Story #115 - Fly Boy

Fly Boy

Two fat flies were buzzing around the counter when Tom Fairchild swaggered his way into the motel lobby, fat juicy morsels that had obviously been feeding well on the scraps of food and filth left on the desk.

The deskman was no prize either; a short, fat balding man with a name tag that said “Bob”. Underneath the name Tom could see another word, one that surprised him given the man's slovenly condition. “Owner”.

“Good evening, sir.” Tom knew that even if the place was a dive, he'd have to start off with respect. Too many places these days were getting choosy about who they let in the doors, and he couldn't blame them. Monsters masquerading in human form were the obvious stuff of nightmares, and the Feds still hadn't come up with a viable way to detect the damn things until it was too late.

Bob grunted in response, not bothering to look up from the paper he was reading. One of the two flies landed near him, and he made a half-hearted attempted to bat it away, but succeeded only in stirring up a third one from a dusty window shade.

Tom had been loathe to pull off at this particular exit, but night was coming on hard, and he knew that most of the killings had been reported under the cover of darkness. The things were said to move like the wind; a sudden gust and a guy could find himself with no arms or legs, sitting on the side of the road and wondering what the hell happened. Not even cars were safe – the things had incredible bursting speed, or so the newsmen said.

When he'd seen the sign for the Last Exit Motel he'd intended to drive on, but a quick check of his GPS showed him the next hotel as over fifty miles distant. Sure, he could take the risk for a better room and not having to look at Bob dig a finger deep into one nostril, but that risk for comfort and a settled stomach might have gotten him killed.

He could deal with the fact that the place wasn't exactly clean - air-freshener scented the room instead of the smell of laundered linens and cleaned floors, and he could feel the thick carpet squelching under his boots – but Bob's rudeness was just one step too far. The man had a business to run. Didn't he want paying customers?

“Hey!” Tom said sharply, moving forward while keeping a firm grip on his shoulder bag. “Bob, I'm talking to you. I need a room for the night. How much?”

“Fifty.” Bob's voice grated like a snow scraper running over a steel plate, and Tom reached for his wallet. “But put your money away. I ain't takin' it. Now get out.”

Tom felt his anger spark, though he managed to keep himself cool. He was impressed; during his time in the army, he would have flown off the handle at the smallest thing outside of the rigid confines of daily barracks life, and the guys always ribbed him about how red he'd get, how hot under the collar no matter the issue.

“Bob,” he said softly, stepping forward and pulling out his wallet, “I don't think you can afford to turn me away. You need every paying customer you can get, from the look of this place.” Bob glanced up at him now, eyes flat and unfriendly as he approached.

“Plus,” Tom flipped open his wallet, showing his army ID card. The card didn't grant him any special status, now that he was out, but some still had respect for his service to the country.

Bob rolled his eyes and went back to his puzzle. Clearly, he wasn't one of them.

Time to play hardball, Tom thought, and slapped a $50 bill down on the desk in front of Bob. “I'll give you that much again in the morning. I'm not loud, I don't drink, and I just need a place to sleep to get away from,” he dropped his voice, “them.”

The bald man looked up and nodded slowly. Everyone knew things were getting worse, even if the Feds were selling them a different line. They all had to watch out for each other, in a time like this. “Yeah, it's rough out there,” Bob said, pushing the fifty off of the counter and letting it fall to the floor below, where Tom could see it start to wet at the edges from the damp warmth permeating the carpet, “and I've gotta look out for my interests. Get out.”

Tom felt his control snap and dove forward, reaching out long arms for Bob, who slipped off of his tall stool and into a back room. One of the flies drifted in front of his face and he brushed it out of the way. A sucking sound from his own mouth surprised him, and he watched as his tongue darted out to snag the bug in mid-air. He recoiled as his own tongue brought it back and he munched it down, teeth enjoying the texture and stomach doing backflips at his own foulness.

“Reptilicant!” He heard Bob scream, and saw the other man coming around the corner with a shotgun.

***

Dark was coming on strong; he had to find a place to stop, and soon. The Last Exit Motel had been a bust; it was hard to believe that Reptilicants had managed to infect even honest merchants like Bob. The place had been a dive anyway, and Tom didn't want to risk staying a night, even with one of their kind dead. He'd heard the others were cannibals, and he didn't want to take the chance of a feeding frenzy.

Licking the last of the dark red barbeque sauce off of his fingers, Tom threw the small bone out the window and put the pedal down. Fast-food chicken wings weren't his first choice, but a guy had to eat. He had fifty miles to go before the next exit, and anything could lurk in the dark.

-D