War of Hearts II // Logan Howlett

Chapter 6

I rolled the windows down, letting my arm fight against the wind as I drove. My hair flipped around, stinging my cheeks, my lips drying. Music blared through the speakers, lifting my spirits higher. That's what I was doing. Just going to see a friend on her birthday... totally not outrunning a temporary problem.

It was a twelve hour drive to Eleanor's house, and I didn't mind. Straight drive? No problem. If I wanted to stop, I could just find a motel or sleep in the backseat.

My mind wandered to Helen, about her condition. A virus? She acted like it was normal life, the need to eat human flesh and muscle. She seemed to have it pretty much under control, and then I thought about how her eyes had had the flecks of gold in them when she first woke up. As soon as she put on the mask, her eyes had gone back to their normal haunting look. Dark brown and a fainter brown. The faintness made sense now. She was blind. Hell if it hindered her fighting though.

Night fell, my headlights the only things illuminating the dark. I could feel my eyes droop, and I groaned. I guess I was stopping for the night.

I drove a bit longer before spotting a motel on the side of the road. It was adorable, a small little cottage feel to it. I'd certainly stayed in worse places. Pulling into the parking lot, I grabbed my bag, a knife tucked into the waistband of my sweatpants.

"One room. King size bed, please," I said, standing in front of the counter. It was an older man, a newspaper in his hands. He glanced up at me over his glasses which were perched on the edge of his nose.

"Got a husband, little missy?" He asked, snapping the newspaper shut. He looked at me with doubtful eyes and I suppressed a groan. My thumb brushed the ring on my right hand before I beamed at him.

"I don't. Don't suppose that'll pose a problem?" I said spritely. I rocked on my feet, tilting my head to the side.

"Well, little miss, we only hand keys to men," the old man said, a finality in his voice. I raised an eyebrow, my smile turning into a taut line.

"How old are you?" I asked.

The man reared back slightly, surprised. "How does that concern you?"

"You're older. What, born in the 1940's or so? Maybe early 50's?" I reached for the knife behind my back. The man's eyes filled with an unprecedented anger.

"Now you--"

I pulled the knife from my sweatpants, slamming the tip into the counter in front of me, pinning the newspaper where it laid.

"I want a key sir, and I'm more than willing to pay. Now, come on snake... want to rattle?" I challenged, raising an eyebrow. The man's eyes widened as he backed away from me. His hand fumbled for a key that hung on the hooks behind me, his mouth agape.

"I haven't heard that--"

"Haven't heard it since the fucking 50's. Trust me. I know. I'm sure you can tell I'm in no mood to dance either," I snatched the key from his shaking hand, tossing a hundred and a ten on the counter before ripping the knife up and walking away.

I fucking hated that generation.

All in all, the rest of the motel was nice. The room was small and quaint, an adorable little quilt spread across the bed. The floor was a cream-colored carpet, accentuating the rest of the sage green that was the walls. I tossed the duffel bag onto the bed, heading straight for the shower.

Just as I expected, dried blood flowed down the drain as I showered. I glanced at the tip of a scar that ran down the lower half of my back, the edge curling slightly around my hip. It was faint, some parts of it raised.