The River of No Return

by Jon Voelkel

  “What’s an octillion?” asked Max.

  “It’s a one followed by twenty-seven zeros,” replied Lola instantly.

  Max looked puzzled. “That can’t be right.”

  “It’s true,” insisted Lola. “Some people think the ancient Maya computed time across seventy-two octillion years.”

  “No, I mean we can’t be the octillionth visitors. This hotel looks brand-new.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “Forgive my English. What did I mean to say?”

  “Thousandth?” suggested Max.

  “That’s the one. Congratulations! You are our thousandth visitors! Your prize is a one-night stay at the luxurious Grand Hotel Xibalba!”

  The conch-shell trumpet sounded again, and a uniformed bellboy marched across the lobby, carrying a thick vellum envelope on a jaguar-skin pillow. He stopped in front of Max and looked at him expectantly.

  Max took the envelope and opened it. “Vouchers!” he exclaimed, flicking through the contents. “Luxury Suite,” he read, “Ice Cream Parlor, VIP Backstage Tour, Pizza Buffet, Casino, Beauty Salon, Entertainment, everything! And it’s all free! That’s fantastic!”

  “Give them back,” said Lola.

  “No,” said Max. “I’ve never won anything before.”

  “It’s a trick,” said Lola.

  “Don’t be so paranoid,” replied Max, still rifling through the vouchers. He pulled one out and waved it at her. “You should go for a free massage and chill out.”

  She glared at him.

  “I’ll use it then.” Max stuffed the voucher back into the envelope.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” said the rat-faced man. “I am Concierge and Head of Guest Services here at the Grand Hotel Xibalba. Would you care for a VIP tour?”

  “VIP?” Max could feel himself smirking.

  “It stands for Very Idiotic Person,” said Lola.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he muttered.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she replied.

  The concierge pretended not to be listening.

  “Just give him back the vouchers and let’s get out of here,” hissed Lola.

  Max turned back to the concierge. “Could we take a rain check? Come back another time?”

  The concierge touched his hand to his chest as if what he was about to say gave him great pain. “Your prize is nonnegotiable and valid only for today. I am sorry, but those are the rules.”

  He reached out to take back the vouchers.

  Max held on to them.

  “Think about it,” he whispered to Lola. “We could stay here tonight and get the bus to Puerto Muerto in the morning. No need to go back to Utsal. It’s perfect.”

  “No.”

  “Why not.”

  “You know why not.”

  “Let’s at least take a quick look around.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to see your suite?” suggested the concierge. “You have the best rooms in the hotel.”

  “We’re not staying,” said Lola.

  “No? I am sorry to hear that.” The concierge made a show of wringing his hands in dismay. “May I ask where you are going?”

  Lola glared at him. “It’s none of your business.”

  The concierge glanced over to the door, where the poncho family was trooping back in, soaked to the skin and squelching as they walked. This time the mother looked as miserable as her children. “I ask only because the hurricane has arrived. There will be no transport out of Limón today.”

  “What about the worker boat?” Lola challenged him. “We’ll go back to Utsal.”

  The concierge shook his head. “Nothing moves until the storm blows over. There is no going back.”

  “You mean we’re trapped here?” From the look Lola gave him, Max knew she blamed him for this development.

  “Not trapped.” The concierge smiled. “Cocooned in luxury.”

  Lola looked like she might blow a fuse. “If you think for one minute that I don’t know—”

  “—how lucky we are,” cut in Max quickly. “We’re so lucky. Lucky us. We’re lucky, lucky tourists. Shall we have a look at our rooms?”

  Lola narrowed her eyes at him, but said nothing more. In fact, she was possibly not speaking to him.

  “Your suite is on the fourth floor,” said the concierge. He set off across the lobby. “This way to the elevator.”

  “Cheer up,” Max muttered to Lola as they followed him. “It could be worse. We could be out there in the storm.”

  She looked at him with a face like thunder.

  “Going down!” announced the uniformed elevator operator, who didn’t look more than ten years old.

  “Going up, you mean,” Max corrected him. “Our rooms are on four.”

  “In the Grand Hotel Xibalba, sir, everything is down. It is the world’s first subterranean hotel.” The elevator boy smiled proudly. “Safest place to be in a hurricane.”

  “I don’t care how Resplendent they are! Are those Quetzal birds paying rent?” yelled the red-faced businessman into his cell phone. “I thought not. Then they can find someone else to mooch off—I need that cloud forest cleared yesterday!”

  He’d barged into the elevator just as the doors were closing—using his briefcase to prize them open again—then he’d pushed his way into the center, forcing the rest of the passengers to squash against the sides. “Third!” he’d barked to the elevator boy, before continuing to shout self-importantly into his phone.

  The elevator bumped to a stop.

  “Third floor,” announced the little operator. “Convention center.”

  The doors opened on a large sign, pointing the way to the conference. It bore the F.A.T.S.O. company logo of a buzzing chainsaw.

  “He’s one of the enemy,” muttered Lola. “I should have tripped him when I had the chance.”

  “Or,” whispered Max, “you could stick to the plan of acting like a tourist.”

  “Excuse me, “Lola said to the elevator boy, “but I see there are nine floors in this hotel, like the nine levels of Xibalba, the Maya underworld.”

  The eyes of the elevator boy darted nervously to the concierge.

  “Bravo,” said the concierge to Lola. “I see you’ve done your homework.”

  “So,” Lola pressed on, “why would you design a hotel around a place we Maya call the Well of Fear?”

  The concierge smiled, showing his teeth. “It’s called a concept. All the best places have them these days.”

  “Like Disneyland,” suggested Max.

  “Yeah, Xibalba is just like Disneyland,” hissed Lola through her teeth, “if Mickey was a bloated corpse covered in plague boils and Minnie was a decaying mouse skeleton!”

  The elevator boy tried to stifle his giggles.

  Max sensed that Lola was going to be difficult company for the next few hours.

  The elevator doors opened onto a stone corridor lit by electric-powered torches. It reminded Max of the Yellow Pyramid back in Spain—except there, of course, the flaming torches had been real.

  “Fourth floor—VIP suites!” announced the elevator boy.

  “This way,” said the concierge, leading them to a set of double doors at the end of the corridor. “The Ak’bal Suite.”

  He threw open the doors to reveal a palatial—if cold and gloomy—sitting room. Jaguar-patterned curtains were draped along one wall to give the illusion of windows, and jaguar-patterned rugs were scattered on the baked-tile floor. The walls were painted in Maya-style murals. The one closest to Max depicted a gruesome sacrifice scene.

  “How do you like it?” asked the concierge.

  “It’s kind of”—Max searched for a polite word—“dark.”

  “Dark?” echoed the concierge. He flicked on a plastic wall torch over the desk. “Is that better?”

  Max winced as the light shone its beam directly onto the agonized face of the sacrifice victim.

  “He meant dark in the sense of forbidding,” explained Lola. “It’s
oppressive in here, like a Maya temple.”

  The concierge looked pleased. “I knew you’d like it. You each have your own room”—like a flight attendant pointing out emergency exits, he gestured to two doors facing each other on opposite sides of the sitting room—“so please make yourselves at home. I’ll leave you to settle in now. If you need me, I will be in the lobby.”

  As soon as he’d gone, they each opened the bedroom door closest to them.

  Max whistled in approval. “I’ll take this one!”

  “Fine by me,” called Lola, from the depths of her room.

  In Max’s room, there was a small bed covered in jaguar-print bedding. The rest of the room was taken up with a state-of-the-art home theater system, including a huge flat-screen TV and a game console. The electronics contrasted strangely with the rough-hewn walls and plastic torches, but Max wasn’t judging the decor. He saw only the library of video games. Without a second thought, he kicked off his shoes, stretched out on the bed, and reached for the array of remote controls.

  A moment later, Lola stuck her head round the door. “Don’t get too comfortable, Hoop. We need to keep our wits about us.” She looked about in amazement. “Wow, look at all that gear! This room is perfect for you!”

  “I know, right? It’s better than my room at home.”

  “Mine’s completely different,” continued Lola. “It’s got books, music, paints, a loom—like it was designed for me.”

  “So now aren’t you glad we came?”

  “No. I don’t like it at all. It’s almost as if they were expecting us.… I smell a rat.”

  Max sniffed the air. “Could it be Mickey’s bloated corpse, by any chance? Or Minnie’s decaying mouse skeleton?”

  Lola laughed in spite of herself. “Okay, so I lost it a bit in the elevator. But I’m telling you, I still think this is a trap.”

  “A mousetrap?”

  “It’s not funny. We need to get out of here while we still can.”

  “Please, Monkey Girl, relax. We’re in the VIP suite. One room is for playing video games and one’s for chilling and being creative. You’re making a big deal about nothing.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. You’ve been acting weird ever since we walked into this place. One minute you tell me to stay quiet and act like a tourist; the next minute you’re freaking out over some woman with a button, or cross-examining the elevator guy.”

  “I’m sorry; you’re right. But everything about this place makes me jumpy.”

  “I can’t believe that we’ve won an all-expenses-paid stay in a luxury hotel, and you can’t just relax and enjoy it. It’s not like we have anywhere else to go until the hurricane’s over.”

  “How do we know that the Death Lords didn’t send the hurricane?”

  “Okay, now you’re being paranoid. Just let me check out this game system, then we’ll go and explore the rest of the hotel, and I’ll try and convince you that everything’s normal.”

  “Good luck with that,” commented Lola, as she peered at another lurid sacrifice scene on the wall over Max’s bed.

  “Why don’t you call Uncle Ted,” suggested Max, “and tell him what’s happened? I bet he’ll say to stay in the hotel until the buses are running again.”

  Lola picked up the phone. “It’s dead,” she said.

  “Okay. Just give me a few minutes and we’ll go down to the lobby and phone him from there.”

  “I don’t trust him,” said Lola as she left the room.

  “Who? Uncle Ted?” Max was still looking for the game controller.

  Lola’s head reappeared round the door. “The concierge.”

  “Why not?”

  “He looks like a rat.”

  If Max hadn’t been so distracted by the game console, Lola’s words might have put him on his guard. They might have reminded him of a night in Spain, when a leather-clad rock band had reverted to a pack of scurrying sewer rats, right in front of his eyes. And he might have remembered that Death Lords and rats tended to hang out in the same places.

  But Max wasn’t interested. He’d found the controller and he was focused on playing his games. “What’s with your rodent obsession today? The concierge can’t help how he looks.”

  Lola massaged her temples. “You’re right. This place is getting to me. I’ve got such a headache. Maybe I’ll lie down for a moment.”

  “Better close the door. It could get noisy in here.”

  “Have fun.”

  The door clicked loudly as she pulled it shut.

  Max sank back into the pillows. This was the life. He understood that Lola didn’t like anything about this hotel, but she needed to get real. Just because a place had soft beds and state-of-the-art electronics didn’t make it the work of that devil Ah Pukuh.

  He pointed the controller at the screen, and the room was plunged into darkness.

  What?

  He heard a noise, a scuttling noise.

  Something ran over his face. An insect? He knocked it off.

  He was jabbing at the controller furiously now, trying to undo whatever he’d just done to make the lights go out.

  But the lights stayed out.

  He jumped off the bed to go find a light switch on the wall.

  Something crunched under his feet.

  He wished he’d worn socks.

  “Lola!” he called, but there was no answer.

  Something was running up his leg, under his jeans.

  Slapping at his leg with one hand, he found the door with the other, and grabbed at the wooden doorknob. He pulled it, turned it, pushed it. It refused to move.

  “Lola! Where are you? Help me!” he shouted.

  “What have you done?” she yelled from the other side of the door. “The power’s gone out! I think you’ve blown a fuse with your games.”

  “It wasn’t my fault; I hadn’t even started playing. Can you call someone to fix it?”

  “The phone’s out, remember? I’ll go down to the lobby.”

  “No! Wait! My door’s jammed. Help me get out of here first.”

  He heard the handle jiggling on the other side.

  “It’s stuck,” called Lola.

  “That’s what I just said!”

  “Let me grab my flashlight.”

  Max waited.

  Sweat ran down his face. Every so often, a bug ran over his bare feet.

  Then Lola’s voice again. “Hoop? I’m back! Are you there?”

  “Of course I’m here. And there are things in here!”

  “What things?”

  “I don’t know—bugs! Big bugs! They crunch when I step on them!”

  “Stand back! Here goes.…”

  She thumped and kicked the door, but it was no use.

  Next a series of blows and sounds of wood splintering suggested she was using a piece of furniture as a battering ram.

  Still the door held firm.

  As far as Max could tell, all she’d succeeded in doing was scaring the bugs. He could hear them skittering around the floor in panic. Every time he moved, he trod on one; but if he didn’t keep moving, they crawled over his feet—which was worse.

  He started doing jumping jacks to keep them from running up his legs.

  “Hurry!” he called. “Get me out of—”

  Something big with a hard shell fell into his mouth.

  Max gagged and spit it out in disgust and kept spitting and retching until his eyes watered and he felt dizzy. His mouth tasted foul, like dried blood and clogged drains.

  “Lola!” he whimpered, steadying himself against the door.

  “I’ve found a corkscrew. I’m working on the lock,” she called back.

  A lot of scratching and banging and gouging was followed by several very hopeful-sounding clicks.

  At last, the heavy wooden doorknob fell off the door and straight down onto Max’s foot. He’d have a bruise for weeks to come, but the pain didn’t even register … because just as the mahogany globe was making its brutal des
cent, the connecting door swung open and he realized what had been in his mouth.

  In the beam from Lola’s flashlight, the floor was a writhing carpet of cockroaches.

  “Gross!” She shone the light around the room, and the roaches scurried for darkness, scuttling under the bed, disappearing into cracks, vanishing into the walls.

  “I think I’m going to puke,” said Max.

  “Don’t,” said Lola. “Let’s just grab our things and get out of here.”

  Out in the corridor, they checked their belongings thoroughly for stowaway roaches.

  “You have to admire them,” said Lola, “they’re the ultimate survivors. Did you know that a cockroach can live for a week with no head?”

  Max shuddered. “One fell in my mouth.”

  “What did it taste like? I’ve heard they taste like apples when they’re grilled.”

  “Who grills cockroaches? I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. But no, for your information, the massive black cockroach that fell into my mouth did not taste like an apple. It tasted like essence of rusty sewer pipe.”

  “So maybe now you’ll reconsider my theory that the Death Lords are behind all this?”

  “No. It’s a stupid theory. Why would the Death Lords open a hotel?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe they wanted to begin their reign of destruction by destroying the rainforest. Or maybe they were feeling out of touch in Xibalba and wanted a base of operations in Middleworld. Or maybe they just wanted to lure us here with the White Jaguar.”

  “You’re crazy,” said Max.

  But, at that very moment in the bowels of the Maya universe, a cluster of malevolent faces were listening to Lola’s words and nodding in agreement. In fact, some heads nodded so furiously that they snapped off their rotting spinal cords and rolled clean away.

  “She’s a smart cookie, that one,” said the Demon of Pus.

  “But the boy hasn’t got a clue,” added the Demon of Jaundice.

  Back in the gloomy hotel corridor, Max (who—it has to be said—really did not have a clue) was still in denial. “If this is all about getting the White Jaguar, building a nine-story subterranean hotel doesn’t seem like the easiest way to go about it.”

  “Have you ever read Maya mythology, Hoop? The Death Lords don’t think easy; they think big.”