20
The rain has stopped. The storm has passed. Water drips from the roof of the motel, trickles along gutters and runs away down storm drains. I kill the headlights on the way into town. I roll in slow and park the SUV outside the motel. I leave the door open and step out of the Chevy. I step out of my boots and socks, too.
Don't wanna leave any mud on the walkway.
But wet footprints are okay. They'll dry up fast. I roll up my jeans. Sopping, dirty, horrible. I walk around the front of the SUV across the motel parking bays and onto the walkway.
The ground is still submerged a centimetre with water. It's cold on the soles and toes.
I enter the room where I left the four dead men, stepping over the body of the guy I used as a human shield. I reattach the shower curtain in the bathroom a
