The Borrowed World: A Novel of Post-Apocalyptic Collapse by Franklin Horton Page A

that direction, passing the second convenience store.  As the minister had mentioned, there was a lot of drinking going on in the parking lot.  Most people there appeared to be part of two large groups.  One was made up of what looked like young rednecks in tank tops and ball caps, hanging around a cluster of pickup trucks with fishing poles and canoes in the beds.  The other group was primarily Hispanic, chugging forty ounce beers and casting hairy eyeballs toward the rednecks.  Both groups were playing music from car stereos, running down the batteries of already dead or nearly dead vehicles.  In the battle between Lynyrd Skynyrd and Latin hip hop, it seemed like hip hop was winning. 
    There was some evident hostility there, too, that went beyond the battling tastes in music.  Who knew what insults may have been cast back and forth over the course of this drunken day?  I knew things like this didn’t end well.  Someone would be hurt before the night was over.  Eyes cut toward us as we moved along down the road.  No comments were made, though, so we kept faces forward and walked straight to the Comfort Inn.  I’d had my share of altercations for the day.  As we neared the hotel, we could see people hanging around outside the entryway.  Kids played in the parking lot, made safer by the absence of moving vehicles.  Some of the folks drank from water bottles, beer bottles, or red plastic cups.  It was an odd environment and in its atmosphere and informality was more like approaching a backpacker’s hostel in a trail town than a chain hotel by the side of an interstate highway.
    We wove through the milling people and entered the dark, humid lobby.  Light entering through the large picture windows revealed a tired Pakistani woman in a sari sitting on a stool at the counter.  Rather than greeting us or asking us what we needed, she just stared apprehensively in our direction.
    “We’re looking for rooms,” Alice said, taking the lead and approaching the woman.  “I’m assuming that you’re open to guests?”
    The woman looked us over.   “Can you pay?” she asked.  “No free rooms.”
    “We can pay,” Alice responded, “As long as you still take credit cards.”
    The woman shook her head.  “Cards no good,” she said.  “Cash only.”
    Alice was visibly frustrated by this.  “We work for a government agency,” she said.  “Our cards are good.”
    “No matter,” the lady said.  “Processing is down.  Cash only.”
    “You could write the information down off our cards and bill them later,” Rebecca suggested helpfully.
    The woman’s head shook rapidly and she began muttering before Rebecca was even done.  “No, no, no,” she said adamantly.  “Cash only or go away.”
    “How much are rooms?” Alice asked.
    “Two hundred dollars cash for a room,” the lady responded.  “For twenty, you can sleep in hall or lobby.”
    These were rooms that were probably $58 a night before the shit hit the fan.
    “Does anyone have a thousand dollars cash?” Alice said quietly, turning back to us.
    As usual, I could not restrain myself.  “You’ve got to be kidding me.  If I had a thousand dollars cash on me I would not spend it on a night in hotel.  There could be more pressing needs before this trip is over.”
    Alice frowned at me. “I guess we share,” she said.  “Do we all just want to put in forty each and share a room?”
    Everyone coughed up forty dollars and Alice handed it to the lady across the counter, who handed her back a plastic key card.
    “Does this still work?” Alice asked, looking at the card.
    “Batteries still work,” the lady responded.  “Card will work.  Water does not, though.  You have to make pee outside in bushes.”
    “Great,” Randi said.  “Probably three hundred people here and I think I saw two bushes out there.”
    “More bushes out back,” the desk clerk offered helpfully.
    I elbowed Randi.  “It’s a new hotel, too,” I