Requiem Intel

I don't know how much longer I will survive, so I will make this brief. My name is David Martinez, and I have worked at the Blackwood for five years. I started in Valet, got a job at the Front Desk before rising to Front Office Supervisor. After many hours of fighting these..."things", I am the last of the Blackwood Staff. I am hiding now in the hotel lobby closet, waiting for a rescue that I fear will never come. I emptied the staff vending machine, but my snack supply is rapidly dwindling. There are a few things I would like to say to my former colleagues. 

 

To Dexter, Assistant Controller: Thank you for being kind to me. You helped me get my first job at Blackwood and supported me throughout. I know we had talked about transferring me to Accounts Receiveable, but it was not meant to be.

 

To Wiley, Assistant Engineering Manager: before all this happened, you kept to yourself. But when it mattered, you were brave enough to be there for the rest of us. Your knowledge of the Blackwood's extensive layout saved countless lives. I wish you had been spared your terrible fate.

 

To Lindsey, Sous Chef: you are the finest Dessert Chef I know. While it is true your Crème brulee knew no equal, it was your torreja that truly transcended time and space. Also, thank you for teaching me how to weaponize a cooking blowtorch. I had never imagined I would see so many heads on fire.

 

To Pablo, Spa Locker Attendant: that bud from Cali is still the best damn grass I've ever had. Shit had me in a haze for daze. 

 

To Arlington, Assistant Front Office Manager: you were a sad man. You frequently feared reprisal and reprimand from those above you. As a result, you were cruel to those below you. I only wish I could watch you be torn limb from limb again.

 

To Bob, Blackwood Hotel Manager: what you did for this community will never be forgotten. A true hero. 

 

To every guest I ever met in our lovely establishment: you should be kinder to those who work in the service of others. Most of us have come from nothing. We've worked hard to get where we are in life. We are human, just as you are - or were, before you were changed. 

 

To Carmen and Antony, my wife and son, the loves of my life: I hope that you are both safe and have been spared this fate. We will meet again in the next life.

My name is Amber Jackson, and I never thought of myself as the sort of person to write a note like this, but, well, HERE WE ARE, with me hiding inside Bob's yacht in the harbor. The Good news? Those fucking creatures haven't found me in here. The Bad? I'm rapidly running out of hamburgers and tequila. The food will be gone before the booze, which is good, because if I'll definitely need some fucking liquid courage if I have to make a run for it.

 

As if this Tourist Season couldn't get any fucking worse, three days ago a freaky hole opened in the middle of Miami Beach. Whatever it was, it seemed to infect a good portion of the location population, causing them to attack and eat the rest of us. Ew. 

 

Dana said we should try to hold up in the Visitor Center. Sorry Dana (not sorry, Dana!), but the last person I trust right now is the person who's been lying to me about the affair she's been having with the Tourism Board Senior Manager. Oh yeah, I know why Amber stayed behind the front desk while Dana got promoted upstairs. Besides, if my Momma taught me anything growing up in the Glades, it's that you can't protect yourself with tourism pamphlets and postcards. You need real guns.

 

I went over to Willie's because we both know he's got that twelve gauge behind the bar, but get this - he's been infected already! Had to put two in him before heading over to the Paramour. Things were bad there, but nobody got hit like the Blackwood. By the time I got there it was more like the fucking Blackhole, what with the portal opening in the middle of their swimming pool. They even got to Alfredo, that hunky lifeguard with the weird nipples.

 

Gotta say, I'm a little surprised the National Guard hasn't rolled in. Feels like this is part of something bigger. Like what if this is how it starts - what if this is the Soviet invasion? Oh my GOD, is this like some weird reverse Bay of Pigs, but with Cannibal Tourists??

 

Anyway, I plan on getting the hell outta here. I'm running out of food, everyone's dead, nobody's seen Bob. It's a fucking shitshow. Bob's yacht is out of gas, but I heard they keep a couple of fuel canisters over at the Caiman. If I can find it, I can drive this boat the hell out of here. Wait, these things can't swim, can they?

 

Wish me luck. If Amber's going down, she's going down like her Momma taught her - kicking, screaming, drinking, and swinging.

Two months ago my wife divorced me, got the kids, took half my money and kicked me out. My friend Billy said "move to Florida, it's beautiful year-round. Go get you some sun." So I moved to Miami to get me some sun and I started working for my cousin Frankie, the owner of Grodie's Pub. One month later, we get hit by a hurricane; the bar get's destroyed. I put half of what I had left into rebuilding the joint (Bob chipped in, bless his generous heart), so Frankie makes me co-owner. Two weeks later, Frankie gets eaten by a Gator, and the bar's been left in my name. Then - get this - Frankie owed the Mob money, so now I owe the Mob money. They showed up, all suited up and strapped, and took the rest of what little I still had, leaving me with nothing but the bar. And NOW, on top of everything else, everyone's gone crazy and somehow been turned into these crazy freaks - I heard they got stung by killer bees that come down from the palisades. 

 

Word of advice. Don't move to Florida.

 

--Jerry