kaki pants, Neslon fed them to the red-bellied piranhas as a deadly snack. The Finisher showed him how to erase enemies with poison.

The room was almost the same as before. The bathroom vanity bulbs had all burned out except two. When Nelson first saw the double birch dresser, there was no doubt that he was lean enough to fit inside if he just removed the bottom of the hidden drawer. He maneuvered his medium-sized frame into the compact space. Nelson, having lost fifteen pounds in mere days while confined in the oversized storage and woodworking shed around the back fenced-in area of the Pine Motel.

Survival has possession; my whole consciousness is stuck in this universal natural law, even here in the most punishing desert of Utah. Neslson scanned the room for a weapon; there was nothing he could use for defense. At least nothing that he could reach, since he couldn’t stand upright. He surmised that he had multiple fibula fractures in both legs. So, there was no chance of walking out of the Utah desert and being rescued. No possibility that he could use the steel curtain rod for crutches that Bill used to push and pin him against a wall. right after they had entered the motel room with Silverback and Ivory. The Surreal Red Forces would find him. The canyon butcher might find him first, and that grimly would be better; at least death would be quick.

Nelson and Bill had disagreed a lot, but rarely about the meaning of the Boss’s orders. Bill had decided early that Ivory and Silverback would not leave the Utah desert. The Gray Wolf agreed otherwise.

The Great Horned Owl Scarlet Ring was not back in the mirrored jewelry box, and Nelson had no idea who, if anyone, owned it. Its nature had no explanation, like the Bermuda Triangle itself. What the Scarlet Owl could do was unclear; Nelson was starting to believe its powers were expanding every day, not the other way around. Bill could’ve taken it, just like the client’s account card and the deer knife, but was unable to use any of them.

The protections of the Scarlet Owl were the Surreal Red Forces. They were robust soldiers, holding back their enemies by sheer fear. Nelson still had time to save himself. Bill must’ve brought another weapon with him to the Utah Desert Canyons. Yes, of course, with the maniac out there, nicknamed Moonslayer by the Surreal Red Forces. The fucking boiling sandbowl of the desert didn’t bring down a death curse on Bill. Nor the skull collector, the Beast. Neslon stared at the dirty navy carpet for some time. The Finisher must have left a second weapon behind, a backup.

Nelson looked up at the windowpane and the shelf, from corner to corner; his eyes followed the wall that held it up, then back to the dirty navy carpet. When he saw the spider moss, his eyes narrowed to sharpened focus on the vertical rim of an air-floor vent. A slight reflection of the moonlight gave the silver gun handle a sparkle. Bill must have placed it there after his dear knife had fallen from the windowpane. The desert spiders, seeking refuge from the desert heat, must’ve crawled into the air vent for shelter and then woven intricate silk webs over it.

The owner immediately boarded up the windows after Silverback smashed them with the aquarium. The lace curtain panels were stained by moonlight seeping into the room through the cracks at the top and sides where the boards failed to meet.

The gun’s steel shone in the desert’s bright, cold light. A voice and howl suddenly sheared through the room.

Nelson stayed quiet, not to alert that he was inside the room alive and unmauled from the dozens of red-bellied piranhas in the bathtub. They’d figure it out once they returned. I have to delay them until the morning. Bill will come looking for his other weapon. The FBI would return to tear down the entire motel with a court-ordered search warrant.

Nelson was sure Bill was coming; he was always predictable in professional cleanup. It may be too late, he thought. Nelson was struggling to breathe; his throat was sore, and his heartbeat was slowing. He thought he heard another howl, another voice, but the desert was full of voices of different sorts of beasts and monsters.

Will I ever walk out of this hell? All the desert trails were dead ends because the Gray Wolf was stalking, camouflaged by pinyon pines and heavy-set cacti that traced the distant river waters and the giant canyons. Was it evil like Bill? Nelson didn’t know, but if evil was like his neighbors, a company that he couldn’t get rid of, was he to become the same? Neslon’s thoughts drifted back to his promise to be righteous, but here he was, confessing his mighty desire for the Scarlet Owl Ring. Not praying for a miracle healing of his badly broken legs, nor for rescue. But to be sovereign and the singular sword of the Scarlet Owl.

I brought this terror and pain! An agent of The Boss, just like my brother. I can’t get out! Can’t be! No Matter! The Great Horned Owl Ring is here! Nelson’s eyes blinked open like a drone’s camera. On the ceiling was a dark shadow of what was in the room with him: standing on fours, the Gray Wolf. Voices of the Horned Owl blended with growls. Deadly teeth shone like gunmetal, the desert stars, and the piranhas. It tore the tan-orange linen and foam cushions to pieces. The armchair turned over, and the Gray Wolf bent down low, sniffing between its black claws, punching its powerful paws like drills through the bottom dresser drawer.

###

Sergeant Kirk was sitting in his office chair, the shutters to the large windows closed, blocking out the view of his city. He was next in line to become Chief, and criminals who bobbed into his city from elsewhere were immediately aware of his harshness to all who lacked respect for the law. They were swept into custody in waves of bookings, as sirens blared and emergency lights rotated. His men and women who wore the oval badges would keep judges sharp in legal theory and participation in a wide range of Seattle criminal cases.

“Hey, Sergeant, I’ve got some information on the latest victim of the maniac of the canyons. Our truck driver didn’t take the route for pay; he did it as a favor for his cousin. His sister verified he did so only on occassion; the personal transportation of valuable artwork for a vital business client of his cousin.”

“Bad luck,” Sergeant Kirk muttered.

“What are you going to do about the abandoned hotel?” The young detective asked as he sat down, waiting for approval.

“Nothing. Surveillance, you’re asking about. The overtime is not approved. Anything else to report?”

“A deputy sheriff along the Utah interstate between Nevada and Colorado called in the big rig truck. The trailer bed with the artwork was still locked inside.” The young detective looked at his pocket notebook for a moment. “There’s been no contact from our victim since entering the Canyonlands, where he met his gruesome death. Also, no patterns to make a reasonable profile of the Utah Maniac. Or the FBI would’ve shared it.”

Sergeant Kirk got out some pills from the desk tray and swallowed them down. “All different backgrounds, races, and genders. No physical features or traits link the victims whatsoever. Anybody can be his next victim. He wiped his sweaty palms on his brown collard shirt. “Will let the FBI hold any press conferences; they’re good at satisfying the media with empty phrases that stall.”

“Sergeant, you believed Bill’s statement that he just stumbled on the right desert trail into holy moly, salvation, the abandoned Pine Motel?”

“No, but he has connections. You want something, Das? What is it?”

“A court order releasing the files of the trucking company’s accounts with clients.” Young detective Das stood and stared out over the city, uneasy because he recognized its rhythms. “What the hell were Nelson and Bill camping at the park when the Serial Moon Slayer is out loose?”

“Adventurers are taking trips out there, wanting the thrill of the experience, something to tell on TikTok, fascinated by all the live media and newswires,” Kirk answered, then continued, “Well, strange, but it’s like that. I stopped interrogating Bill at the Chief’s order. As I said, Bill has some connections. He gave us the IDs and the trophies that slipped from behind the recessed medicine cabinet into the sink.”

“The Mayor wants the abandoned motel torn down? But he knows that we only listen to the governor. The Pine Motel, which is confiscated state property, is in the middle of a multilevel state investigation now.” Das said.

“Why aren’t more men and women on patrol in our wonderful city, maintaining civil order and peace? You should be asking. Because I have to split some manpower to the parks. This fucking asshole, Moonslayer of the desert canyons, is messing with our park’s revenues. Folks wouldn’t go near those parks without a GPS, gun, and cougar spray?”

“Or Wolf spray Sergeant. There have been many recent sightings of a Gray Wolf with white fur patches roaming the canyonlands.”

“Gray Wolf, well, ain’t that a surprise? You think it’s out scavenging for skulls?”

“I don’t know, but folks say a scientific research group is setting up an expedition to study it.”

“A wolf trap is illegal. The Gray Wolf is protected; its territory ranges across the parks, including Moab. They have every right to be on these lands; they can’t relocate a Gray Wolf. Go check the abandoned Pine Hotel. Make sure there are no groups or solo trespassers.”

“Yes, immediately, Sergeant Kirk.”