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No spare.
No cell service.
Not a single car had driven by since we’d stopped.
In unison, our heads pivoted in the direction of the arrow pointing toward the coast. “I’ve heard of Mud Gulch,” I said. “It’s a fishing town.”
“I just hope someone there has a phone,” Trent said.
“What fishing town doesn’t have a phone?” Grant asked. “Of course they’ll have a phone. They’re situated on the water, not under it.”
God, despite his genius-level IQ, Trent could be a dope. A dope who had used his spare tire weeks ago and hadn’t replaced it before a road trip.
I heaved a deep breath and turned toward the road that disappeared through thick trees. At least the rain had let up slightly. Not that it mattered—all four of us were soaked to the bone.
It took us about forty-five minutes to make it down the road that wound through the trees, finally emerging on a cliff that overlooked the shore. There was a lighthouse on a small island to our right, the top of which disappeared into the fog, its pale light cutting through the mist and guiding the fishing boats home. There were residences scattered here and there, but from where we stood, the only lights of public establishments that I could see were far down by the docks.
“That’s a ways down,” Aidan noted, obviously looking in the same direction as me.
I stretched my stiff neck from side to side. I wasn’t necessarily up for more walking in the rain either, even if the lights down below likely had food. I was starving. “Let’s save ourselves the walk. There are some houses over there.” I pointed at a road to my left where porch lights glowed. “We can ask to use their phone and call a—”
My feet were sucked down and the ground fell out from under me.
I clawed at empty air, flying downward in a torrent of slick mud, grabbing at roots that slipped through my fingers, completely at the mercy of nature.
“Shittttt,” someone yelled from behind me—we were all being flung down the hill in a massive mudslide.
We were all going to die. This is it.
I was turned sideways and backward, bumping over rocks and plants and who knew what else as I grunted and swore and finally landed hard on my ass in a puddle that engulfed me up to my shoulders. “Holy fuck!” I barely had time to register the fact that three grown men were hurtling my way but moved just in the nick of time not to be buried beneath them before they hit the water in three loud smacks.
We sat there, stupefied, breathing hard, looking around in shock at what had just happened and the fact that we were still living. “Is everyone okay?” I asked, testing my own extremities to make sure nothing had broken. They all mumbled in the affirmative and we pulled ourselves up and stepped out of the deep ass puddle onto the road. Directly in front of us was a sign that pointed to the docks where the lights were that we’d seen from above.
“That was one way to get down here,” Grant said, flinging a glop of mud off his cheek.
“Worst guys’ trip ever,” Aidan murmured.
I barked out a laugh, and then so did they, all of us doubling over, our howls seeming to stem as much from hysteria as from hilarity. “What the fuck was that?” Grant asked.
“And how did we not die?” Trent added.
After a few minutes, we all caught our breath, shaking ourselves off as best we could and heading in the direction of those lights.
We made our way through the rain-drenched streets of the business district, such as it was. The docks were old and somewhat rickety and groaned under our feet when we stepped onto them. But this area of the town appeared to have the most nightlife. The lights were brighter, and I could hear the low hum of voices coming from somewhere just up ahead.
A quaint-looking tavern materialized out of the mist, and I almost ran toward it in joyful relief. Though we couldn’t see all of it through the rain and fog, the portion that was visible glowed with light and invited us in with the faints sound of laughter and conversation. “Looks promising,” Aidan said.
God, did it ever.
I pulled the door open and we all stepped inside, the scent of beer, savory food, various cleaning products and the bare hint of mildew met my nose.
There was an ornate hand-carved, mahogany bar to our left with lighted shelves of liquor on the back wall and a row of lanterns hanging above. Customers occupied all six barstools and they swiveled their heads in unison, taking us in as the woman behind the bar with orange hair paused, a silver shaker held immobile in the air.
We stood there, dripping on the floor as every head in the place rose, gazes aimed in our direction. “Hey,” Trent said with a wave and a smile.
No one greeted him back.
“I’m not sure this place is as promising as it seemed,” Aidan mumbled.
