Nuclear Jellyfish

AN HOUR LATER

Two men stood in front of a hotel room door. They whispered and glanced suspiciously up and down the hall.

One opened a brown paper bag. “Hurry up! Before someone sees us!”

The other reached in his fanny pack and removed a can of shaving cream. He squeezed the top, foaming the entire contents into the sack.

The first one pressed the end of the bag flat, and quietly slipped it under the door.

An elevator at the end of the hall opened. Story got off, wrapped in a towel from the pool. A dozen rooms ahead, two men seemed to be having trouble getting into their room. As she grew nearer, one leaned toward the door. “Stamp-collecting wussies!”

The other stomped on the paper bag.

They ran past her giggling.

She reached her own room and opened the door. “I’m back …”

No answer.

“Anyone here?” She checked the bathroom. “That’s odd.”

Then something odder caught her eye: on the other side of the room, an ad hoc tent fashioned from bedsheets and two chairs. She walked over and lifted the edge of a sheet. Souvenir matchbooks, pins and postcards scattered on the floor, next to a stack of hotel stationery covered with tic-tac-toes. And a scorecard: Serge 50, Coleman 0. Her face pinched with puzzlement.

Story began walking back across the suite. She stopped. Some kind of faint noise, like people talking. Except it had a strange electronic sound like a police scanner. Where was it coming from? She resumed walking, more slowly this time, stopping by the dresser to reach silently into her purse. Out came a shiny .25-caliber chick gun. She held it outstretched in both hands, sliding her feet across the carpet. The voices grew louder. They were coming from the kitchenette.

Story rounded the breakfast nook, gun leading the way. The mechanical voices became even louder. But still no sign of their source. Weird. A few more steps. Even louder. It seemed to be coming from the sink. She slipped closer. Actually, beneath the sink.

Story gripped the pistol tight in her right hand, carefully reaching for a cabinet handle with her left. She quickly jerked it open, jumped back and took aim.

Serge and Coleman sat bunched under the sink with potato chips, flashlights and walkie-talkies, a pile of playing cards between them.

“Hey, Story,” said Serge.

Coleman raised his walkie-talkie “Go fish.”

Serge grabbed a card and looked up. “Would you mind closing the door?”

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