Free Halfway House by Weston Ochse Page B

grasped him. Then another and another. Until he felt himself propelled forward as the anchored dead moved him hand over hand just beneath the waves. Soon he noticed the glow once more, a sign he was heading toward the halfway house again.
    An hour passed. A day. A year. Time meant nothing to him, but eventually he came to the roots of the building—great oozing tentacles that were sunk deep in the earth. The hands released him and he floated free for a moment until a smaller, lithe tentacle shot free from the house and grasped him around the waist. Without ceremony, it slammed him into the earth nearest the house, his legs sinking past the ankles. The tentacle retracted and he found himself anchored, just as all the other dead had been anchored.
    When he looked up, he saw those next to him rise from their anchorage, take two steps away to give him room, and then sink once again in the soil, letting their arms drift toward the surface. Far into the distance, the legion of dead mimicked this movement, taking two steps away toward oblivion, then sinking to their eternal anchorage.
    Eventually he let his arms drift upward and felt the tug against his legs. The ebb and flow of the universe took him like a length of seaweed. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed at this destiny, and heard his own thoughts whispered on the currents of the sea as the dead resumed a conversation that had only been interrupted by his own admission into eternity.
     

 
     
     
     
Chapter 7
     
     
     
     
    The rocks were murder. By taking the low road around Point Fermin rather than the road above, Bobby had subjected himself to crossing tidal pools, weaving around debris and scrambling over boulders that had fallen from the cliff. He’d twisted his ankle a dozen times and was lucky he had boots on or else the joint might have been snapped in two. As it was, slogging over the uneven ground in wet leather was only slightly less miserable than doing the same thing drunk. Not that he was completely snockered, but he’d finished the bottle of Cluny in a few gulps before tossing it into Davy Jones for safe keeping. Now he rode the leading edge of a nasty buzz.
    Twice he passed Mexican families diving and scrambling over the tide pools, desperate to find sea urchins to resell to the tourists farther up the coast. From Grandma to little papito , every member of the family worked together. If only he’d seen that familial cooperation with Kanga. Bastard didn’t even want to accept a gift from his own daughter.
    Once Bobby passed the body of a seal, its head bitten clean off. Blue and green bottle flies dueled above the corpse as the waves washed red foam. Bobby’s gorge rose when the smell hit him. Uncontrollable burrito spew joined the offal and was washed to sea.
    When he eventually rounded the corner at Cabrillo Beach, he felt like shit. He found outdoor showers used to hose sand off families before they returned to their cars and stood beneath one, letting the water wash away his sweat and the effects of Cluny. He gulped huge amounts, trying in vain to moisten his parched throat.
    He didn’t look up until an elderly Mexican began shouting for him to move. Bobby noticed the line of children waiting to use the shower head. He realized he must look like a bum—like the homeless man he truly was. There he stood in a baseball cap, T-shirt, jeans and steel-toed boots, taking a public shower in broad daylight. He’d gotten the attention of a lifeguard who was marching purposefully toward him.
    Jesus fuck. Who was Bobby becoming?
    He lurched away, heading toward the street. No one gave chase except for his own embarrassment, which snapped at his heels like a dog. When he hit South Pacific Avenue, he turned right, heading down the hill. Passing Fort MacArthur, he soon found himself before the halfway house. But this time, instead of passing like he had so many times before, he stopped. About a dozen men and women meandered in front of the two-story