It was a hundred degrees Fahrenheit outside, ensuring the lobby of the “Sunset View Inn” motel was packed to the brim this scorching July afternoon. A small room—containing a registration desk, a couple of worn leather couches, a plush armchair, and a few coat racks—was the only place with air conditioning within a fifty-mile radius.
Behind the registration desk stood Mrs. Judy Sanders (a slender brunette in her mid-40s, widowed young, now the sole owner of the motel, no bad habits, no kids, Social Security number 530-24-9563). She leaned against the counter, her long fingers flipping through the guest logbook, stealing glances at the people present. Mrs. Sanders wore a strict navy-blue dress buttoned all the way up, complete with a starched white collar. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, adorned with a brown comb.
On the couch near the window sat a married couple from Room 108. Mrs. Sanders glanced at the registration card: “Mr. and Mrs. Molly” (37 and 45 years old, respectively, no children, looking for property in Nevada, traveling with a dog, Social Security numbers 223-17-9021 and 223-14-1522). A white Labrador lay sprawled at their feet, panting heavily—the heat was hard on the poor animal. Mr. Molly, in a green tracksuit, was reading a fresh (actually, two-day-old) newspaper. Beside him, Mrs. Molly, dressed in a revealing polka-dot sundress, wore a massive string of pearly beads around her neck. She was stroking the Labrador (male, five years old, name: Oscar), whispering something under her breath.
The couch by the wall, beneath a picture of a green alien in a gold frame, was occupied by a portly man in a suit, studying a Kenmore brochure that featured an orange fridge. Beside him were a pair of striped suitcases he seemed to carry everywhere. “Edgar Kitch, Room 102” (47 years old, married, two kids, sales manager for home appliances, type 2 diabetic, Social Security number 509-65-1129), Mrs. Sanders licked her finger and flipped a page in the guest log.
Nearby, a man of Asian descent sat polishing the large lens of his camera. “Korean,” Mrs. Sanders checked the logbook: “Mr. Po Yang Hoon, Room 101, tourist” (in the U.S. for over two months, traveling alone, carrying several pieces of photo and video equipment, no Social Security number).
Finally, in the plush armchair near the coat racks sat a young woman in her early thirties. “Twenty-nine,” Mrs. Sanders corrected herself, checking the log: “Miss Bozena Pokrovska, Room 105” (Polish, emigrated to the U.S. five years ago, works in tourism, Social Security number pending). Bozena, accompanying the Korean tourist, wore light hiking shorts with pockets on the thighs, brown boots, and a plaid shirt.
“Our ‘Teflon’ Ronnie is right,” Mr. Molly dropped the newspaper, glancing around the room for support. “Those damn Commies are going to blow this planet to hell by Christmas.”
“Frank, please, can you go a single day without talking politics?” Mrs. Molly rolled her eyes and went back to scratching the Labrador behind the ear.
“As for me, sir, the Martians will get us before the Commies do,” Edgar Kitch waved the brochure toward the alien photo. “We better hope Uncle Sam figures out a way to protect America before they invade.”
“Oh, is that why you’re here?” Mr. Molly leaned forward, intrigued. “I assure you, sir, there’s no ‘Area 51,’ no Martians—just yellow press nonsense. But the Commies and their nuclear bomb? That’s as real as it gets.”
“I’m here for work, and trust me, fridges like this—” Kitch flashed the brochure again, “—don’t even exist on Mars, let alone with the Commies.”
“Excuse me, sir, you know how my get to Zone 51?” Mr. Po put down his camera and bowed slightly.
“Oh, I don’t think you can. It’s a secret zone, after all,” Edgar shrugged. “But if there’s one place I can get you a pass to, it’s our secret warehouse!”
Kitch opened his suitcase and pulled out a hefty catalog, handing it to Mr. Po. “Three thousand items! Everything from flashlights to triple-door fridges. And by the way—” Kitch nodded toward Po’s camera—“I’ve got a discount coupon for lenses, if you’re interested.”
Edgar leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, “It’s employees-only, but I’ve no use for it. And you, I see, are a photography enthusiast.” He slid the coupon into the catalog and winked.
Mr. Po carefully took the catalog with both hands and bowed in gratitude. He turned toward the armchair and spoke to Miss Pokrovska: “Miss Bozena take, my stop at secret warehouse on way back.”
“Of course, sir,” Bozena smiled politely at her client, then shot Edgar Kitch a withering glare. Edgar, in return, flashed a smug grin.
“Miss!” Kitch waved over Mrs. Sanders.
“I’m a Mrs.,” she said coyly, approaching the guest.
“Oh, forgive me! You look so young!” Edgar delivered the rehearsed compliment. “Could I trouble you for a can of cola? Cold, if possible.”
“Certainly, sir, just a moment,” Mrs. Sanders walked into the back room toward the fridge.
“What a charming man,” she thought as she went. “Polite, gallant, and quite handsome.” Already in the back, reaching for the can, she felt her heart racing. Mrs. Sanders peeked through the door and looked at Edgar Kitch.
“Oh my God, could it be him? The one from my dreams all these years! Could this be fate?” Her hands trembled, and the can slipped to the floor.
Wiping away the sudden tears, Mrs. Sanders grabbed another can and nervously made her way back to Edgar Kitch.
With each step, she felt closer to the most important moment of her life. It seemed like an aura of light was radiating from Edgar, filling her with a pleasant warmth.
“Here you go,” she handed the can to Kitch, “on the house.”
“Thanks a lot! You just saved my life!” Edgar popped open the can and took a long, greedy gulp of the cold soda.
Mrs. Sanders stood, mesmerized, swaying slightly, feeling each sip as if she were drinking alongside him.
“There’s one more thing, sir,” she whispered, barely brushing his shoulder.
“Mm-br-yeah-yeah?” he mumbled, some of the soda dribbling onto his shirt.
“I LOVE YOU!” Judy suddenly blurted, wringing her hands. Everyone in the room turned to stare at her.
Edgar Kitch opened his mouth to say something but couldn’t find the words. He glanced around the lobby, looking for an ally, but the others stayed silent. “The Asian with the blonde witch won’t help, neither will the old crone in a teen sundress, probably her husband, Reagan fan…” Edgar’s thoughts tangled up. He tried to continue scanning the room but couldn’t. His gaze fixated on the left side of the couch by the window. Where Mr. Molly sat.
“Can you hear me?! I LOVE YOU!” Mrs. Sanders shouted now, trembling slightly.
“Uh, yeah—thanks so much,” Kitch handed her the soda can, stood up, and walked over to Mr. Molly.
“Edgar Kitch,” he extended his hand.
“Francis Molly,” Mr. Molly shook it, bewildered.
“Probably the hands of the ancient gods felt like this,” Edgar thought, feeling a warm surge radiate from the handshake, enveloping his entire body. Unable to control himself, he placed his other hand on top of Mr. Molly’s.
Francis Molly, now terrified, tried to pull his hand away, but it was no use.
Twenty years of marriage, a wife, kids, a ranch, two horses, dreams of buying a yacht—suddenly all of it was swallowed into a black hole. A giant, comic-book-sized black hole, in the center of which stood a glowing Mr. Molly, pulling Edgar relentlessly in.
He looked up into Francis’ eyes and said, “Frank, I… I love you.” Edgar dropped to one knee and tried to kiss Mr. Molly’s hand.
Finally seizing the moment, Mr. Molly yanked his hand free and scrambled onto the couch.
“Sir, what are you saying?! Calm down, sir!” He looked desperately to Mrs. Molly for help, but her vacant gaze was miles away. Then he looked at Mrs. Sanders, but her eyes were locked onto the frenzied Mr. Kitch. The Asian man was staring at the floor. The blonde across the room…
“THE BLONDE ACROSS THE ROOM,”—if Mr. Molly’s brain were an alarm clock, it just went off. She was looking at him! And she was looking at him with THAT look!
“It’s mutual!!” Mr. Molly grinned at her. “Ha! Finally, I’ll divorce this old hag! Miss Blonde and I will have beautiful children!”
Miss Pokrovska smiled wider and unbuttoned the top of her shirt.
Mr. Molly charged forward. He almost leaped over Edgar Kitch and reached the armchair in two steps. Without a word, Francis dropped to the floor and hugged his beloved’s legs.
“What the hell are you doing, sir?!” Bozena shrieked.
“What do you think? I LOVE you! I saw the way you looked at me!” Mr. Molly grinned stupidly, planting kisses on Miss Pokrovska’s feet.
“Kurwa mać, I wasn’t smiling at you, you idiot!” Bozena shoved Mr. Molly aside and dashed to the couch where he had just been sitting.
She jumped onto the seat and clung to the seated Mrs. Molly.
“Help!” Mrs. Molly screamed.
Bozena pressed a finger to her lips, “Shh, baby, help is on the way.” Taking advantage of Mrs. Molly’s confusion, she leaned in and kissed her passionately.
After what felt like an eternity, pulling away from Mrs. Molly, who was now mumbling something incoherent, she caught her breath and declared, “I LOVE you!”
Bozena attempted to repeat the kiss, but the quick-witted Mrs. Molly stuffed a crumpled newspaper into the invitingly open mouth of Miss Pokrovska and leaped away from the couch.
Mrs. Molly rushed to the one person in the room who remained unperturbed—Mr. Po Yang Hoon—and without a word or language barrier, simply sat down on his lap, hiking up her sundress and dropping her hefty camera with the massive lens onto the floor.
“Well, hello, sweetie! Show me your kung fu!” She teased, tickling his ear with her tongue and whispering, “I love you, you fool!”
The stoic Korean, Mr. Po, said nothing to Mrs. Molly. He didn’t even display his kung fu, as he had only learned breathing exercises in school. Besides, he had a constant feud with Grandma Choiyn when she cooked bosintang from dog. Mr. Po had never eaten bosintang.
His gaze remained fixed on the floor. That very floor where the snow-white Labrador, Oscar, lay.
“Twenty years wandering the earth. Twenty years of searching for myself, searching for a friend, a partner. And here, in this backwater, at the other end of the world, I’ve found my soulmate. Harmony, at last, achieved,” Mr. Po wept.
He was well-mannered, so he couldn’t simply approach and speak to the Labrador. But since Mrs. Molly’s kisses had moved from his ear to his neck, and her fingers were poised to unbutton his vest—Mr. Po decided to break etiquette. He tactfully nudged Mrs. Molly aside and approached the dog.
“만나게되어 큰 영광입니다,” he expressed his respect with a bow.
“사랑해,” he added, completely overcome with emotion, collapsing beside Oscar on the floor.
* * *
“What the hell is going on, Kowalski?” Brigadier General Joyce snapped off the monitor and swung around in his chair, boring his bulging eyes into the young lieutenant at the console.
“What kind of hell, sir?” Lieutenant Kowalski’s ears turned crimson.
“I’m not talking about your brains, son, they don’t deserve such high rank. What the hell is happening OUT THERE?”
“You mean at the site, sir?”
“Yes, damn it, at the goddamn site! Are you so dumb that you can’t answer a simple question?” The general sprang from his chair and began pacing the bunker, “Once more, in detail—what was the plan?”
Lieutenant Kowalski shot to attention, straightening his posture and reciting, “Experiment 9-14 Bravo Alpha 3. Objective—testing the combat emitter Whiskey Romeo 25501. For the experiment, a representative group was to be subjected to the emitter and mutate into combat zombies, sir!” Kowalski puffed out his chest and saluted.
Brigadier General Joyce turned beet red and ground his teeth.
“So what’s this crap happening here?! WHERE. ARE. MY. ZOMBIES?!” He lunged for the monitor, switched it on, and began boring a hole in the lieutenant’s head.
Kowalski stared at the screen with wide, shocked eyes, and the general quickly followed suit, shutting off the monitor. In the lobby of the “Sunset View Inn,” a full-blown orgy was unfolding, involving all the guests, the Labrador, and the coat racks.
“Sir, may I adjust the emitter settings to troubleshoot the issue, sir?” Lieutenant Kowalski stood tall again.
The general stepped close enough to smell the smoke rising from his nostrils. He picked up a heavy leather folder labeled “Zone 51, Object WR 25501” and swung it around, clearly preparing to slap the dimwit.
“And you have no choice, Kowalski. Otherwise, you’ll face a tribunal!” The general slammed the folder shut in front of the lieutenant’s face and strode out of the bunker.
Kowalski exhaled and approached the chair where the general had just sat. Crouching down, he opened a small hatch in the floor, revealing yet another control panel.
“I’ll really have to tinker with the settings; the feedback isn’t reaching the second block,” he flicked the switches and closed the hatch. Then he approached his desk and pulled out a photograph in a yellow frame. The photo depicted Brigadier General Joyce in dress uniform. Lieutenant Kowalski kissed his index finger and pressed it against Joyce’s lips.
“We’ll be together again, Harry, you’ll see.”
He slowly sank into the chair, pulled a cassette labeled “John Paul Young” from the desk drawer, and inserted it into his Sony Walkman.
In his headphones, the melody swelled: “Love is in the air, everywhere I look around…”
