Hotel Z: A Short Story



  HOTEL Z:

  A SHORT STORY

  By A.C. Hutchinson

  Copyright 2017 A.C. Hutchinson

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Hotel Z

  Also Available

  Acknowledgements

  HOTEL Z: A SHORT STORY

  The armoured bus pulled up outside the former hotel. Malvin Boroughbridge watched it come to a halt from his place behind the reception desk, while brushing biscuit crumbs from the front of his faded Ramones T-shirt. The plain digestives had fared much better than the chocolate kind, he found.

  “What should I do?” Danny Britton said, startling Malvin from his thoughts. Danny's young face had turned a sickly white. He twiddled a freshly sharpened pencil between his thumb and forefinger.

  He's nervous, Malvin knew. Just like I was.

  “No need to worry.” Malvin rested a hand on the boy's shoulder and realised how skinny the lad was. “I'll walk you through it. You stick with your uncle Malvin and everything will be fine.”

  “My uncle died when one of those . . . things . . . ate his left hand.”

  “The merchandise in here are less hungry. As long as you stick to the rules, you'll be fine. Can you remember the rules, Danny Boy?”

  Danny let out a sigh. His lips moved as he recited in his head.

  “Well?” Malvin urged. This one ain't so bright.

  “Always keep the door to the room closed. Never turn your back on them. And don't go near their mouths.”

  “That's right,” Malvin said, slapping the young Danny on the back. “You stick to those three golden rules and you'll stay alive long enough to see your eighteenth birthday. Next week, isn't it?” Danny nodded. “It's my fortieth this year. If you stay alive to celebrate that with me, I may let you try one of the merchandise for yourself.”

  There was activity outside. The bus had come to a halt and two guards with mismatched weapons waited behind the barbed-wire-topped fence.

  “I've got a girlfriend, boss.”

  “Lucky you.” Malvin leaned towards Danny's ear and whispered: “But she doesn't have to know.”

  “I . . . I just don't know if I could do that, boss. You know, what if I caught something . . .”

  “You make sure you don't. We get fresh ones every Wednesday and some of them are real lookers.”

  A man stepped off the bus. A businessman type, wearing a suit he probably bought before the world went crazy. But there's no fashion anymore, so who's judging?

  “Looks like we got a customer,” Malvin said, picking up a clipboard with a piece of paper attached. “Last computer stopped working just before Christmas. We've gone back to paper. God knows what will happen when we run out of that. Maybe we'll start using strips of human skin.” Danny looked horrified. Malvin elbowed him in the ribs and laughed. “Only messing with you, Danny Boy. We'll probably use toilet paper instead; God knows we've got enough of that stuff to last a century-long shit storm.”

  “Shall I have that?” Danny pointed to the clipboard.

  “Sure, why not. When he comes in, ask him his name and pop it in the column marked 'Name'. Then ask him if he's on any medication and pop it in the column marked–”

  “Medication?”

  “That's right, you're a fast learner.” For a slow kid.

  As the bus pulled away, the suited man walked through the gates. The two guards, with guns slung over their shoulders, shepherded the man towards the door.

  “I don't think we'll have any trouble with this one,” Malvin said, standing. He walked around the reception desk, pulling a set of keys from his pocket which were attached to his belt by a chain. He whistled a song he used to like – ‘Wanted Dead or Alive' by Bon Jovi. It had been a long time since he'd heard the original recording. Since my iPod stopped working I've not been able to listen to music at all. A depressing thought, he mused. “You've just got to treat these people like you would anyone else. Everyone has needs, Danny Boy.” He unlocked the door and invited the man inside. The man stepped into the foyer and the guards went back to their duty. Malvin closed the door and locked it again.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Malvin said, while walking back around the desk. “Is this your first time here?”

  The man smoothed back his greasy brown hair, cleared his throat, and said: “Yes. I've heard good things about this place.”

  “I'm sure you have. This is the best place to sample merchandise anywhere in town. We catch them fresh and don't keep them too long – that's the secret. Whereabouts you from?”

  The man adjusted his tie. Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. “The other side of town. Savini Street.” The man leaned forward. “I've got something particular in mind.”

  “Most people have. We all have our preferences. It was the same even before the world turned to shit. Now it's just harder to find, that's all. Danny, take the man's name, will you, while I get the price list.”

  “It's Andrew.”

  “Full name, please,” Malvin urged while rummaging among the clutter under the reception desk.

  “Andrew Lansbury.”

  Danny pencilled the man's name on the sheet of paper attached to the clipboard. “Are you on any medication?” the boy asked.

  “No. None at all.”

  “You need to sign the form,” Malvin said.

  Danny handed the man the clipboard.

  “What am I signing?” Andrew Lansbury looked like a man about to commit his signature to a death warrant. This one ain't going to have any fun unless he loosens up a bit.

  The suited man wiped away the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “Terms and conditions are on the back of the form, but you don't need to worry about that,” Malvin said, flapping his hand. “It's just a disclaimer. After all, we're putting you in a room with something we usually run away from.”

  Andrew looked alarmed. “They were human, though. Once. Don't forget that.”

  Is this guy a merchandise rights activist or something? “They certainly still have many human traits, and that's why you're here, Mr Lansbury.” Andrew signed the form and handed the clipboard back to Danny. “Now, what will you be looking at today? The fresh ones are the most expensive.” Malvin handed Andrew the price list. “You'll see they get cheaper as you get to the bottom there.”

  “How long have you had the ones at the bottom of the list? The cheap ones?”

  About two months. “About a month. But the rooms are refrigerated during the night. We only turn up the heat when the customer arrives.” And spray the air with freshener to stop it smelling like a morgue.

  The suited man rested his elbows on the desk and spoke a little quieter, like he didn't want anyone else to hear. “I'm looking for one that might have been in here for about three weeks.”

  “Three weeks. Well, we certainly have those.” This guy's a sicko. “You want it to have rotted just a little, right? Maybe the skin turned a little blue?”

  “Something like that, yes. And blonde. She . . . it must be blonde.”

  “Okay.” Quite specific. “Anything else?”

  “Blue eyes. About five foot seven.”

  Malvin looked at Danny, who raised an eyebrow.

  “I think we have just the one for you, sir. Danny, get me the key for room nineteen.” Danny stood, pushing the chair backwards; it scraped across the tiled floor. “I think you'll have fun with this one. I need to run through a few rules, but we'll do that on the way to the room.”

  “Room nineteen,” Danny said, handing Malvin the key, which was attached to a large fob.

  “Would you like to purchase any perfume, sir?” Malvin asked.

  “Perfume?”

  “Yes. Sometimes our clients like to choose a p
erfume for their chosen one. It helps the merchandise smell a little more . . . womanly, shall we say.” And it takes away the stink of rotting flesh. Malvin motioned to a collection of coloured bottles at the far end of the counter.

  Andrew nodded his head in agreement. “That sounds like a good idea. I used to buy my wife the one where the bottle is shaped like a woman. The name escapes me now.”

  “I know the one, sir. This one here–” Smells nothing like it “–smells just the same.” Malvin picked up a small blue bottle and placed it in front of the customer.

  Andrew picked it up and was about to spray some on his wrist when Malvin placed a hand on his arm. “Don't waste it, sir. Save it for the merchandise. Now, shall we sort the payment?”

  “Yes, of course.” Andrew plunged a hand into his jacket and produced a wad of bank notes. Malvin looked at Danny, who again raised an eyebrow.

  “That's one hundred notes, sir, and ten for the perfume.” That's twenty notes for my back pocket.

  Andrew gave Malvin a questioning look. “Expensive perfume.”

  “Only the best, though. You want it to smell nice, don't you?”

  The suited man sighed and then began to place notes onto the desk. Malvin counted every one. When he was done, Malvin gathered the notes and stuffed them into his back pocket. I'll take my cut later, when no one's looking.

  “Right, sir. Come along now, the merchandise awaits.”

  “Shall I come too?” Danny said, looking hopeful.

  “Yes. But don't interrupt. I have rules to explain.”

  “I'll follow behind, boss. You won't even know I'm there.”

  Malvin went to a door at the far side of the room and punched in the code: 1978. How many times have I punched in