by Amy Cross
“This is your gate number,” the woman says as she slides my boarding pass toward me, with the number 15 circled in pen, “and you should be boarding at around half seven.”
“Thank you,” I reply, trying to hide the fact that I'm surprised to get this far. I booked the ticket on my phone, during the drive here, and I'm still worried that the Hotel Necro people will somehow track me down. I guess one slight advantage might be that I used my own card, whereas James used his to pay for the whole trip. It might be the case that Hotel Necro's friends have yet to get all my details into their system.
“You have fast-track security access,” the woman continues, “and you'll find the Concordia lounge on the first floor once you're through. Have a great flight!”
“Thank you,” I say again, and I take the boarding pass before turning and walking away.
***
As I stand in the queue at security, I can't help glancing around, looking out for any sign that I'm being watched. I'm sure I look a little suspicious right now, but that's fine. I don't mind being questioned by any of the actual staff here. I just need to make sure that no-one from Hotel Necro is lurking.
“M'am?” the guy on the other side of the metal detector says. “Your turn.”
I force a smile and step forward, while trying to look as boring and inconspicuous as possible.
***
“I love you. Katie, you have to run and keep running.”
That's what Jason said to me, as he lay dying on the ground near the wrecked car. I keep replaying his words over and over, terrified that I might soon forget the sound of his voice.
And then there's the driver of the taxi, the man who pulled the trigger and shot my husband. Why didn't I do anything to him? Why didn't I go over there and make him pay? For a moment, I feel pure rage rising through my body, but I quickly realize that I did the best thing. I got away from there, and now I'm so close to getting home. All I need to do now is get on the plane.
A couple of police officers wander past, carrying guns. I briefly consider going over to them and telling them everything, but then I tell myself that I can't trust them. I can't trust anyone, not yet. Not until I get back to America. Even then, I'm not sure where to go first.
***
7pm. Half an hour to go before we're supposed to get on the plane.
I feel as if I need to scream, but I've waited this long so I guess I can wait a little longer. Still, sitting here in this waiting area is driving me crazy, so I get to my feet and head off to find a restroom.
***
Pushing the door open, just as a woman slips past me on her way out, I head over to the sinks. I need some water on my face, I need to wake myself up a little.
Looking down at my hands, I see that they're still not trembling. I don't know how I'm managing to hold myself together.
“Good evening, Ms. Johnson.”
Startled, I spin around and see Doctor Strickland standing behind me. He reaches over and turns a dial on the door, locking it to stop anyone else coming through.
“What a long way you've come to take your flight home,” he says with a faint smile. “I've come a long way too. I wanted to see you personally, rather than sending some heavy-handed oaf. At Hotel Necro, we pride ourselves on the personal touch.”
I look around, trying to spot something I can use as a weapon.
“I'm truly sorry about your husband,” Doctor Strickland continues, “but he was very much aware of the rules that we have in place at Hotel Necro. These were emphasized to him yesterday, and the day before, when we first began to realize that you were perhaps having... difficulties... sticking to those rules.”
I need to think.
I need a plan.
“You're not in any danger here,” he says. “I've simply come to fetch you. We're going to go back to the hotel, and we're going to have a little talk. At Hotel Necro, we always try to do the right thing. This isn't the first time that a guest's experience has gone a little awry, but we've always found a way to resolve matters in the past and I'm confident that we can do so again.”
“You killed Jason,” I reply through gritted teeth.
Come on, Katie. Think!
“And I've expressed my genuine regret for that,” he replies. “There are really two ways we can do this. The first is that you can come with me calmly, without a struggle. You have my word that I'm here alone. We sent one person to each of the major airports, and I just happen to have been the one who came to Nice. The second option is that you can struggle, and then I'll have to get creative. Either way, the outcome will be the same. You're coming with me.”
I shake my head.
“You are,” he says firmly. “You might not remember, but both you and your husband explicitly signed an agreement before you arrived at the hotel, confirming that you understood what would happen in this kind of situation.”
“I signed an agreement saying that you'd kill my husband?” I ask, as I feel white hot rage building in my chest.
“Not in quite those terms,” he replies, “but basically, yes.”
Staring at him, I realize that he's serious. I could scream and try to get attention that way, but something tells me that he'll have that angle covered. I could go with him and then try to run but, again, this guy's clearly no fool. At the same time, I have no weapon, I have no way at all of fighting back, and I can't help but notice that Doctor Strickland's right hand keeps touching something in his jacket pocket. I have no doubt that he could get a gun through security. After all, he seems to be able to do just about anything he wants.
“Let's not dilly-dally,” he says finally. “Time's ticking, Ms. Johnson. You are going to do the right thing, aren't you?”
“The right thing?” I swallow hard, as I realize that I only have one chance here. “Sure. I'm going to do exactly the right thing.”
I step forward, making my way over to the door.
“That's good,” he says, reaching out to turn the dial. “For a moment there, I was worried you might -”
Before he can finish, I throw myself at him, slamming hard into his chest. He grabs me by the shoulders and swings me around, but I was expecting that. I slam my knee into his groin, and he lets out an anguished gasp as I grab the back of his jacket's collar and throw him forward. Keeping hold of him, I slam his head against the edge of the sink, hoping to knock him out, but he manages to twist around and kick my legs out from under me.
I fall, but I bring him down too.
Slamming into the floor, I pull aside to avoid having him land on me, and then I turn and try to punch him. He ducks out of the way and then he grabs me by the throat, immediately squeezing hard and digging his thumbs into my flesh as hard as he can. I wriggle for a moment, trying to get free, and then I summon some strength from somewhere and throw him back against the wall. He lets out a pained grunt. Before he can grab me again, I slam my shoulder against his chest, but at that moment I see that he's pulled a gun from his pocket.
I grab his wrist, keeping him from aiming at me.
“You're making a fatal mistake!” he sneers.
I try to pull the gun from his hand, but he's holding on too tight. For a moment, I'm not sure what to do, but then I realize that I've still got one good chance. I turn to him and see the anger in his eyes, and then I headbutt him as hard as I can, hitting his nose and immediately feeling a crunching sensation.
Turning, I see that he's let go of the gun, which is now sliding across the floor. I scramble over to grab the damn thing, but at the last second Strickland grabs my ankle and holds me back.
“You could have been on your way home by now!” he snarls. “You could have been enjoying all the benefits of your stay!”
I'm still reaching for the gun, but my fingertips are falling just a few inches short.
“All you had to do was take your pills,” he continues, as he starts pulling himself toward me. “All you had to do was take your goddamn medication!”
I gasp as I try agai
n to reach the gun. I'm closer, but still not close enough.
“But you had to be a hero, didn't you?” Strickland says, grabbing my shoulders and trying to pull me back. “Well, let's see how that works out for you! You'll make a fetching victim for the next guests at Hotel Necro!”
Letting out an angry cry, I lunge forward, and by some miracle I manage to grab the gun. I put my finger against the trigger, and then I turn and aim the gun straight at Strickland's bloodied face.
He freezes.
“You wouldn't!” he sneers.
I adjust my grip. For a moment, I actually consider shooting this man at point blank range. Would that be any worse, any more cowardly, than what his henchman did to Jason? I could blast this asshole's head all over the wall. Then I could explain, and no amount of dishonesty or corruption would be able to sweep the truth about Hotel Necro under the carpet.
I begin to squeeze the trigger.
And then, suddenly, I remember another thing that Jason said to me as he was dying:
“I love you so much, I always have. You're the best person I've ever met. You have such a good soul, Katie. Never let anyone ruin that.”
“Give me the gun,” Strickland says firmly. “I think you'll find that that's your best, and only, option right now.”
I stare at him for a moment longer.
“Now!” he screams.
“Okay,” I say finally, and I turn the gun around in my hands.
He smiles.
Suddenly I slam the gun's handle against the side of his head, as hard as I can, and he lets out a stunned groan as he slumps down. I hold the gun up, ready to hit him again, but he doesn't move. I wait, in case this is a trick, and then finally I realize that I actually have managed to knock him out.
“I think you'll find,” I say breathlessly, “that that's called pistol-whipping.”
I scramble to my feet and grab his arms, and I drag him into one of the cubicles. Once I've set him on the floor, I head back out and drop the gun into the bin. I check myself in the mirror, and I realize that fortunately I still don't have any obvious signs of blood. My heart is racing and I feel as if I still need to scream, but I've come this far and I'm not going to stop now.
I'm going home, and then I'm going to expose Hotel Necro to the world.
Turning, I glance at Strickland's unconscious body as I head to the door.
“Have fun when you wake up, asshole,” I mutter. “Pretty soon, Hotel Necro's gonna be closed for business. On the bright side, you're gonna be famous.”
I step outside. Conveniently, there's an Out of Order sign hanging on the door to one of the other restrooms, so I swap it over and then I start making my way to the gate.
With each step, I expect to feel a hand on my shoulder, to find that I'm going to be stopped. I look around, and every face seems as if it could be someone from Hotel Necro. Strickland said he'd come here alone, but is that possible? I guess he might have been telling the truth, but I'm still convinced that somehow something is going to get in my way. And yet, as I reach the gate and find that boarding has started, and as I join the queue and get my passport and boarding card ready, I can't shake a feeling of hope that maybe – just maybe – I'm going to get away from here after all.
The flight attendant looks at my passport and scans my boarding pass, and then she smiles as she wishes me a pleasant flight.
“Thanks,” I reply, barely able to believe that this is working.
My heart is pounding as I step past her and head along the corridor that leads to the plane. All the sounds of the airport suddenly seem so loud, but I'm finally starting to believe that this is really possible.
I'm going home.
Thirty-Nine
It's the middle of the night when I finally reach New York. I feel like a zombie as I make my way through the airport, but with each step I find that nothing bad happens. Maybe Hotel Necro's reach isn't long enough to reach me here. Maybe I'm really free.
Once I'm through immigration, I stop in the arrivals hall and look around. There's no-one here to meet me, of course, but the truth is that I barely dared plan for what I should do next. I can feel the scream still in my chest, still waiting to get out, but I know it's too soon for that. I have to stay calm for a little while longer, and after a moment I spot a police officer nearby.
Is he part of it all?
Is he working for Hotel Necro?
I can't assume that.
At some point, I have to trust somebody.
“Are you okay, M'am?” he asks as I head over to him.
“I...”
How do I say this?
“I need to talk to someone,” I stammer finally. “Something happened, and I need to tell someone. I'm a... I think I'm a witness to something awful that happened while I was on vacation.”
“Okay,” he says cautiously, “are you in any danger?”
“No,” I reply, before thinking for a moment. “I don't know. Maybe.” There are tears in my eyes now. “They killed my husband.”
He hesitates, and it seems from his expression that he understands something's very wrong. Maybe he believes what I'm telling him, or maybe he thinks I'm insane. He seems genuinely confused, though, and I'm pretty sure that he's not just a good actor.
“Why don't you come with me?” he says, with a friendly smile. “We'll see about finding the right person to assist you.”
“Thank you,” I reply, and I start following him along a corridor. “I don't even know where to begin.”
“We have someone here you can talk to,” he explains, “and they'll know who to put you in touch with.” He stops at a door and scans a key-card, and then he gestures for me to go through. “After you, M'am. Please.”
“Thank you,” I reply, still feeling like a zombie as I head into the next room. “I just don't know where to begin. It's all going to sound totally incredible when I start.”
“It'll all be okay,” a familiar voice says suddenly.
I freeze.
“Welcome home,” the voice adds, as the door shuts behind me.
For a moment, I don't dare believe that this can be happening. And then, slowly, I turn and see Jason sitting at a desk at the far end of the room.
Forty
“Your name,” Jason says, as I sit on chair and stare at him, “is not Katie Johnson. Katie Johnson doesn't exist. Your name is Elizabeth Bell Langley and you're the CEO of Dupatron, a tech and pharmacy company based in Seattle. You're personally worth more than five billion dollars.”
I don't know what to say.
All I can do is stare at him and wait for this madness to start making sense.
“I'm dreaming,” I whisper. “I... I have to be dreaming.”
“About a year ago,” he continues, “you made the difficult decision to shut down one of the company's divisions. There were angry demonstrations. You decided to go and speak to the fired employees personally, but things got a little out of hand. They were yelling awful things at you, accusing you of being heartless and cruel. And then one of the employees, a man named Michael Duncan, physically assaulted you. He was pulled away quickly, but not before he managed to cut your face with a knife.”
Reaching up, I touch the scar on my cheek.
This can't really be happening.
“At first, you seemed fine,” Jason explains, “but over the following months I began to notice that something wasn't right. The attack had shaken you, and as your husband I began to notice that you were becoming withdrawn. I tried to talk to you about it, but you insisted you were fine. Things got worse and worse, however, and the Dupatron board became concerned about your continued ability to lead the company. Finally, you admitted to me that you'd begun to doubt yourself. The protesters had called you a heartless bitch. A monster. They'd said you were evil. And those word had dug into your soul like little daggers, Elizabeth. You'd begun to believe them.”
I open my mouth to tell him that he's wrong, but somehow – deep down – I feel as if maybe all o
f this is true.
“That's when we decided to go to Hotel Necro,” he says. “It's one of a number of full-immersion multi-day experiences, offered by a very exclusive company. You wanted to find out whether you're truly a good person at heart, so you went for the full package, which involves having your memory temporarily wiped. It's like a factory reset of your personality, for a day or two, to see who you really are. The Hotel Necro package involves a kind of horror thriller story-line in which you gradually uncover bad things at a mysterious hotel. Think of it as like a psychological escape room, but thousands of times more realistic. And bigger. And the room, in this case, was actually your own sense of self-loathing.”
“Hotel Necro isn't real?” I stammer, with tears in my eyes.
“It really exists, but it's not quite what you thought it was.”
“It's some kind of escape room?”
“The experience was tailored for you,” he explains. “Full immersion means full immersion, Elizabeth. The people who died there really died. It wouldn't work any other way. For example, Maria was a homeless girl who was paid to attack you in the street. She didn't know what would happen to her after, of course, but Hotel Necro is very experienced at this sort of thing. They created a story for you to experience, so that you could see how you'd react. And you passed with flying colors, Elizabeth. You fought back, and you did the right thing.”
“The pills...”
“You were always supposed to uncover the truth about that place,” he replies. “Various scenarios were set up so that you'd do that, and so that it would feel natural. If you hadn't skipped that pill, you'd have found out some other way. The point is that, when push came to shove, you did the right thing. I mean...” He chuckles. “You have to admit, the whole thing was a little corny. It was designed to be like one of those gory horror movies, and you were set up to be the heroine. I think, by any standards, you excelled. The people at Hotel Necro gave you almost full marks. You should feel really pleased with yourself.”
