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Mar. 6th, 2007 02:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyfirestarterMarch 6, 2007
2:08pm
The small eternity they spent in room 1408 apparently only lasted about two hours.
It's nearly unbelievable how little damage there has been to the rest of the hotel. Even the rest of the floor, aside from waterlogging and a lingering smell of bitter unpleasant smoke, has escaped any serious harm.
They take the elevator down to room 1108 and rest there, well into the afternoon. Bev dozes fitfully on Charlie's bed. Fire sleeps like a dead thing on the second bed, drained beyond exhaustion. Charlie sits on the bed beside her for a time, holding the blackened hand in hers; the char
(char - charyou - Charlie)
is slowly flaking away, revealing golden-rosy new skin underneath.
When the room phone rings at about three, Bev starts up with a gasp, but Fire doesn't even stir.
"Ms. McGee?" It's Goodwin's voice, sounding oddly strained. "Could I ask you to come up to the fourteenth floor, please?"
* * *
She doesn't expect the crowd, made up of what looks like every employee of the hotel -- chambermaids, bellhops, receptionists, concierge -- in a loose clump around the burnt-out doorway between 1406 and 1410. They're all looking at the doorway, in silence broken only by a murmur here and there; only a few of them turn to look at her as she steps out of the elevator.
Goodwin shoulders through the crowd, and starts to speak, and stops. And tries again. "It's dead," he says finally.
Ding-dong, the witch is dead? Charlie has to suppress a lunatic laugh at the mental image of all the hotel staff as representatives of the Lollipop Guild, and nods instead of replying aloud.
He swallows. "How did -- I don't, I ... are you all right?"
The others are all looking at her now, with the half-fearful wonder of people who have all been afraid of the same thing for a long, long time and are now trying to believe the testimony of their own eyes: that the thing they feared is gone. One of the chambermaids, a Hispanic girl who can't be any older than seventeen, is weeping silently and doesn't seem aware of it.
"Yeah," she says, deliberately matter-of-fact. "Tired as all hell and I think it'll be a while before I can sleep through the night again, but I'm all right. The damage was contained to the one room? Nobody hurt?"
Goodwin shakes his head. "No, nobody." He rakes one hand through his hair, leaving it in hopeless disorder, and lets out a short bewildered laugh.
It's not enough for them to see that she's killed it; they want her to tuck them in and reassure them that it won't come back, that the nightmare really is over. Charlie finds herself simultaneously irritated and sympathetic, and both emotions leak into her voice when she says "If there's nothing else, then, I'm going back to my room to fall over for a few more hours."
"Of course," says Goodwin at once. "Of course. I'll make sure you're not disturbed."
He's as good as his word. Nobody bothers them for the rest of the evening; and when they call down for room service, close to midnight, it arrives with a note telling them that this meal (as well as anything else Ms. McGee should choose to order for the remainder of her stay) is free of charge, compliments of the grateful staff and management of the Dolphin Hotel.
In the meanwhile, there's enough time for Charlie's exhaustion to overwhelm her overstimulated mind into shutting down for a few hours' nap. And enough time for two showers, one for her and one for Bev: both very hot and very long, for what she suspects is the same reason. One that has nothing to do with how much shampoo it takes to get the reek of unclean smoke out of one's hair.
She doesn't know what Bev saw, when she was seeing her dead father's leering face; doesn't know what Bev heard, when she was hearing the thing's sickening suggestions. The last thing she's about to do is ask, but ... she doesn't like the look of the girl's face, pale and pinched, or the way she barely touches her first food in nearly twelve hours.
Which is why in the morning she hands Bev one of her own clean shirts (only a little too big) and says "Feel up to seeing a little more of New York City?"
Bev looks up at her blankly. "Shouldn't we be getting back?" she says.
"We need Fire to be awake before you can get back the way you came, and it looks like she could use another few hours. And I don't know about you, but I really don't want to spend the rest of the morning in this hotel room."
Bev shudders, agreeing.
"So come on," Charlie says. "I want to show you something."
2:08pm
The small eternity they spent in room 1408 apparently only lasted about two hours.
It's nearly unbelievable how little damage there has been to the rest of the hotel. Even the rest of the floor, aside from waterlogging and a lingering smell of bitter unpleasant smoke, has escaped any serious harm.
They take the elevator down to room 1108 and rest there, well into the afternoon. Bev dozes fitfully on Charlie's bed. Fire sleeps like a dead thing on the second bed, drained beyond exhaustion. Charlie sits on the bed beside her for a time, holding the blackened hand in hers; the char
(char - charyou - Charlie)
is slowly flaking away, revealing golden-rosy new skin underneath.
When the room phone rings at about three, Bev starts up with a gasp, but Fire doesn't even stir.
"Ms. McGee?" It's Goodwin's voice, sounding oddly strained. "Could I ask you to come up to the fourteenth floor, please?"
* * *
She doesn't expect the crowd, made up of what looks like every employee of the hotel -- chambermaids, bellhops, receptionists, concierge -- in a loose clump around the burnt-out doorway between 1406 and 1410. They're all looking at the doorway, in silence broken only by a murmur here and there; only a few of them turn to look at her as she steps out of the elevator.
Goodwin shoulders through the crowd, and starts to speak, and stops. And tries again. "It's dead," he says finally.
Ding-dong, the witch is dead? Charlie has to suppress a lunatic laugh at the mental image of all the hotel staff as representatives of the Lollipop Guild, and nods instead of replying aloud.
He swallows. "How did -- I don't, I ... are you all right?"
The others are all looking at her now, with the half-fearful wonder of people who have all been afraid of the same thing for a long, long time and are now trying to believe the testimony of their own eyes: that the thing they feared is gone. One of the chambermaids, a Hispanic girl who can't be any older than seventeen, is weeping silently and doesn't seem aware of it.
"Yeah," she says, deliberately matter-of-fact. "Tired as all hell and I think it'll be a while before I can sleep through the night again, but I'm all right. The damage was contained to the one room? Nobody hurt?"
Goodwin shakes his head. "No, nobody." He rakes one hand through his hair, leaving it in hopeless disorder, and lets out a short bewildered laugh.
It's not enough for them to see that she's killed it; they want her to tuck them in and reassure them that it won't come back, that the nightmare really is over. Charlie finds herself simultaneously irritated and sympathetic, and both emotions leak into her voice when she says "If there's nothing else, then, I'm going back to my room to fall over for a few more hours."
"Of course," says Goodwin at once. "Of course. I'll make sure you're not disturbed."
He's as good as his word. Nobody bothers them for the rest of the evening; and when they call down for room service, close to midnight, it arrives with a note telling them that this meal (as well as anything else Ms. McGee should choose to order for the remainder of her stay) is free of charge, compliments of the grateful staff and management of the Dolphin Hotel.
In the meanwhile, there's enough time for Charlie's exhaustion to overwhelm her overstimulated mind into shutting down for a few hours' nap. And enough time for two showers, one for her and one for Bev: both very hot and very long, for what she suspects is the same reason. One that has nothing to do with how much shampoo it takes to get the reek of unclean smoke out of one's hair.
She doesn't know what Bev saw, when she was seeing her dead father's leering face; doesn't know what Bev heard, when she was hearing the thing's sickening suggestions. The last thing she's about to do is ask, but ... she doesn't like the look of the girl's face, pale and pinched, or the way she barely touches her first food in nearly twelve hours.
Which is why in the morning she hands Bev one of her own clean shirts (only a little too big) and says "Feel up to seeing a little more of New York City?"
Bev looks up at her blankly. "Shouldn't we be getting back?" she says.
"We need Fire to be awake before you can get back the way you came, and it looks like she could use another few hours. And I don't know about you, but I really don't want to spend the rest of the morning in this hotel room."
Bev shudders, agreeing.
"So come on," Charlie says. "I want to show you something."
