Nuclear Jellyfish

THE SAND FLEA MOTEL

Out of the pool!”

“Fifteen more minutes. Please!”

“I just gave you another fifteen-twenty minutes ago.”

“Let ‘em stay,” said the mom. “They only know above-ground pools in Ohio.”

“Okay,” said Dad, turning to the pool and raising his voice. “But only fifteen!”

The couple headed up the stairs to their motel room overlooking Interstate 75 and the lighted yellow-block letters that alerted traffic to upcoming Waffle House fulfillment. They reached the balcony and stopped in front of room 231, registered to the Montpeliers of Sandusky.

The Montpeliers had chosen their motel based on value. Three hours earlier at the state line, they pulled into the official welcome center, featuring vending machines for all needs, cheerful tourism pamphlets announcing they were now in paradise, and flyer-covered bulletin boards of people who’d gone missing near the rest stop. Mr. Montpelier grabbed a coupon book from a fake-wood display and, an hour after that, presented a jaggedly torn square of paper at the front desk of the Sand Flea Motel.

“Sorry,” said the whiskered manager. “Sold out of those rooms.”

“You have no more double-bed regulars?”

“Yes. Would you like one?”

“You just said they were sold out.”

“At that price.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We set aside a block of rooms for those coupons. They’re taken.”

“It doesn’t say that on the coupon.”

“They’re taken.”

“Let me see if I have this straight,” said Mr. Montpelier. “The coupon is good for a double-bed regular.”

“That’s right.”

“And you have some available?”

“Dozens. It’s a slow night.”

“Can I use the coupon?”

“We’re sold out.”

Mr. Montpelier’s face reddened. “Essentially there’s nothing stopping you from telling everyone you’re sold out. How do I know you had any discount rooms to begin with?”

“You’re holding the coupon.”

“And?”

“It says so. Pretty good deal, too.”

“Will I be able to experience it?”

“Not really.”

“Honey,” said Mrs. Montpelier. “We’re all tired. Let’s just get a room.”

And now it was after dark as their kids screamed below in the pool. A chlorine drip trail led along the second-floor balcony and up to the towel-wrapped couple standing outside the door of room 231. Mr. Montpelier stopped a second to eye the four dubious men standing quietly at the railing in front of the next room. Then he produced a magnetic card, and they went inside. Wet clothes hit the bathroom floor. Mrs. Montpelier reorganized suitcase belongings that had been scattered like a mortar strike when the family first hit the room. Mr. Montpelier went on Safety-Dad sweep, checking the closet, under the bed, making sure the window latch wasn’t too broken.

The Montpeliers were in one of those rooms with a side door that led to the next unit, in case a large family wanted to book both. The Sand Flea called the arrangement a “suite.”

“Honey …” He gave the window latch a final test tug. “Is the pass-through door locked?”

She stopped folding socks and looked up: “The what?”

“Right behind you. That door connecting to the next room. There should be a second door on the other side for that person to lock.”

“Looks locked.”

“I’ll double-check.”

“No, I’ve got it, dear.”

They arrived in front of the door at the same time. Mrs. Montpelier turned the knob. Good thing they decided to check; it wasn’t locked. Neither was the other room’s door. Sometimes you just do things and don’t know why. That was Mrs. Montpelier, when she turned the second knob.

A sunburned man with an amorphous, glowing tattoo stood beside a bed in room 232. A wide, hollow-point blast pattern of blood covered the wall behind the headboard. A 9mm Ruger automatic and silencer hung by his side. He was leaning over the bed, staring detached at the lifeless woman with a pair of entry wounds, one for each eye. Behind him, the sound of a door creaking open.

He turned to find a pair of tourists from Ohio, neutral expressions turning to horror. Mr. Montpelier grabbed the knob and yanked the door shut.

The sunburned man quickly braced his shooting arm across the other and fired a silent fusillade. Door splinters flew from a chest-high row of bullet holes, left to right, at precise, six-inch intervals. Then he stopped in a haze of ammunition smoke and listened.

On the other side of the door: two heavy thuds.

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