Free The Year of the Storm by John Mantooth Page B

connect the place with another similar road that wound out to the highway. You could drive back here—the man obviously had—but most people wouldn’t want to put their cars through it. I noticed his mud-splattered truck, an old F-250 parked in the shade just off the makeshift drive. The yard was littered with junk, although it was evident he’d been trying to clean it up some because it had been much worse the last time I was here. A busted generator, spare tires, and the scraps of at least three push mowers sulked among the overgrown weeds and kudzu. The shack itself seemed to have sprouted vines. The kudzu fell off the roof like shaggy hair, tangling over on itself, thickening, closing off the cabin from sight. Except for the very front, where the old man had obviously cleared enough vines away to go inside. Now, the door stood open, thumping very gently in the breeze.
    I looked at Cliff. “You up for this?”
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œMe either.”
    We stood there a moment. I don’t know about Cliff, but I was scared. You grow up in a place, taking certain things for granted. One of those things was that this cabin was a dark, brooding entity, an almost living and breathing thing that kept its secrets deep within. Watching that door thump in the breeze, almost like an invitation, didn’t help either.
    Yet . . .
    I was here. The man said he knew where my mother and sister were. I had to go in. I just had to.
    I started down the embankment, ignoring the way my insides were twisted in knots. I reached the bottom and turned back around. Cliff was still standing there. “Well?”
    He shrugged, slid down the embankment, and followed me inside.
    â€”
    W e found him on the floor beside his bed and facedown in a pool of his own vomit. The smell hit me the moment we walked in, a kind of pungent aroma that suggested raw meat. We pushed through a darkened hallway to a single room in the back. A bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon lay on the floor beside him, its amber contents seeping out and mingling with what appeared to be yellow puke.
    I never assumed he was dead. Somehow that seemed out of the question. Maybe it was just my nature to always think people would survive. I certainly believed that Mom and Anna had. Still, it was alarming to see him like that, a man who had literally drunk himself into a stupor.
    I picked up the man’s arm gently. It was like a lead weight.
    â€œIs he alive?” Cliff asked, his voice cracking into a whisper.
    â€œI think so. He’s just passed out.” I looked around. “I wonder if this place has running water.”
    â€œNot likely,” Cliff said.
    I wanted to get a damp cloth and place it on his forehead. Not sure why, but it seemed like the right thing to do. Before I had a chance to move, he stirred, lifted the same arm I’d picked up, and used it to shoo me away. I stepped back and waited as he pushed himself up from his vomit. The side of his face was covered in it, the yellow semisolid stuff peppering his beard like ornaments in a bush. He reached for the blanket on his bed and used it to wipe his face before righting the bottle of Wild Turkey, preserving the very last bit. He contemplated the bottle, as if trying to decide if he should drink it, but ended up shaking his head, placing the bottle upright on a nightstand, and falling back onto his mattress.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” he said, his dirty T-shirt riding up past his belly and exposing a long scar that bisected his lower abdomen and curved downward beneath his blue jeans. I looked at his glass eye—it had to be glass, didn’t it?—and the scar that ran down his face. The two wounds were similar, as if done by the same blade. All of these thoughts were running through my head, so much so that I didn’t even give him an answer.
    His good eye cut in my direction. “You got a name, don’t you?” His voice was guttural,