Their lips rub against each other, showcasing their sticky resinous saliva. Suddenly Georgia breaks away and spots me standing amongst the dancing fray. Her eyes are hollow, careless. I run before she can see the aqueous tears swelling up in my eyes.
“Caracao, wait!”
Wait? Why the fuck do I have to wait? And why do I always hear that? I see it in movies, I see it in books, and I even see it in shitty cockup music videos. Wait? Wait for what? For me to just stand there like an idiot while you lamely explain yourself? Maybe I just don’t get it. Maybe this was all just a movie and Georgia was pretending to be my lover. I really fell into my part. Shows over folks.
I backslide against the wall outside the lounge, erupting in tears. The activity room is buzzing, but it’s not as noisy as the lounge. I begin to rifle through my thoughts and rack up the idea to go to my hotel room here and now and lock myself up there for an eternity. Maybe that’s the best option after all. Just sit in the dark movie theater for as long as my heart can muster. I’m still a bit dizzy from the margarita but I strain to get up. Is it too crazy to think that I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Georgia and now all I want to do is to isolate myself in the furthest reach of this place? I can’t go home. My mom would probably berate me on just about anything about me. Could I live as a hermit? Perhaps run away from society forever? Maybe I can live in a cave. The cave that I envision is shouting at me. But it’s not my own voice. It belongs to a man.
“Katanas here! Katanas fa sale here! Come on now, get ya a load of katanas!”
The hazy voice gets louder and clearer as it finally approaches me. It’s a stout Japanese man holding a cart filled with razor-sharp katanas. Did I just hear him right? Who the hell sells katanas in a casino? And yet, I’m absolutely piqued.
“Ya interested in a katana lady? Freshly made and shipped all the way from Fukuoka.”
“Why are you selling katanas?”
“Big deal, lady. Kamukaru Forgeries are having a big deal and they sent me to do promotion. Katana?”
I’ve dreamt of owning a katana before. I mean, I’ve seen Kill Bill a gazillion times and some Japanese films with some badass Samarais, so it’d be interesting to own one. But in the same vein, katanas are highly dangerous if you aren’t adept at using them, and something tells me it’s not exactly legal to go around carrying swords in broad daylight. I carefully weigh my options.
“I’ll take two. How much are they?” I say finally.
“Just a premium suite card will do.”
Fuck. “Do you take standard?”
“Sorry lady. No premium, no service.”
“Wait,” I don’t know why I want the katanas so bad, but something in my heart tells me to get them. “Isn’t there anything I can do? Anything at all?”
The short Japanese man leers a smile. He moves his hands in between my legs and steadily rubs my pussy. This lascivious gesture takes me back but I don’t shove him away. I dutifully play my part. I’m gonna get those damn katanas.
“We can go to the bathroom if you like,” I purr. Maybe I can shove a katana through his bowels afterward.
About thirty distressing minutes later, I come out of the bathroom with the Japanese man, tremulous and clenching my fists not to throw up. The man grins odiously, hands me two silvery thin swords (they have two sheaths that are back strapped), and goads the cart away. I frown as I weigh the katanas in my hands. My priorities are fucked.
I stealthily make my way to the escalator when I see someone by the glowing slot machine bent down and coughing. It’s a scathing, raspy cough. The man keeps on coughing and coughing until piles of dark blood pours from his mouth. He slips to the ground stiff and motionless. People begin to run and swiftly scamper to the elevator. I begin to wonder if it’s because of that one man. But then I realize multiple people are now sprouting up amongst the crowd coughing uncontrollably. People have become increasingly solicitous of this disease and have taken great measures to egress the building. I follow the migration to the escalators as well when I’m suddenly clouted by an afterthought. Georgia. I have to find her and make sure she’s ok.
I run back to the Felizo lounge and quickly scout the room. The area that was once filled with dancing people is now riddled with pale, blood-smeared, corpses. The ones that aren’t dead lay limp on the ground, groaning, as blood trickles down their lips.
“C-Cara?” A familiar voice groans out.
I dash swiftly to the bar, like an eager bat. Georgia is leaning against a red swivel seat. She’s grown haggard and the bottom half of her face is soaked in inky blood. Her face has become hollower than before and her eyebrows make her eyes seem like tunneling shadows now. I stare dejectedly at the chunky black pile beneath her. She’s taken a few coughs and as I move to touch her shoulder, she reflexively coughs up some more blood. Her body is slipping away, gradually losing vigor. I hold on to her and strain to fight the watery mess inside my eyes.
“Cara I-I’m sorry. He came up to me first and I wish I could say I knew what I was doing, but I didn’t. I just g-got caught up in the moment,” Georgia coughs. Don't cry. Don't you dare cry you flat ass bitch! The whole cheating situation seems rather puerile now. I shake my head, bathed in tears. I don't want this to happen, and yet, I can't stop it from happening.
“My mom. T-Tell my mom—”
She stumbles on her words and falls completely limp. Her hollow eyes remain open and stiff as if staring at the stars. Only the stars are completely red and bursting into supernovas. Georgia is gone.
I linger by the bar for a few minutes, blubbering. Then I realize I can't afford that. Somewhere in proximity, I hear a reawakened, guttural sound. The harsh sounds begin to multiply and before I know it, I’m trapped in a room swamped by the undead. And then the final guttural sound reawakens and it’s none other than the girl I’m holding.
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