South Village (Ash McKenna) Read Online Free

it’s definitely becoming an unsettling pattern.
    The sun has arced enough that one side of the long stretch of road is in the shade. I strip off my shirt and cram it into my belt. It’s a long walk and I don’t have to be worried about sunburn if I stick to the tree line. That, at least, is nice. The threatening voice of sobriety calls out to me, so I take another swig of whiskey, drain the bottle empty, and set off toward the waving lines of heat sprouting off the asphalt in the distance.
     
    T he road is straight and uniform. Nothing to break it up, just the odd car passing by every few minutes. I lose track of how far I travel. I wish I had brought my phone. I was halfway to Atlanta before I realized I left it at camp.
    Just about when I’m wondering whether I missed the turn-off, there it is, hacked through the tree line. A dirt path with a weathered wood sign at the foot, carved into it the words: SOUTH VILLAGE.
    Underneath that: EST. 1973.
    I follow the worn-smooth path. The canopy is so thick it takes my eyes a second to adjust to the darkness. The temperature drops a good ten degrees, too. Now I’m almost chilly.
    As I walk down the path I feel two sets of eyes on me. That same set I always feel in the forest. There’s not someone watching me. I know that, intellectually. But still, those eyes are there, boring into my back.
    I ignore it. Wish I had more whiskey.
    Concentrate on the trees. Palmettos and magnolia and cedar and holly and pine and myrtle. More trees on this walk than I’ve probably seen in my entire lifetime. Trees are nice. The forest is so big and so dense it feels like being inside someplace else. Nothing but the sound of my sneakers in the dirt and the occasional animal noise. The call of a bird or shrill click of an insect.
    I think about Bill, too.
    To take pride in your work, even if it’s a little messy, that must be a very nice feeling.
    A half-mile in, I hit the bridge over the stream and stop to check it. One of the visitors reported it was shaking when she drove over it, though she seemed like the nervous type. I stomp on some of the boards, hold the railing and shake. It feels solid as concrete, but then again, I’m not a car. I’ll come out and take a look at it with someone who knows what they’re doing, to make sure it’s sound, but it doesn’t seem to be in imminent danger.
    Bridge cleared, it’s not too much longer until I reach the Hub.
    The first dome is the biggest, dark wood and covered in moss, the size of a small house. There are more behind it, no consistency to the size or order, so the domes look like giant mushrooms grown up out of the forest floor. The only pop of color, the only thing that looks artificial, is the long rows of rainbow-hued Tibetan prayer flags, crisscrossed between the domes, some of them reaching up to the canopy, haphazard the way Christmas lights are strung up around a college dorm room.
    The porch in front of the Hub and the paths cutting around and behind the domes appear to be empty. There’s no one in the front clearing. Which is strange. Usually this place is bustling with people doing chores, lounging, participating in workshops. There’s not a single acoustic guitar playing.
    There’s always an acoustic guitar playing.
    But all I hear now is the gentle flap of the prayer flags.
    There must be an assembly somewhere. Some event I wouldn’t have given a shit about if someone told me. Maybe everyone is down by the lake. It’s a good day for a dip. I keep walking, past the Hub, to Eatery. Climb up the back steps and into the glorious mess of the main kitchen.
    I should go back to the bus and get a clean shirt but I don’t really care to, so I toss my t-shirt into the corner, pull an apron off the wall, and pull it over my head. Turn on the window fan that will keep the air moving enough so that when I turn on the ovens, I will not immediately die.
    I nearly trip over Mathilda, who’s poking at the floor with her beak. She doesn’t