Wolf Flow by K. W. Jeter Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: K. W. Jeter
useless; he was already hunched over, his weight borne on his other forearm. If he could get to his feet, stay upright…
The rotted fabric of the curtains came apart, into dust and threads, as he grabbed it, dumping him onto the point of his shoulder. But the fall had brought him closer to a chair, an oval-backed wooden one, against the wall; his fingers closed around the curved leg, and he drew it toward himself.
The chair's seat was broken out, spilling cotton stuffing and canvas tatters toward the floor. He dragged himself upright with it, finally resting his stomach on the back's rounded top edge. Jackknifed, his good hand gripping the wood, he let his breath fill up his lungs again.
He was afraid to let go of the chair. If he fell from this height and struck his head, the chances of staying conscious were slim-if it didn't kill him outright. The fragile tissues inside his skull were already swollen with an influx of blood, like a balloon filled with strawberry jam; one good jolt, and the overstretched rubber would split. There weren't any boy scout bandages that would fix that one up.
The chair slid forward a couple of inches as he shifted his weight on it. He saw how he could do it now. He pushed with his feet and the chair scraped across the planks, leaving its thin marks in the dust.
He reached the reception desk. Raising his head, he looked over the counter's marble top. He already knew what he'd see. Just as in the dream-the funky old switchboard, with its snake's nest of cables, the woven black covering frayed next to the brass-tipped plugs; the pigeon holes for the guests' mail, with the room numbers on tiny enameled badges under each one. A bell sitting on the counter, like another prop from a movie. Boy ! Take the doctor's luggage to Room 309, right away ! He balanced his weight on the chair, reached out and struck the bell's little plunger with the palm of his hand. It made no sound except for a muffled thunk. He had to grab the side of the chair to keep from falling. And have the maid draw the bath; the doctor's been traveling a long way . He closed his eyes, letting the fantasy unreel inside his wobbling head. There's a shiny new quarter for you if you're quick about it …
His sight was starting to blur when he opened his eyes again. He could just make out a sheet of paper, yellowed, with curling brown edges, stuck with a pushpin by the switchboard. The ink scrawled on it had faded to a few grey curlicues, but a sepia-toned vignette of a building remained visible in the upper left corner: three stories, rows of windows, some kind of covered verandah or walkway around the front, big letters on a metal framework at the top that spelled out THERMALENE. Printed under the engraving in tiny italics were the words Your Health Is Your Only Treasure . Then the piece of paper doubled and swam about in his vision, and he couldn't see the words anymore.
Some kind of hotel, or health resort, then. He looked back across the lobby to the boarded-over doors in the distance. He wondered how long ago the place had folded. Long enough for the dust to have seeped in, the curtains and the chairs to have rotted, the air to have thickened with the silent years.
He heard a voice niggling at the back of his head. Get rid of him … haul him back out … The truck driver had managed that well enough. It didn't look as if anyone had been inside the place in half a century, at least.
A coughing spasm, the dust lodged in his throat, bent him double over the chair back. He spit a red wad out onto the floor and pushed himself upright again. The lobby tilted, his blurred view of it speckled with swarming black dots. The dots took several minutes to fade away.
He pushed the chair along the length of the reception counter. At the counter's end, where the marble had been broken off and shattered on the floor, he leaned his shoulder against the mahogany.
The rotted fabric of the curtains came apart, into dust and threads, as he grabbed it, dumping him onto the point of his shoulder. But the fall had brought him closer to a chair, an oval-backed wooden one, against the wall; his fingers closed around the curved leg, and he drew it toward himself.
The chair's seat was broken out, spilling cotton stuffing and canvas tatters toward the floor. He dragged himself upright with it, finally resting his stomach on the back's rounded top edge. Jackknifed, his good hand gripping the wood, he let his breath fill up his lungs again.
He was afraid to let go of the chair. If he fell from this height and struck his head, the chances of staying conscious were slim-if it didn't kill him outright. The fragile tissues inside his skull were already swollen with an influx of blood, like a balloon filled with strawberry jam; one good jolt, and the overstretched rubber would split. There weren't any boy scout bandages that would fix that one up.
The chair slid forward a couple of inches as he shifted his weight on it. He saw how he could do it now. He pushed with his feet and the chair scraped across the planks, leaving its thin marks in the dust.
He reached the reception desk. Raising his head, he looked over the counter's marble top. He already knew what he'd see. Just as in the dream-the funky old switchboard, with its snake's nest of cables, the woven black covering frayed next to the brass-tipped plugs; the pigeon holes for the guests' mail, with the room numbers on tiny enameled badges under each one. A bell sitting on the counter, like another prop from a movie. Boy ! Take the doctor's luggage to Room 309, right away ! He balanced his weight on the chair, reached out and struck the bell's little plunger with the palm of his hand. It made no sound except for a muffled thunk. He had to grab the side of the chair to keep from falling. And have the maid draw the bath; the doctor's been traveling a long way . He closed his eyes, letting the fantasy unreel inside his wobbling head. There's a shiny new quarter for you if you're quick about it …
His sight was starting to blur when he opened his eyes again. He could just make out a sheet of paper, yellowed, with curling brown edges, stuck with a pushpin by the switchboard. The ink scrawled on it had faded to a few grey curlicues, but a sepia-toned vignette of a building remained visible in the upper left corner: three stories, rows of windows, some kind of covered verandah or walkway around the front, big letters on a metal framework at the top that spelled out THERMALENE. Printed under the engraving in tiny italics were the words Your Health Is Your Only Treasure . Then the piece of paper doubled and swam about in his vision, and he couldn't see the words anymore.
Some kind of hotel, or health resort, then. He looked back across the lobby to the boarded-over doors in the distance. He wondered how long ago the place had folded. Long enough for the dust to have seeped in, the curtains and the chairs to have rotted, the air to have thickened with the silent years.
He heard a voice niggling at the back of his head. Get rid of him … haul him back out … The truck driver had managed that well enough. It didn't look as if anyone had been inside the place in half a century, at least.
A coughing spasm, the dust lodged in his throat, bent him double over the chair back. He spit a red wad out onto the floor and pushed himself upright again. The lobby tilted, his blurred view of it speckled with swarming black dots. The dots took several minutes to fade away.
He pushed the chair along the length of the reception counter. At the counter's end, where the marble had been broken off and shattered on the floor, he leaned his shoulder against the mahogany.