Sick #4
I cut hard in the other direction, immediately noticing this side of the resort is slightly different.
I’d assumed the layout here was perfectly symmetrical, but it appears a small stucco-covered building is tucked against the grotto.
The word Spa is elegantly written above the door, which is locked, but there’s a small open-air supply area next to it.
I immediately duck into the hidden cove, blending with the shadows and holding my breath.
Eddie bursts through the second gate, hesitating for a moment as he glances up and down the parking lot, then creeping toward the flashing car. He crouches slightly as he goes, peering under each of the parked vehicles.
The nook I’m lurking in hosts a number of pool supplies and fluffy white towels.
They’re perfectly folded and neatly stacked on a waist-high tile counter, ready for tomorrow’s swimmers.
Next to me is the spa’s outer wall, and it’s here that I notice a small window with a distinctly vintage frame.
All the frames here are vintage, actually, coated with a splash of fresh paint during renovations because it’s much cheaper than installing an updated replacement.
I know the difference between something new that’s trying to appear vintage, and something that is actually vintage. It’s literally my job … sometimes.
Regardless, I’m willing to bet these older frames never received the same state-of-the-art alarm system that the new doors probably did.
I carefully reach up and take down two fluffy towels. I wrap one around my fist and stretch the other across the entire pane of the window, then glance around the corner to confirm Eddie is still investigating the car alarm, distracted for now but likely seconds away from moving on.
There’s only so much muffling one can do with a pool towel, so I need to make my move before the alarm stops. I double-check that my fist and arm are fully wrapped, then grit my teeth and center myself with the window. I throw my punch.
The crash is loud, but it’s certainly no match for the digital howls and squeaks from the nearby BMW.
It takes a moment to knock out all the glass around the frame, removing each renegade shard and tossing it to the side.
After I’ve extracted the pieces, I lay one towel flat across the windowsill and carry the other one with me.
I place this second towel on the floor as I slip inside, protecting my hands against the sea of twinkling fragments below.
I’m in the spa lobby now, a dark space for patrons to sit and relax before they’re taken back into private rooms for hot stone massages, exfoliating facials, and rejuvenating mud baths.
The area is sparse and clean, with comfortable chairs against one wall and a large desk in the middle.
Shelves on either side are decorated with gorgeous unglazed pottery and a selection of perfectly curated wellness books—all available for purchase, of course.
It’s what’s covering the central desk that really catches my eye, however. Cream-white candles are laid out in their own individual glass holders, the wax cylinders clustered together and burned to various heights.
I hurry over, crouching low as I move. Behind me, the walls flicker and dance with the sputtering glow of the nearby car alarm.
The backside of the desk features a single large drawer, and it’s here that I find exactly what I’m looking for.
I extract a lighter and grab the closest candleholder.
Instead of lighting the wick, I remove the solid body of the candle and focus on all the drippings that have coalesced at the bottom of the glass.
They’re already quite soft, but not enough for the project I have in mind.
The car alarm stops.
I take the lighter and place it under the candleholder, slowly heating the wax until it’s a malleable putty. When it’s finally warm and ready, I scoop up as much of the stuff as I can manage, rolling it into two vaguely oval shapes.
I take a deep breath through my nostrils—recognizing this might be the last one I get for a while—then I shove the wax into my nose as deep as I possibly can.
My eyes immediately start watering again as my body struggles to reject this foreign entry, but I refuse to surrender.
I push deeper and deeper, calling on the tenacity of a shark.
I make more little ovals, then do it again, and again.
I force so much wax into my nostrils that, eventually, I’ll have to go to the hospital to get it all taken out.
Because I will survive.
I will win.
“Stop right there!” comes an unfamiliar voice. It crackles through the parking lot, faintly distorted, and it’s only when I notice the flashing red-and-blue lights that I realize what’s happening.
Now completely stuffed up, I crawl around the desk and over to the spa’s front windows, the ones that look out over the parking lot.
Eddie is bathed in light, his body a silhouette against the harsh glow of three police cruisers that’ve come to a stop before him. From here I count six officers, their guns drawn and pointed at Eddie Michaels in all his haggard, undead glory, a flamboyant mixture of sequins and shredded flesh.
The initial gunshots from across the street could’ve summoned them, or maybe all that screaming at the pool. Maybe the front desk clerk actually did what I asked him to when I burst into the lobby.
“Put your hands up,” the booming voice demands through a patrol car PA.
My first instinct is to get out there and warn them, but deep down I already know it’s too late. Eddie can speak faster than I can move, and giving up my position is the last thing I should be doing. I’m helpless to stop what’s coming.
“Oh no, no, no,” I murmur under my breath.
Eddie very, very slowly begins to raise his hands above his head, the cop cars illuminating him in a cluster of glorious spotlights. He is center stage, exactly where he wants to be, and he’s milking every ounce of drama from this moment.
As Eddie’s hands creep upward he begins to sing in a deep, soulful baritone. “I … want … you,” he begins, then freezes in place.
“Get on your knees!” one of the officers screams.
Eddie’s next note is long and drawn out, a falsetto that floats with uncanny grace, “toooooooooo …”
He lets the moment sit, commanding the scene with something much more powerful than any supernatural ability—raw, undeniable stage presence. It feels like the whole world has come to a grinding halt, as though Eddie Michaels is controlling time itself through the power of sheer will.
A bigger, badder shark.
Eddie suddenly throws his arms out wide, wiggling his fingers in a melodramatic display of jazz hands. He belts the next words at the top of his lungs, a soaring melody.
“Blow your fucking brains out!” he sings.
The reaction is immediate, not a moment of hesitation. I watch as each officer swiftly puts their gun to their temple and pulls the trigger.
The pops erupt with such perfect timing that it almost sounds like a single blast.