It was pitch-black in the wood but Jake knew the path well enough and he stumbled along it, occasionally feeling a branch scratch his cheek or poke his leg. He used a stick to cut through the thick spider-webs that occasionally crossed the path. He’d been washing dishes all night and his clothes reeked of fried fish and sweat. It didn’t matter, though, because he had a wad of bills in his pocket.
The motel room was full almost to the ceiling with blood and Mackebel floated in it, still wearing his suit and hanging onto his briefcase. He doggie-paddled the deep red liquid, just barely managing to keep his head above the surface. His hair brushed the dirty white stucco ceiling as he bobbed.
Marty heard a strange, tuneless whistle coming from outside the garage. He quietly lifted the ax off its hook and went over by the single garage window. The outside world was black and all he saw was his own face reflected in the glass, looking more scared than he expected. He flipped the work-lights off and just then something grabbed his leg.