Ryan walked to the long desk. There was a notice neatly printed on a board. “Jerry Suster call home soonest.” Under it, hastily chalked, was the single word “No-show.”
The place showed every sign of a rapid and disorganized withdrawal, with clipboards, pens, cards and small change scattered everywhere. At the far end of the desk Krysty found a round metal drum, with a printed label behind clear plastic. “How far to your next Holiday Inn destination? Allow us to make your reservation.”
“See how far we come from Alaska,” said Ryan.
Krysty flipped open a slot on the front of the drum, revealing hundreds of alphabetically arranged rectangular cards. As she began to turn the drum, the cards quivered and began to collapse into tiny shards of dry paper, disintegrating in her fingers. “By Gaia!” she exclaimed. “All rotted away.”
“Figure there’ll be a lot of that. We found that natural materials like wool and cotton all rot in a few years, and artificial materials like plastic last longer.”
Look. She pointed to a rack of colored cards with shiny, laminated faces, hanging on the wall.
They carefully inspected the curling pieces, feeling how brittle and fragile they were, like some ancient manuscript discovered in a cave. These were brochures that described tourists attractions within a reasonable drive from the motel. Ryan had actually heard of some of them, like Disney World and Epcot. Many featured smiling families on holiday, wearing bright shirts and shorts.
Bayou buggy trips, said Krysty. In swampwags.
Another card showed some caves, eerie and dank, with an official of some sort in a buff uniform and wide brimmed hat pointing out a massive stalactite. Tuckaluckahoochy Caverns, only thirty miles from Lafayette, first discovered in 1996, read the caption.
Mebbe food in the kitchens, suggested Ryan. We found lots still usable. Ifn its tinned or freeze-sealed, its edible.
They found a corpse in the Atchafalaya Dining Room.
Sinews of gristle still held most of the skeleton together. It sat at a table near the door, the skull rolled forward, resting against an overturned green bottle. The left leg had become detached, and the left are was loose, the fingers stiffly penetrating the maroon carpet. The right arm was on the table, the calcified fingers clutching a shot glass with a dried brown smear at its bottom. There was nothing apparent to indicate how the person had died.
A long plastic-coated menu rested against a glass candlestick, and Krysty picked it up. Angling it to catch what little light there was, she showed it to Ryan.
” ‘A prime rib of beef, one of our forever and a day favorites, with choice of rice or potato, our crisp’n fresh house salad, bakery rolls and whipped butter.’ Sound good, lover? Guess I’ll have that. Or maybe, ‘the shrimp platter, out of the bay yesterday, served with toasted almonds and pineapple rings.'”
Ryan looked over her shoulder. “I’ll take the deep-fried breaded cheese sticks for a starter, or the egg rolls and mustard sauce. The chef’s salad with what the fuck’s a julienne of ham? And what are olives? Never heard of ’em. A stuffed flounder and crab meat stuffing. Heard of a crab but not a flounder.”
“It’s a fish, I think.”
“Right now I’d settle for anything.”
“How ’bout bird shit on rye?” asked Krysty.
“Sure. As long as it’s good bird shit.”
“Let’s go look in the kitchen.”
They couldn’t believe their luck in the back. Right by the bat-wing doors was an open closet door. Inside, a dozen hand-torches hung, on hooks next to a push-button power pack, Ryan pressed the red switch a few times, and the bulbs began to glow, brighter and brighter.
“Solves a problem. Take one, and we can come back for the others.”
The torches threw a bright narrow beam that lasted about ten minutes before needing recharging. The light was reflected off the polished metal of pots and pans sitting neatly in racks. The shelves at the far end of the kitchen were stacked with all kinds of tins and packets. Krysty let her light explore them.
“The packets have probably gone off, but there’s plenty of tins. Ready meals in sealed cartons. Gumbo what’s that?” She peered at the label. “Oh, yeah. Freeze-dried collard greens, fatback and chili. Irradiated and reconstituted pulk salad. Sounds like enough. What d’you say, lover?”