Room Eleven (very, VERY rough draft)

The beat up old station wagon rattled along the highway, threatening to fall to pieces at any moment. Andrew had one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the radio volume dial, turning it up as high as it would go. Some old country song now blared through the speakers, another lonely guy singing about his pickup truck. It was well past midnight and all Andrew wanted was to stay awake long enough to make it to the next town. He could still taste the blood in his mouth. What a day, he thought. He couldn't believe they found him. So much for witness protection.

Andrew had been driving all night, he wanted to get as far away as he could. There were lights ahead at last; it was the small town of Trenton and he came to it just in time, for the young man could barely keep his eyes open. I'll have to ditch the car, he thought. It'll have been reported stolen by now. I'll figure out how to get out of here in the morning. He braked just before entering the town and carefully drove the old car into the ditch. Then, Andrew just sat there for a while, staring at the dried blood on his knuckles. Blood that wasn't his own. He began to be lulled by his stupor, but reminded himself that the car was too suspicious.

Walking the rest of the way to town, all Andrew could think about was the look on that woman's face. She didn't have to die. Why couldn't they have let her go, she was just trying to protect him. Why did she do that, anyway? he thought. I barely knew her. He spotted a retro looking sign up ahead. The Green Valley Motel looked a little shady, but at least he'd get some sleep. The young man went into the office, a musty smelling little room with green carpet, and stepped up to the desk. A greasy-haired man of about fifty sat dozing in a chair with his feet up on the desk. Andrew rang the bell, startling the clerk awake.

"Wha-? Hey, whaddya want?" the greasy man asked gruffly.

"I need a room," Andrew answered, looking at the floor. He didn't want the man to see his face.

"Be forty bucks," said the clerk as he turned to get a key off of a peg on the wall behind him. "Room eleven's the only one we got, boy. Ain't scared, are ya?" he asked with a crazy smirk and a glint in his eye.

"Eleven's fine," said Andrew warily. He had no idea why he should be scared.

Andrew set the cash on the desk and took his key. He left the office with his head still down and found his room. The door of room eleven was chipped, painted seafoam green, illuminated by the nearby street lamps. He pushed the key into the lock and it turned with a click. The door creaked open and a strange, warm kind of breeze whooshed across Andrew's face, actually rustling his hair. It smelled strange, like stale death. It was as though the room had let out a breath it had been holding in for years. Andrew was to tired to care or even really notice. He just wanted to plop down on the bed inside the pitch black room and get some sleep. Little did he know that soon, he would never want to sleep again.