Desolation. Derek Landy
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“That’s not a thing,” said Linda.
“Well, maybe not particularly pit bulls, but we all know that witches are terrified of dogs, right?”
“That’s not a thing, either,” said Linda.
Warrick frowned. “So what are witches terrified of?”
“Fire,” said Ronnie.
“But then why did she run away? The moment she saw Two she screamed and ran.”
“That’s because Stefanianna is terrified of dogs,” Kelly said.
“Yes!” said Warrick. “Exactly! See?”
“But that doesn’t mean she’s a witch.”
“Why doesn’t it?”
“Because why would it?”
Warrick frowned again. “I don’t … I don’t see what you’re saying here.”
“Take a right, Ronnie,” Linda said. “Should be a hill up ahead.”
Ronnie took the right. “I see it. That where we’re going?”
“Yep.” Linda sat up. Her dark hair was a mess.
“How was your nap?” Kelly asked.
“Terrible,” Linda answered. “I feel like a hamster in a ball that’s been kicked down a hill for three hours. And Two kept farting.”
Two whined in protest.
“That wasn’t Two,” Warrick said meekly.
“Oh, you’re so gross,” Linda said, crawling forward. She left the cushioned rear of the van and joined Warrick on the long seat behind Kelly.
They got to the top of the hill and Kelly read the sign.
“The Dowall Motel,” she said, and frowned up at the building. “You know, for a pretty town, this is a creepy motel.”
“They better allow pets,” Warrick said.
“I don’t care,” said Linda. “All I want is a real bed tonight. I’m sick of sleeping in the van.”
“Swear allegiance,” Warrick whispered.
They parked, and got out, and Kelly immediately reached back in to grab her jacket. Two hopped out as well, started to hump a small tree, but Warrick shook his head.
“Sorry, buddy, you’re gonna have to stay in the van until we find out if they allow pets.”
“He doesn’t understand you, Warrick,” said Linda, rubbing her arms against the cold.
“Well, no, but he understands basic English, though.”
Linda looked at the dog. “Two. Stop having sex with the tree. Sit. Sit. Two, sit.” She raised her eyes to Warrick. “He’s not sitting.”
“You know he doesn’t like to be told what to do. It’s conversational English he responds to, not orders. We’re not living in Nazi Germany, Linda, okay? We have something here in America that I like to call freedom. Freedom to choose, freedom to worship, freedom to congregate in groups of like-minded individuals, freedom of the press and free speech and freedom to do other stuff … Land of the free, home of the brave. That’s where we live, that’s how we live, and that’s why Two won’t sit when you order him to sit.”
“Fine,” said Linda. “Then you tell him to do something.”
“I’m not gonna tell,” said Warrick. “I’m gonna ask.” He cleared his throat, and looked down at Two. “Hey, buddy,” he said, “mind leaving the tree alone and waiting in the van for a minute?”
Two barked, and jumped into the van.
Linda picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Coincidence.”
“Two’s a smart puppy dog.”
“Of course he jumped into the van. It’s freezing out here.”
“Come on, Linda,” Warrick said, shutting the van door. “Swear allegiance to the doggy.”
Kelly walked on ahead, into the motel, where the first thing that registered was a moose head on the wall behind the front desk.
The woman at the desk looked up. She was tall, skinny, with a mole beneath her right eye and a blouse buttoned all the way up to her throat. Dear God, she was wearing a brooch.
Kelly smiled. “Hi.”
The woman, whose nametag identified her as Belinda, frowned back at her. The others walked in, and Belinda’s eyes widened and she stepped back.
“You,” she said in a surprisingly husky voice. “We do not allow your kind in here.”
Ronnie and Linda froze.
“Me?” said Ronnie, a black man.
“Or me?” said Linda, a Chinese girl.
“Him,” said Belinda, pointing a trembling finger at Warrick.
“Me?” Warrick said. “What’d I do?”
“You’re a … you’re a beatnik,” Belinda said, the word exploding out of her mouth like a chunk of meat after a Heimlich.
“I am not!” said Warrick.
“We do not allow beatniks in this motel!”
“I’m not a beatnik! Stop calling me a beatnik!”
“Excuse me,” Kelly said, still smiling as she neared the desk, “but what seems to be the issue with beatniks?”
“My mother never approved,” Belinda said, practically livid with disgust. “She said never shall a beatnik sleep under this roof, and I say a beatnik never shall!”
Kelly nodded. “That’s very understandable. Beatniks are terrible people. Although Warrick isn’t actually a beatnik.”
“My mother said they will come in various guises.”
“Uh-huh. Yes, but the thing is Warrick isn’t one of them.”
“I hate jazz music,” said Warrick.
“He does,” said Kelly. “He hates jazz music.”
“He’s got a beatnik beard, though,” said Belinda.
Warrick frowned. “My soul patch? I just don’t like shaving under my lip. My skin is sensitive, man.”
“I assure you,” Ronnie said, giving Belinda a smile, “my friend isn’t a beatnik. He just shaves like one. He listens to regular music and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him talk about bettering his inner self.”
“I leave my inner self alone and it leaves me alone,” said Warrick. “We’re happier that way.”
Belinda hesitated.
“The moment he starts wearing berets and playing the bongos,” Kelly said, “we’ll kick him out ourselves.”
“Very well,” Belinda said dubiously. “In which case, welcome to the Dowall Motel. This is a family business. How may I help you?”
“We don’t have any reservations,” said Ronnie, “but we were wondering if you had any rooms available? Two twin rooms, ideally. We don’t mind bunking up.”
“How long will you be staying?”
“We’re not sure,” said Ronnie. “A week, maybe?”
Belinda shook her head. “Sorry, no. Out of the question.”
“I’m, uh, not sure I understand …”
“There is a town festival,” Belinda said,