Adrian blinked. To be more specific, Adrian felt his eyelids lower by their own accord. He saw the scope of what he was seeing lessen, narrow and then turn to black. And then he felt his eyelids rise, revealing George once more. Only now he was slowly taking steps back into the banquet room, hands displayed at the sides of his torso, palms up. Adrian was studying the words George had said last. I would like you to be our guest… as if… as if this place was still functioning, taking in guests from every corner of the globe. As if George would just tap a few keys on a computer's keyboard, book his reservation and ask if he wanted complimentary water or a verbal tour of Los Angeles. And did he say “our” guest?

George clapped his hands and gave a “how about it?” look with another calculated cock of his head and a winning smile. He was still walking cautiously and had entered all of six feet into the room. Adrian thought he could momentarily see a tiny flash or glare of something reflective and small, sticking out of the front pocket of his crinkled black dress pants. When he had apparently decided that Adrian wasn't going to respond, George dropped his hands to his sides and wore a defeated expression.

Is he offended? What does he want? Adrian was sure his face was scrunching up with confusion more and more every second, but he was not processing these events as quick as he needed to. As quick as George was moving them.

George stopped moving at the end of the light let it in by the opened doorway. He put his hands on his hips and stared at Adrian from approximately twenty-five feet away.

“I admit. Out of all of the reactions to these palavers that I have had, yours is the least… notable. Which, to me, makes it the most notable. And it is an unexpected reaction, also. May I sit again? I suspect that we need to have a longer chat.” To this Adrian nodded slowly, cleared his throat and then replied as George made his way back to his seat.

“I don't know how to react. I don't know what you mean.”

Now it was George's turn to have his face scrunch. As he settled into his chair, he tapped a robotically-moving finger thoughtfully against the armrest. All of George’s movements seemed “robotic” in nature, Adrian realized. Every muscle pulling, every thought process acted out was like a typewriter's button being pressed. A singular decision that was seen through flawlessly to its finish.

“What I said was exactly what I meant. There are no hidden connotations. We would like you and Kevin to, if you would, be our guests here. You do know what this building is, right son? It's an inn. A type of hotel.” George smiled wolfishly at his condescending joke, displaying double rows of straight teeth, stained to a smoker’s yellow.

“I've worked at a hotel for seven years… that's not what I don't understand.”

“Then make it plain. You make a simple introduction into an interrogation.”

Adrian felt his eyes grow wide, saw George's lips curve and then quickly peel back from a smile, a failed attempt to hide it. He was turning things into an interrogation? Adrian had been the one bound, dragged, blinded and questioned. Yes, Adrian thought, maybe I did turn this into an interrogation, if only by existing have I morphed this. He was fuming with the disbelief he had, the insanity of everything before him. What about this predicament made it look like things were going the way Adrian turned them? Nothing! And then Adrian blinked.

Am I being… is he fucking with me? He asked himself silently.

“That was a joke.” Adrian said out loud. He didn't ask, he pulled the knowledge out of George's telling expression and announced it.

“A bit of sarcasm, more specifically.” George cheerfully added and then resumed the silence. All of the while he was watching Adrian.

“I don't understand what you mean by asking me to be your guest. The last man I spoke with shot me, and now I'm being offered hospitality by the next.” Adrian raised his hands, saying “what am I supposed to do?” with a defeated gesture. George seemed to be mulling this over for a few moments, then he nodded.

“Yes. Yes. I understand that. When you make it so plain and simple as that, I would have a hard time trusting strangers, too,” George made himself more comfortable, “so I suppose you'll be wanting to hear my story now, is that it?”

That hadn't actually been “it”. Adrian didn't know what “it” was exactly, but he had been offered a lead and he took it. He wasn't so sure if living with this man, sleeping under the same roof as him, was a good idea. More knowledge here would be powerful.

“Yes, please. If you would.” Adrian said politely. Despite not wanting to show it, Adrian was curious about who George was. He was strong and smart and alert. Adrian had walked straight into his trap like a rat would. But despite being held in the center of his palm, George didn't seem to be toying with him. There was no lunacy is his crow-footed eyes. There was no underlying motive to gain resonating in his voice. And even though he was rough, he hadn't been overly violent. Yet, anyway. George cleared his throat before he began.

“Quite proud of this one, I have got a lot of war stories but this one is quite the tale to tell. Almost makes for a movie script,” he laughed, stroked his chin, continued, “back a year ago, when they dropped those bombs on us-"

“Eight months.” Adrian interjected without realizing.

“...pardon me?” George scowled.

“It's been eight months… not a year.” and when George said nothing, “I've been keeping count.”

“Right… anyhow. Eight months ago, when they dropped those ever-loving bombs on us, I was at work. The first sign was the growing unrest in my patients, the thick pot of chaos beginning to stir. Next, you could see it. Thick dark clouds in the east, in the north. A surge of wind rattled the world like an above ground earthquake, and then it was calm. The eye of the storm. Soon, all hell broke loose. People tossed chairs out of windows. I was mugged for the money in my wallet on my way to get my wife and child. Got this from the fellows ring on his hand,” George pointed to the crack in his glasses before proceeding, “I left work early. I worked at a pet clinic as the head veterinarian, by the way. And yes, before you interrupt again, I will take a look at Kevin. I saw that spark in your eye.” George shook his head disapprovingly, then gave a lighthearted chortle.

“I picked up my daughter from elementary school, on the way I called my wife and relayed the plan to her. She was to stay at the inn until I got there with Candy. The children were singing hymns, shepherded in to a pen made of cafeteria tables and televisions that at that point were only blaring emergency alerts, by their teachers. Their fucking teachers penned them. Most of whom, by the way, were not sober. I could not for the life of me tell you how I think that two or three dozen adults became so intoxicated so quickly around so many children. But they were. Sitting in round circles, passing a flask or a bottle. All while two or three others comforted the children shuddered against the walls, scared, singing. I took Candy, my little girl Candace, and we ran for the car. The fool that I am, I left the keys in the ignition. My car was gone. We had a twenty minute drive yet to get to my wife, who was here in this building we sit in, working.”

Adrian hadn't realized how intently he had been listening until George paused. The older man took a long drink from his water bottle and sat it down. Adrian also realized how thirsty he was, and was about to ask for a drink before George chimed in again.

“So I looked at my daughter, a statue of fright, and asked her. I asked her if she knew what was happening. She shook her head. I asked her if she was scared. She shook her head, the most obvious lie I had ever seen. Tears spilled as she moved her head, and I took her in my arms. I said, “Candy, do not worry. Daddy knows what to do.” he said with finality, taking another sip. When he didn’t continue, which Adrian was beginning to take as social cues, Adrian inquired.

“What did you do?”

“Would you believe that I called a cab, Adrian? I did,” he chuckled, “I called a cab and what more is to it, the cab got to the schoolyard in fifteen minutes. Fifteen. Have you ever called a cab that arrived so fast?”

This time it was Adrian’s turn to use silence as a prompt.

“We got in the cab. The cabbie barely spoke a word of English. He knew something had happened, something big but he could not find the words to ask, and I could not find the words to tell him. But he did know Los Angeles like the back of his hand. Along the way I tried to call my wife again but the reception was down. I asked the cabbie for his phone, same deal. It was around that point I think that he started to understand what was happening. You could see it in his face then. Anyway, I was here with my wife in forty-five minutes. Traffic was chaotic going toward the highway, you see. It was then that I remembered that I had been mugged not an hour and a half earlier. How was I meant to pay?” he stopped to reflect, cough, and drain the remains out of his bottle.

“I didn't think at the time about how obsolete paper money would become. No. I was thinking that I owed this man a debt, someone who risked all to take me to my loved one, and he didn't even know what he was risking until it was too late. And so, I did some tense, quick thinking. There had not been much destruction or vandalism at this point, still too early. But to see clearly down the future’s road, and what life could possibly be like, you did not need to be a fortune reader anymore. No crystal ball, no. You could see it like a ship on the horizon, only a black speck. The details sharpened and made up by your brain. But you knew it was there, and coming.

“So this man looks at me, he doesn't say a word. I am not saying anything either, only looking back at him with what must have been empty and pleading eyes. From the distance of the front seat to the back, there was miles of uncertainty. I say to him, “where are you going now?” and he says to me, “I do not know,” and we are finally making social progress now. He starts to weep, and then he bawls. Which makes my daughter cry again, and now I am the only human in the car not needing to be consoled. So to tie up the water works I put my hand on the cabbie’s shoulder. He stops, just enough to take note of what I am saying. I say, “stay here?” and I point to the inn. He looks at me as if I was a wall. So I unbuckled my seatbelt, reached over and turned the key in his ignition, the car went off. I said, “stay here, come inside,” and when nothing on his face surrendered his understanding, I added “home,” and then he understood. It took a small bit of back and forth, but five minutes later I was inside of these walls with him and my daughter. And back in the early days, this place was hell. When we first walked in, the lobby could have been confused for penny day at a thrift store. Clothes, towels, shampoos. Perfume bottles, alcohol bottles, cans of cleaning chemical. Sheets, loose pets and curtains. All over every inch of floor. You could not take a flat step on the ground. Isn't it interesting how quickly the world went to shit, Adrian?”

Adrian had been caught off guard. He had been sitting with has back leaned forward, elbows on knees with his head in one hand while the other rested horizontally. There was something about human contact that was addictive, now. Or maybe it just had addictive tendencies. Whatever it was, Adrian had often found himself craving conversation. Even the spat with the crazy old man in Reggie’s had scratched a particular itch. It was killing curiosity. The words, people's voices were harmonious after such solitary confinement he had self imposed, but what he truly needed without ever consciously recognizing was to know how other people were doing. How anyone else had fared out during this shit. So it was easy for him to get enwrapped in a story as enticing as George's. At the very mention of cab drivers, Adrians mind had salivated with a flush of memories.

“Yeah. I mean, yes. It is.” Adrian replied. Even though he desired such small things like conversation, he found it to be a near inability to express or articulate himself. Every syllable was pulling tightly wound muscles with rusty hinges attached in his jaw. Every response was fished randomly from a swift running river of thoughts.

And it had, in a way, been interesting just how quickly the world went to shit. It had changed like the world changes to autumn. Slowly, at first. It built up, cars dashed to scattered locations. People were scared. Then they disappeared, fleeing like leaves from trees. It grew quiet, and those who remained hid or helped the decay spread. Buildings were destroyed, smoke filled the skies, people were dying. And then it became quiet again.

“My wife ran up to me. Heather is her name. She worked here for years, now she runs it. She ran up to us and we rejoiced. From the look on her face, you would have thought that she never expected to see her daughter again. They embraced, we all embraced, and then I introduced the guest we had with us. His name was Harishchandra Aoun, but we called him Harish. It was a lot easier on our American tongues. Heather was distrustful at first, you have to understand that this mayhem wreaked havoc heaviest on her. She had had a close call with a guest who in one hour was pleasant, cordial and otherwise unnoticeable and in the next, when the shutters flew open and we all saw the apocalypse coming, was a threatening, thieving fucking PIG!” and as he let out the outburst he threw his water bottle, making muffled ting-ting-ting noises as it bounced along the carpet. Veins quickly dominated his forehead. George looked discombobulated, but clarity came back as he wiped his face. He let out a long, whistling sigh and then looked, if you ignored the past fifteen seconds, as he always had. Calm. Calculated. Watchful.

“But she was ok. We were all ok. Harish was ok. No one was sure how long he would stay, I think even for him it was a moment-by-moment basis. But we were glad to house him, he carried his own weight two-fold. Along with him, and after we kicked all of the former checked in guests to the curb, we were a group of seven. A motley group we were, too. My family, and Harish. Dillan Dolliver, who was a businessman here on… vacation, with a… lady of the evening. If you will.”

“A hooker?” Adrian inquired, mostly out of shock but there wasn't anything masking the confusion on his face.

“A hooker, if you will, then. And wipe that disrespectful look off of your face. Undoubtedly, Miranda was of the biggest help to our survival. We almost kept her on. She could sew, she could tie knots, she could keep after herself and was a fast learner. She not only knew of some valuable commodities stashed away in little known areas, her knowledge of this area's terrain rivaled that of Harish.” George spoke quickly, with the air of the offended. Another pause followed, and Adrian knew what was being prompted this time.

“No, I… I didn't mean anything like that. Anything offensive. I was just surprised that you had a sex worker live with you. I know everyone has their pros and cons, but you have a family here.”

“Adrian. Hookers are people, too. Like you and me. Like you and me.”

“That's not what I'm saying. I'm sorry. I just meant… look, it was surprising, alright? I would act the same if you had said she was a…” Adrian tried to think, but he drew blanks.

“No, Adrian, you were just shocked to learn a common hooker could have some merit to her. Their stereotype works against them, largely. And you know what? I do not think that's wrong of you. As long as you learn from it.” George eyed Adrian carefully.

“...yes. You are right, George. I was surprised to learn that you let a hooker stay here, and surprised even more to learn she was a top asset, as you said. But not in an offended or disgusted way… it was a welcome surprise, I swear.” the anxiety in Adrian had climbed back up his spine as if it had wings, with strong hands they reclaimed a familiar spot around his throat, cutting proper and confident flow.

“Relax, friend,” George laughed, “no need to be on edge. We are just two guys, sitting in an inn, shooting the shit.” he pronounced the “t" in “shit” sharply.

“The last fellow we had with us, was poor eighty year old Harold. A birdkeeper and watcher. Tragic story, out here to escape the noise of home after his wife died three years back. Plane crash, got a lot of money out of the insurance and all, but you knew as soon as you spoke to him that it was not the money he wanted. I had him, since he knew all of the popular spots, be our hunter and game master, if you will.”

“You had the birdkeeper shoot the birds?”

“He was inclined to! Sure! It took some convincing, some… some passing of insight. But he wanted to, I tell you. He wanted to get rid of the noise, I believe.” George tapped his temple with his index finger, then nodded knowingly. But Adrian had noticed, barely picked up on the slight stutter George had never before shown. What was that about?

“Where are they now?” Adrian asked dubiously.

“We had… a disagreement.” and didn't seem inclined to say anything further.

“A disagreement?” Adrian probed.

“A falling out.” George answered.

“May I ask over what?”

“I'd rather you didn't. It's not important.” George dismissed it with a grimace, waving his hand.

“It… um, it sort of is. To me. Since we're talking about whether or not I would stay here, I think I'd like to know what happened to, um… the previous tenants.” Adrian was being as timid as he could, the ice felt thin. George appeared as if he was thinking things over.

“I can understand that. That is rational. Alright. Ok. I will tell you. It's not a long story. After two months of comfortable survival they all started to turn their noses up at me and my wife and kid. Thought there were too many mouths to feed, that they'd be fine on their own. So I turned the tables when I noticed the signs, sent them packing and now we run this joint all by ourselves. It's pretty comfy.” George relaxed in his chair as he finished his story. He eyed Adrian again, watchfully. Always watchfully.

Now what? Adrian thought. Was this the point where he accepted or rejected the initial offer? What should he say after a story like that? Once again, Adrian was unsure. The past hour had just been so strange, so bizarre. George had went from kidnapping him to inviting him to live here. And having George on his team definitely seemed like an asset. The question was whether or not Adrian could trust him. George had just told him that he threw out the initial group of people he started with. But I haven't crossed him like those people have. A flimsy argument. Adrian looked up at George, who had not moved an inch. His face was currently friendly, short brown hair bent backwards. Possibly combed recently. Adrian started to wonder what Douglas would do, but cut the thought of short. It was only hurting him to think of that.

Another good question was, what would he do if he answered no? Adrian suspected George would let him walk away if he agreed to cause no trouble, but was that the smartest idea? What was out there for him? More chaos, more looters and shooters. George, at least, was offering him a safe haven.

“Ok. Ok. Me and Kevin will stay here with you.”

---

George had taken the silver cardkey out of his pocket and handed it to Adrian. They shook hands, George had welcomed him warmly, and they walked out into the lobby.

It was beautifully blue outside, Adrian saw through the skylight. Eight big panes of glass that took up most of the room on the ceiling. He was led upstairs, hobbling his way through two flights on his cane that George kindly retrieved for him. He also apologized for the fiasco Adrian endured.

“It is necessary though. Otherwise, someone would have taken over this place by now. It's not a bad location, although we have had a few people before you trying to just their way in. Up to no good.”

“How many?” Adrian asked.

“You mark the seventeenth person to come in those doors seeking refuge or resources or what have you.”

“You've turned out sixteen people?”

“Well, mind you, they do not come as individuals all of the time. Sometimes there's a family, sometimes a young couple.” George said innocently.

“How have you not been overtaken? You're… you're just one man and woman, plus a child.”

“We have our resources,” George chuckled, “I own a gun. The gun I let Harold loan so he could hunt for us. Most people willingly walk away when they are offered that option or a bullet. My wife not only has a great knowledge of this hotel, which we have put to good use, but she grew up on a horse farm. For shits and giggles she was taught how to use a lasso, and it has come in handy once or twice, believe it or not.”

They stopped on the third floor, the door right by the stairs. Marked as 3-1. Glancing to his right, he saw his neighbour was 3-2. George made a sweeping “after you” gesture with his hands, and Adrian slid the cardkey he was given into the doors battery-powered lock. As he pulled it out, he heard a click and saw a green light envelop the brass handle around it. He swung the door open.

Inside was a moderate one-bed-one-bath hotel room. The sheets were white, the wallpaper tan and wavy. The smooth tile of the hallway gave away again to carpet, this room's was colored a calm gray. Outside of the window, which was not covered or blackened, there was only dense forest. It encroached closer to the building than Adrian would have assumed at first glimpse, the first trees rooted approximately fifty feet away. The room had a chair and a desk, a T.V. stand that was also a bureau drawer, lacking an accompanying television. A bible laid next to a lamp on a bedside table. Out of fondness for the memory he flicked it on. Nothing happened.

“Oh, that's right. Power. I am going to go turn that on for you right now.” and George turned to leave. Adrian was left alone inside of The Wandering Sheppard.

---

Adrian had been alone for possibly five minutes. He had been examining the integrity of the room, how well it had held up over time. Before he worked in banquets, Adrian had been a special member of the housekeeping team. He would go in to select vacant rooms and strip them down. Flipping the beds over, removing drawers, checking on the tops of dressers. He examined the crevices of bathrooms and tested to make sure every faucet, flush and fixture was customer-perfect. It was a job that required a keen eye for detail.

This room had held up well. There was mold in the corners of the showers ceiling, but he knew that that was not uncommon. The grout in the tiles had been scrubbed cleaned. Back in the bedroom everything seemed in immaculate condition, if not covered in a thick layer of dust.

“Don't get your hopes up.” came a shrill, feminine voice from the doorway. Adrian turned to see a wiry woman with long, silky smoke-gray hair staring daggers into him. Noticeably she wore a gun holstered on her jeans. Her thin, pursed lips opened again as she laid one hand on her gun’s handle.

“Just because George thinks you have something that can benefit us, doesn't mean you will be here long. We are doing just fine on our own and we don't need any outsiders here. You're dirty. You look like you've been living in a sewer. You're untrustworthy and you best keep your distance from both me and my daughter.” and with that she turned and slammed the door shut. There was a quick thunk, followed by a sharp click.

“Did…?” Adrian walked to the door and pulled down on its handle and pushed. It wouldn't budge.

“Are you fucking serious?” Adrians panic was instant, wild and chaotic. Like a fire born by arsonists with flamethrowers. He rattled the door knob with no success. Angrily, he pounded on the door. After several moments of this, and having no one respond to him, he gave up and resigned to his bedroom.

What now? He was trapped. Caught, again. For the second time these Barnes’s have ensnared him. Where is Kevin? What about his things? Would they give him his belongings back, or was he a prisoner here now? His thoughts wasn't easing his anxiety.

Adrian went directly up to the window and looked down. Roughly thirty feet… it had to be. Down below he saw an oil tank. It looked tiny from up here. He knew it was perspective, but it was also perspective gained in his decision to jump.

Make use of your surroundings, and after a few seconds he also thought, tear this room apart.

And so he began. He tilted the bed upward and leaned it on the adjacent wall, removing the pillows but knowing he would need to remake the bed and apply the bedskirt to the box spring. Under the bed he found a dollar. In the box spring he found an 80’s porn magazine and a half-spent book of matches.

In the bathroom was nothing of note. A tank full of water in the toilet, but there was none running from the faucets. He tapped or knocked on every surface he could think of. The vanity, the tiles of the ceiling and floor, every single tile. It appeared to be a regular bathroom.

He looked behind the curtains and in the closet. Under the chair and under the desk. He tested the edges of the carpet, but it was firmly intact. He pulled open every drawer but found nothing inside. The closet was empty. The pillows weren't hiding anything. The paintings on the wall were firmly glued and he flipped through every page of the bible.

Adrian gave up, and began to put the bed back together. He thought he remembered the layout of the sheets, how they were tucked and folded. A strange feeling began forming in his gut. Like he had left something unfinished. Once the bed was horizontal and neatly made, he stood with his hands on his hips. He breathed a slow puff of air out of his nose and went to put the drawers back in. But he paused, a lightbulb forming in his brain. He grabbed every drawer and flipped them, revealing their undersides. All four were comprised of wood, painted the same dark brown as the dresser.

Adrian stuck his hand inside of the dresser and immediately felt something cold and hard. It was a recognizable shape. He carefully gripped it, pulled downward until he heard the tear of tape. From under the dresser, Adrian pulled out a handgun, the first he had ever held.