Free The Cove by Rick Hautala

Capt’n was just getting started tying one on. He was knocking back shots of dark rum. Ben was sure that — like so many times while he was growing up — sometime later that night, probably not until two or three in the morning, he’d hear his old man stumbling into the house, muttering curses as he tried to negotiate the stairs. And more than likely, he’d be passed out on the couch in the living room when Ben got up in the morning.
    Ben drained what was left of his beer and placed the pint glass down carefully on the table.
    “That’s it for me.”
    “ Com’on , Gunna ,” Mike “The Veg ” Tomlinson said with a pleading look in his eyes. He leaned close to Ben and blew near-toxic alcohol and halitosis fumes into Ben’s face. “I ain’t bought you a drink yet.”
    His eyes were so rimmed with red there was no white showing. The unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth bobbed up and down when he talked.
    Don’t you dare light that up now, Ben thought, or we’ll all go up in flames.
    “Sorry, man. I gots to get me some sleep,” Ben said in a slur. Before anyone else interfered, he pushed away from the table and stood up. The floor tilted like the deck of a wave-tossed boat, and he placed one hand on Preacher’s shoulder to steady himself.
    “You aw’right there, bud?” The Veg asked with a hint of concern in his expression. Ben knew that not a damned one of them was in any better condition.
    “Yeah … Sure. No worries,” Ben said. He smiled and nodded, then took a deep breath, hitched up his jeans, and started toward the back door. He nodded a few goodnights to people as he passed, but it was with immense relief that he stepped out onto the landing. The screen door slammed shut behind him, sounding like a gunshot in the night. He jumped, ready to hit the dirt, but then realized where he was and, leaning his head back, took a deep breath of fresh ocean air. The air was cool enough to make him shiver, and he caught the fresh smell of rain in the air. Off to the west, clouds were gathering on the horizon, blotting out the stars.
    Sliding his right hand lightly along the weathered railing, he made his way down the steps to the narrow alley that ran between The Local and a small restaurant that changed owners and names about every year or two. The alley was dark, the buildings cutting out the night sky like stencils. It took a while for Ben’s eyes to adjust, and for a while, the darkness flickered as if fireworks were going off in the distance. At the foot of the stairs were three or four overflowing trash cans. The stench of rotting garbage was thick enough to make him gag.
    He started up the alley, heading toward Main Street. He was drunk enough not to trust his eyesight and coordination on a winding path in the dark. Much safer to walk home under the streetlights. But staying on the street was the long way home. An extra mile, at least. After a brief mental debate, he opted to take the shortcut home like he usually did when coming home drunk from The Local.
    The path skirted the edge of the harbor and wound over Miller’s Hill and through some neighbors’ backyards. Ben was drunker than he cared to admit, so he took a moment or two to look around and get his bearings. The gentle slapping of the waves against the dock pilings and wharf was soothing, and once he was past the garbage cans, he paused and looked around, savoring the night.
    No dry, desert heat.
    No wind-blown grit that got into everything — your nose, your eyes, your mouth, even the crack of your ass.
    No smell of unwashed men and gasoline … of burning rubber and gun oil.
    Just clean, fresh ocean air.
    Even with the tide out and the smell of rotting seaweed and clam-flats wafting over him, he felt an inexpressible measure of peace and contentment. The moon, looking like a curved sliver of old bone on the horizon, sparkled faintly on the ocean. Overhead, a dusting of stars sprinkled the sky like sugar on black velvet. The party was