Jones folded his hands over his head and pressed his face down into the carpet. It smelled like beef jerky. He peeked out from behind his crossed arms so he could see through the glass doors of the entrance. Three cyborgs were out there, running in a tight pack down Route 66. Aided by their exoskeletons, they bounded like gazelles, scanning the sides of the road. One of them was armed with a semiautomatic rifle. Jones recognized the woman running the middle. It was Judith - the cyborg who had paid for his dinner.
Another group of people burst out from an abandoned gas station. Jones guessed immediately that they were locals. They wore flannel shirts and held shotguns. They looked like a militia. Jones’ stomach dropped. He heard shouting, then a single gun shot, then a barrage. Jones held his breath until he felt dizzy. He lifted his head a millimeter and glanced outside. The locals were on the ground now. They were moving. The three Mad Crab cyborgs stood over them, binding their hands behind their backs. Judith grabbed their shotguns and, in one practiced motion, removed the bullets and snapped them in half. One of the men on the ground start to scream in terror. Jones closed his eyes and pressed his face deeper into the carpet.
Jones waited a long time before he looked up again. The street was now empty. He hauled himself to his feet. Every one of his limbs was trembling. In a daze, Jones walked out of the business center and into the parking lot. Rubbing his face with his hands, he crossed the shimmering expanse of pavement. His room was cool and dark. Jones pulled the curtains closer together, checked the deadbolt, and grabbed the comforter off the bed.
“I’m not used to this,” he murmured. “I’m not used to this at all.”
Jones curled up in a nest next to the air conditioner and fell into a fitful sleep.