They were like Bonnie and Clyde except Clyde shot Millie. Well, he didn't shoot her… more like used a small machine and a tiny chemical reaction to force a piece of lead through her skull. Completely innocent, right? At least he walked away with the money; two million dollars in cold, hard cash. And now he's speeding down a dark road in a beat up and bloodstained car he jacked from his late lover. He checked the time; 2:21. The adrenaline rush he received earlier today had long since worn off and he began to list lazily to the side of the road, waking suddenly when the gravel jolted the car.
He took the first exit ramp he saw and quickly located the nearest hotel and pulled up. No one would be looking for him here. He grabbed the bags, filled to the brim with cash, and entered the building.
"A room, please." He said as he laid down the first nights pay. The grisly manager looked him over, then turned around and grabbed a key.
"Twenty-three is the quietest." He tossed the key to Clyde, who caught it with a nod. He arrived at his room and threw his bags on the bed. Stripping himself of the jacket meant to hide the blood, he followed in suit, falling into dreams of hellish nightmare visions only seconds later.
Blood spattered in his face and chest. She thought he loved her. He couldn't give a damn one way or another. Her daddy had connections and everyone knows how easily those are manipulated. Now she was in the morgue somewhere far from here. The product of her own negligence.
He awoke several hours later, still groggy from an unproductive sleep. The blood on his shirt had grown cold and hard to the touch, so he lost it. Clyde laid back on the musty bed, reached over for the remote to the small T.V. placed on the dresser before him. He turned on the T.V. and absorbed the information being given to him as best he could. He perked up when the news anchor on the screen said his name and started to prattle on about how the police are doing their best to find him. They set out an artist's depiction that looked somewhat like him. Clyde idly touched his cheek, rough with stubble, and examined the picture for awhile. Then hopped off the bed and made his way to the bathroom when his picture was suddenly replaced with some local serial killer digging up cadavers and wearing their faces. Sick fucks.
He turned on the hot water faucet and watched the water run through his fingers, then threw some into his face and rubbed his eyes. Clyde spotted a spare toothbrush, a bar of soap, a razor and a can of shaving cream to the side of the sink and immediately helped himself. Taking his leisurely time to make himself as presentable as the county's most wanted could be.
He stepped out of the bathroom a few minutes later to see the dull flash of red and blue lights outside his window. He instantly began to panic; ripping open a suitcase and digging to find the gun he always kept with him. Just as he finished loading it a loud banging at the door began.
"This is the police!" The voice on the other side of the door called. Clyde held the gun up parallel to himself and silently took his stance on the wall next to the door. "We're coming in!" The same man called. Just then the door flew open and officers poured in. Clyde began spraying whatever moved with bullets, no one was safe. And in a few split seconds, no one was alive. He took a shuddered breath and leapt over the bodies to grab the bag of cash when he heard the sound of a gun being cocked.
'click.'
He dropped the bag and turned slowly. A terrified rookie cop stood between him and his exit. He shakily followed Clyde's every movement. Clyde opened his mouth and the cop stuttered out "D- don't m- m… move!" Clyde raised his finger as if to say "one moment."
"What's your name, son?" He asked.
"J… Jim… Thomas." The younger man replied.
"You don't want to die, here, Jim." The boy opened his mouth to reply when a violent tremor shuck the building. Both men fell to the ground and watched in shock as the wall behind them crumbled. Silence took the room as the dust settled, then a faint hum filled their ears. Out of the haze shone a red pixilated face on a floating machine.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!" Jim cried and shot at the machine until he flat ran out of rounds. Clyde bolted behind the young officer and out of the room. All he could hear was a blood-curdling scream and flesh and bone cracking and popping. Just then his foot was caught on something and he fell flat on his face. Brushing the hair out of his eyes, he reached down to attach the offending metal clamp.
"What the hell?!" He cried as he was dragged out of the hallway and into his former room, which, as it happened, was covered in Jim-juice. Clyde resisted the urge to retch and was hoisted into the air by whatever machine had him by the ankle. The machine reached and incredible altitude of which contained no breathable air, so what little of a trip there was to wherever he was being taken was wasted on the nearly unconscious criminal. All he could remember were those smiling clouds.