Fog Bastards 1 Intention by Bill Robinson Page B
Authors: Bill Robinson
Tags: Science-Fiction, adventure, Literature & Fiction, Fantasy, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Paranormal & Urban, Superhero, Superheroes
Ads: Link
road out here with lots of sleazy rent by the week for cash hotels that are supposedly a sea of meth labs. The rough plan is to find one, catch the bad guys with the evidence, call the police, tie it up in a nice neat bow, and let justice be done. Without getting caught, filmed, or fucked up in the process.
The find part is apparently even easier than I thought it would be. I head right for one of the properties, colorful well lit sign out front promising low weekly rates, free cable, free wi-fi, and cleanliness. The building itself looks like a strong gust of wind would take it down. Paint older than I am, what was once tan stucco cracked and pealing, no elevator even though it's four stories high, roof mostly old red tile, but patched randomly with black shingles. Obviously cheaper to pay off the inspector than fix it up.
The hotel itself is a rectangle, with each room facing into a central courtyard, concrete with a few open dirt areas that probably held trees in the distant past. Loads of parking on all four sides, lights in the parking lot only in the front, and a single camera over the archway from the front lot into the courtyard. Seems to be there to protect the manager's office, not the residents. Or, just maybe, the residents prefer to be more anonymous than actual cameras would make them.
There is a single door that fascinates me. Third level up, closed, no lights on, can't make out the number from here, but directly across from the archway. In other words, way in the back, rear window facing only parking for this complex and another complex well to the south. I know evil is afoot in that room. The question is only what kind of evil, and how best to end it.
I think about landing and sitting on the roof, but even here that might be suspicious (and the roof might not hold my weight), so I just talk a few molecules into letting me stand on them, a couple hundred feet up. Nice and dark, provided a police helicopter doesn't wander by. Somehow, though, I'm betting the police come here only when absolutely necessary.
Two hours later, bored out of my frakking mind, a beat up 1980s vintage blue and rust colored pickup truck enters the parking lot. Lots of cars have come and gone, but I know this is the one. I like these feelings. I am going to try them out on the lottery tomorrow. Two redneck losers exit the vehicle. Male. One five three, one six three. Probably 250 pounds, each. If anything, the five footer outweighs the six footer. Sandy brown pony tail on shortie, shaved on the other. The tall one leans over the bed and lifts two over-stuffed plastic shopping bags out of the back.
Definitely need to drain my bank account more this weekend. I could have brought my binoculars, nice 10 power jobs I use to watch the cheerleaders at Chargers games, but what I really need is a camera. High power, digital, works well in the dark.
Sure enough the two of them wander all the way to the back of the courtyard, slowly climb the stairs, wait at the top while Mr. I'm Too Fat to Have Rented a Third Floor Walk Up catches his breath, and then let themselves in. Door closes, light goes on, I can't see shit of what is going on inside.
I push ever so gently on my molecules, wondering if they were happier floating, and head around to the back. Doesn't take a genius to figure out which room is it, only one in the middle third floor with the lights on. The curtains are not exactly high quality. I put myself up against the wall, window high, floating, while I decide how best to position myself to see without being seen.
Other side. I can stay to the left of the window, and see sideways into the room through a rip in drapery (if you want to call it that), feet floating out in space. That should also be quieter. The right side of the window is cracked open, and there is no screen. Any noise I make would go right in. Everything except my head and hands is covered in black, and
The find part is apparently even easier than I thought it would be. I head right for one of the properties, colorful well lit sign out front promising low weekly rates, free cable, free wi-fi, and cleanliness. The building itself looks like a strong gust of wind would take it down. Paint older than I am, what was once tan stucco cracked and pealing, no elevator even though it's four stories high, roof mostly old red tile, but patched randomly with black shingles. Obviously cheaper to pay off the inspector than fix it up.
The hotel itself is a rectangle, with each room facing into a central courtyard, concrete with a few open dirt areas that probably held trees in the distant past. Loads of parking on all four sides, lights in the parking lot only in the front, and a single camera over the archway from the front lot into the courtyard. Seems to be there to protect the manager's office, not the residents. Or, just maybe, the residents prefer to be more anonymous than actual cameras would make them.
There is a single door that fascinates me. Third level up, closed, no lights on, can't make out the number from here, but directly across from the archway. In other words, way in the back, rear window facing only parking for this complex and another complex well to the south. I know evil is afoot in that room. The question is only what kind of evil, and how best to end it.
I think about landing and sitting on the roof, but even here that might be suspicious (and the roof might not hold my weight), so I just talk a few molecules into letting me stand on them, a couple hundred feet up. Nice and dark, provided a police helicopter doesn't wander by. Somehow, though, I'm betting the police come here only when absolutely necessary.
Two hours later, bored out of my frakking mind, a beat up 1980s vintage blue and rust colored pickup truck enters the parking lot. Lots of cars have come and gone, but I know this is the one. I like these feelings. I am going to try them out on the lottery tomorrow. Two redneck losers exit the vehicle. Male. One five three, one six three. Probably 250 pounds, each. If anything, the five footer outweighs the six footer. Sandy brown pony tail on shortie, shaved on the other. The tall one leans over the bed and lifts two over-stuffed plastic shopping bags out of the back.
Definitely need to drain my bank account more this weekend. I could have brought my binoculars, nice 10 power jobs I use to watch the cheerleaders at Chargers games, but what I really need is a camera. High power, digital, works well in the dark.
Sure enough the two of them wander all the way to the back of the courtyard, slowly climb the stairs, wait at the top while Mr. I'm Too Fat to Have Rented a Third Floor Walk Up catches his breath, and then let themselves in. Door closes, light goes on, I can't see shit of what is going on inside.
I push ever so gently on my molecules, wondering if they were happier floating, and head around to the back. Doesn't take a genius to figure out which room is it, only one in the middle third floor with the lights on. The curtains are not exactly high quality. I put myself up against the wall, window high, floating, while I decide how best to position myself to see without being seen.
Other side. I can stay to the left of the window, and see sideways into the room through a rip in drapery (if you want to call it that), feet floating out in space. That should also be quieter. The right side of the window is cracked open, and there is no screen. Any noise I make would go right in. Everything except my head and hands is covered in black, and
Similar Books
