The Sick Stag

He sat up, adjusting himself in the driver’s seat.

Thump thump, thump thump, thump thump.

The deep drum of wiper blades echoed in his ears like a heartbeat; fast but consistent. It was uncomfortably close to his own. “I’ve never seen this side of town,” he thought while peering past a rain-drenched windshield onto a narrow street. Shops, either boarded up or closed, stood along the derelict one-way road. Hours of rain had soaked the concrete and stained buildings but sparse neon lighting gave false warmth to the area. Scanning the glow, it was there: The No Tell Motel. His grip tightened on the steering wheel before peering across his shoulder to the briefcase in the passenger seat. The raindrops became white noise.

He reached over and popped it open. Rows of neatly bound dollar bills sat behind the maws of his case and atop it all was a little black book. He wiped the sweat from his hands and opened the pages to the one bookmarked by a key. A near perfectly written note stalked the lines:

No Tell Motel, 11pm

Room 202

Half now, half later

His head was spinning. Rain pounded on the car and the wiper blades continued to pace his heart like a metronome. He wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t even a bad guy. He had a wife, kids, a good job, the works. It just wasn’t enough to be pushed up the wait list. He reached under his shirt, running a finger across the scar tissue encouraging himself, “anybody would have done it.” Checking the sign again through the saturated haze, he pulled a gun out of the case and released the magazine. Even for an amateur he shouldn’t need as many bullets that were in there for one person. He took a deep breath, grabbed the handle, and stepped out into the deluge.

Jogging through the downpour, he made his way underneath the torn awning of the motel and passed the double doors. Cigarette smoke hung in the air of the long-neglected lobby like it were incapable of breathing in anything else. The stairs were obviously stationed. He pressed forward, gun concealed in his jacket, until he ascended to the second floor. Opening the door revealed a narrow and musty hallway. Its naked walls and patched flat carpet built the suspense of evil sitting on his heart. 200. Death was already an evil thing. It had been worse that year than any other. The pandemic wrenched millions of lives away from their security - not excluding himself. 201. Yet, whether by fate or otherwise, he had a chance to make it all right again; a chance to forget. 202. He stood now right in front of that fate.

A soft pattering of rain could be heard inside the central hallway. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small brass key. The fact that it fit in the door perfectly was equally satisfying as it was terrifying. The sound of the lock slowly releasing sent a shiver throughout his whole body and he gripped the gun even tighter. “In and out,” he repeated again and again as time seemingly slowed around him. Despite the state of the hotel the door opened without creak or groan. He shifted inside and left the door slightly ajar, because somewhere inside himself - deep down - he was an animal panicked to escape.

The air inside 202 was different than the hallway. It was stale, but clean, and somehow familiar. The lights were off but the neon and street lamps outside breached the spaces between the blinds to dimly illuminate shapes. His eyes darted to the right as he walked past the bathroom. The tub seemed full but the water wasn’t flat. “Was it… lumpy?” He thought without time to investigate. Pulling the gun up further, heart steadily pounding heavier, he took a deep breath and turned the corner with death at the ready.

No one.

His eyes, semi-adjusted to the dim enviroment, scanned the room in a panic. “No, no, no, no” he vocalized, unable to keep his thoughts to himself. The gun still stood stiffly aimed at the empty room as he pulled out the little black notebook and checked the room again. He was right where he needed to be. The window of salvation closed in around him like a python suffocating its prey. The scar that remained where he had his liver transplant weighed heavy. “They’ll come for me if I don’t finish this,” rang in his head while droplets rolled down his face. He walked to the window to look outside, hoping that he was supposed to wait in the room - “yeah, that’s it. I’m just ahead of them.” Then he heard it: a slide across carpet followed by a thud.

The door!

He flung around wildly, eyes closed, and shot three times at the entrance without pause.

Pop, pop, pop!

Time passed like an eternity in his mind. He waited for some kind of sound, anything, just some affirmation that his job was done. Nothing. The silence behind the rain pressed on his ear drums. Confused, he opened his eyes and stared angrily down the barrel. A silhouette stood in front of the door. Tall, somewhat large, and disturbingly quiet. “I’m s-sorry, but I have to do this,” he said before pulling the trigger again. This time he had the figure right in his sights.

Pop!

A bright flash lit up the room for the quickest moment before the dark rushed back. It still stood, unabated. “That’s enough, Tom” it said. Tom’s heart dropped. He knew that voice, “Doctor Ludd?” The lights flipped on. “Your time is up,” Ludd said in a hollow tone. Tom looked down at his gun, then at the doctor outfitted in scrubs. The sound of rain was gone; an indistinct buzzing overcame his mind and warmth flooded his body. Tom pointed the gun again, walking towards the door and pressing the barrel against the doctor’s head.

“They’re all blanks.”

The statement fell on deaf ears as Tom positioned himself next to the door, groping with his open hand to pull the handle. The thoughts weren’t even coherent anymore. Freedom was all he wanted, and if it meant leaving everything behind he was ready. Just survive. The door swung open and ,without blinking, Tom backed out into the hallway with the barrel staring dow- a wall. He felt hands grip his shoulders and the sound of rain came back. Two large men ushered him back inside room 202, and Tom got a better look at the bathtub. It was full of ice.

“We’ll only have a few hours, call the patient.” The door locked.

/

A sick stag lay in a quiet corner of his pasture.

His companions came in great numbers to inquire after his health,

but each helped themselves to a share of the food provided for the stag.

The sick stag died. Not from his illness, but from the evil of his company.

-Aesop's fables

/