The Ridge Motel.
It's immediately obvious why it's been a favorite. Just inside the Barrens, it almost seems to have been gerrymandered into the zone by past Regents of Valencia who found it too distasteful to claim. The flotsam and jetsam of Sacramento's wrecked lives have washed ashore in the dirty, run-down building that is a chilling reminder to the Kindred that life is no guarantee of a state of grace.
Or, perhaps, that they are not the only ones that Counterfeit it.
A rank odor rides the currents of the night breeze, a mixture of piss, shit, vomit, and decay. It's an old stench, seeped into the ground itself.
A light rain begins to fall. It will not cleanse, or wash away, the stains, or smells. The asphalt road becomes black and shiny, reflecting street lights and the moon overhead. An emaciated figure steps out of one of the doors, and spits loudly before disappearing back inside. Only a handful of metal skeletons which could only be very charitably referred to as automobiles litter the parking lots. Whether or not any are mobile is anyone's guess.
The Ridge Motel, where life teeters.
Some have fallen off that ridge.
Perhaps more will be claimed tonight.
There are no more messages on either phone. It's safe to say that Crazy J knows something is terribly wrong -- most likely, the discovery of Chef's body and positive identification by the authorities -- and has gone silent.
Touch of Shadow'd stuff
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