The sun was sinking majestically in the sky, gilding the clouds in sumptuous hues. In the middle of the rubbish-strewn motel lawn the pair of lawn chairs, each with their own small side-table, stood miraculously pristine, the only upright objects in the scene of chaos. Choosing the right-hand chair out of habit, she sank down thankfully, sucking in her breath sharply as her myriad injuries protested. Turning the chair slightly, she had a perfect view of the sunset. Pulling the precious can of drink from her pocket, she ripped open the ring-pull and took a deep swallow. Even lukewarm, the cider glided down like ambrosia.
It was only the previous evening that she had sat in an almost identical pair of chairs, on an almost identical lawn, with an almost identical row of motel rooms behind her. Only then, her husband had sat on her left. They had toasted this blissful moment of peace, with the kids finally tucked up in bed. The motel they had booked was distinctly more upmarket than the one she now sat outside, which had probably carried a distinctive whiff even before the events of last night. They had settled into the chairs in front of the sunset, travel guides and supply of cans close to hand, fearing nothing worse than a noisy neighbour, or the children acting up all night instead of sleeping.
It seemed likely to be the latter, when her youngest child appeared in the doorway of their motel room. Sighing, she had hauled herself out of the chair and crossed the lawn, to hear a complaint about a strange figure in the corner. Probably just a coat hanging from the door, like the previous night. Or an ironing board propped up against the wall, like last week. The disadvantage of a road trip was that every evening presented the children with a new array of furnishings to be scared by. Shushing her daughter’s fears, she had tucked her back into bed with her favourite toy, given her a last kiss and a cuddle, then shut the door with an admonition to ‘be quiet and go to sleep’, which she knew would be ignored. Back outside, she had been almost back to the chairs when the terrible sounds erupted from the room she had just left. But even if she had been closer, there would have been nothing she could have done.
As the sun descended further, the colour faded from the clouds, leaving them grey and lifeless.
The other motel guests had come rushing to the scene, which was the only reason she and her husband had made it out of the room alive. The remainder of the night had been a fevered nightmare. Unlike in films, there had been no quiet interlude to hear the back stories of her companions, and they had fallen one by one with her knowing little more than their faces and the individual ways they reacted to the insane situation they found themselves in. Despite a lifetime of being against gun ownership, she had actually been glad that some possessed weapons. Until the inevitable victims fell in the cross-fire, including her own husband. Then, even the gun-owners had succumbed. By some bizarre twist of fate, when the sun rose again the next morning, she was the lone survivor.
The ‘day after’ had been a long panicky scramble. To find help, to find a working phone, to find a way out. But there was no signal, and while there was no shortage of cars without owners, the roads were blocked by debris. On foot and injured, she had only made it as far as this motel. The office had yielded the now-familiar results – no working phone, no internet, no living being. But, from the smashed cooler, she had retrieved a can of cider. In a fit of honesty, she started to leave cash, then thought how pointless the action was. Then she realised how useless the money was to her now, and left it anyway. Somehow, it seemed important to balance her accounts.
The sun touched the horizon, crimson and orange blazing forth in a final glorious display, before it would be gone completely. The alcohol, combined with her exhaustion and injuries, lulled her into a doze. She was back in the car, navigating a bumpy country road, muscles cramped after a long afternoon behind the wheel. Her husband sat beside her, criticising the way she drove. In the back, the kids were poking each other and shrieking. Underneath her stress and irritation, she felt a rush of joyous relief. Somehow, she was just so grateful to see them all.
Waking, she saw the last gleam of daylight fading from the horizon. The neon sign of the motel had sprung to life, pulsing on and off, like the futile heartbeat of a braindead body. A chill evening breeze ruffled her hair, stroking her skin with icy fingers. Behind her, in the shadows, she could hear them, shifting impatiently, waiting for full darkness. She tipped the can upside down, draining the last few drops into her mouth, then dropped it onto the ground. Feeling every breath rasping through her chest, she tilted her head back, gazing up at the sky. Even when she sensed the rush of movement behind her, she kept her eyes fixed on the vast expanse above. Just before violent hands yanked her backwards, she saw what she had been looking for. The first star, shining in the heavens like a diamond, a welcoming beacon to lead a weary traveller to their place of rest.