Page 36 of Into the Dark, We Go
"Duane?" I tried getting him to focus again.
He ignored me and waved for another round.
The bartender glanced at me warily, then turned back to Duane. "Pay for this one first."
"I’ll cover it," I said, intervening. "How much does he owe?"
A check appeared in front of me. I glanced down, shrugged, and handed over my card. Duane didn’t even acknowledge me. The bartender served him another drink, which he promptly downed.
I tried again. "It’s not just about Lucas. We think more people might have disappeared in the same way."
"We?" he asked.
"My friends," I shot a careful look towards them. They sat at one of the tables, staring at us. "They’re looking for their sister, Amanda. Please, talk to us."
Duane sadly shook his head, slamming the glass on the counter. Then, he got up from the stool, underestimated how drunk he was, and immediately fell. I jumped and tried to get him up. Mitchell and Nick came over and hooked Duane’s limp arms over their shoulders to walk him out.
"Who are ya, and what’re ya doin’ with this poor sumbitch?"
The guy who approached us was a tall, muscular man in his late twenties. His dark hair was buzzed short, revealing a prominent forehead and a chiseled jawline that seemed set in a perpetual scowl.
"We’re his friends," Mitchell stepped in, his tone brooking no argument. "We’re taking him home."
"Ain’t seen you around," the guy said.
I swallowed, noticing a few more men sizing us up from different sides of the bar. We may have stepped into something we didn’t expect.
Mitchell, still holding Duane up, spoke. "Listen, man, we’re not here to stir trouble. She’s Duane’s old friend," he gestured toward me, "and we’ve just come to visit, but didn’t expect him to be like this. If you want to take care of him, fine. It’s not like he cares who puts him to bed right now."
The guy chuckled but stepped aside, seeming to relent. But when I glanced over my shoulder, he was still watching—calmly, from under his brows, like a predator biding its time.
We helped Duane, who was barely able to move his legs, out of the bar and into my car. I wasn’t sure if he had driven there, but he definitely wasn’t in any shape to drive back. He would have to retrieve his car later when he sobered up.
Nick drove while I tried to keep Duane upright, but he hung in the seatbelt like someone slumped after a car crash. He wascompletely out, mouth open, head lolling with every turn we took. I didn’t want to touch him, but I kept one hand near his head, trying to steady it, half amazed he hadn’t snapped his neck yet.
Duane didn’t have any keys on him. The bartender must’ve taken them. Luckily for us, the side door to his house was unlocked. We stepped into a dingy, outdated kitchen that reeked of stale grease, rotting food, and a faint undercurrent of mildew. Flies buzzed thick in the air, landing on sticky countertops and crusted-over dishes stacked in the sink. The dusty blinds were pulled shut, dimming the already dreary room. We moved through the clutter, our feet bumping into empty bottles, sending them across the floor like billiard balls scattering after a break.
We brought Duane into what must have once been the living room, dominated by a sagging brown couch so dulled with grime it was impossible to tell its original color. The carpet beneath our feet was a chaotic patchwork of stains, burns, and unidentifiable blotches. An old, bulky TV in a worn wooden stand supported a newer, sleek model, its screen dark and lifeless. Papers were scattered everywhere, but the worst part was the state of the walls. Strange symbols were scrawled across the paint in a shaky ballpoint pen. Whether he had been dabbling in some bizarre occult stuff or simply losing his grip on reality, I couldn’t say.
Above the TV, a stag skull hung crookedly. Its hollow eye sockets seemed to stare straight through us. I shuddered. In the dim light, it looked disturbingly alive.
We eased Duane down onto the couch. His eyes were already fluttering shut as he slumped into the filthy cushions.
"Duane?" I called softly, taking a step forward.
He didn’t even twitch. I shook his shoulder, but there was no response.
"Is he alive?" June asked.
I gestured weakly toward his chest, where the faint rise and fall of his breathing was the only sign of life.
"Should we leave him be?" I asked, feeling frustrated. "I have no idea how to talk to him right now."
June let out a dismissive snort and stalked out of the room. Mitchell approached Duane and gave him a firm shake, commanding, "Wake up! Rise and shine, Duane!"
The guy mumbled something incoherent, his hand flailing weakly as he tried to swat Mitchell away like an annoying fly.
"Move," June said from behind, and Mitchell barely had time to jump away before she threw a whole bucket of water over him.
