Empty Mile by Matthew Stokoe

By Matthew Stokoe

When Johnny Richardson returns to Oakridge he has something on his mind--correcting a negative mistake that brought on him to escape his homeland 8 years in the past. Revisiting the prior, although, is a depressing and unsafe video game in small-town the USA. while a slipshod sexual episode results in the suicide of the town’s first woman, Johnny reveals himself the objective of a revenge crusade that threatens to rip aside the delicate global he’s outfitted one of the gold-bearing mountains of Northern California.

Left an unexplained piece of land while his father mysteriously disappears, Johnny needs to get to the bottom of its secrets and techniques in a determined bid to guard these he loves. yet his efforts to do that have lethal results and should eventually strength him to confront not just his personal failings, however the very nature of guilt.

A searing meditation at the futility of attempting to correct the wrongs of the prior, Empty Mile blends parts of exciting city noir with the wide-open areas of outside event in a narrative that displays America’s modern uncertainty approximately itself.

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I crept along the hall to the kitchen and stood by the back door until I heard a key turn and footsteps cross the threshold. And then I ran, crouching low, out into the back garden, around the corner, and along the side of the house. I stopped for a moment at the edge of the front yard, scanning the place where the cars were parked, but it was clear, my father and Patricia were in the house and the door was closed behind them. I walked quickly out to the road and back along it to my truck. As I drove away I suffered the unsettling realization that the semen I had seen on the dark sheets of the bed in the spare room must have been my father’s.

Things got heated and eventually I figured it was safer to surrender the table and catch up with Gareth at his place instead. But that wasn’t good enough for them and when I left the bar they followed. My car was parked a few hundred yards along the street in a kind of no-man’s-land between Back Town and the Oakridge commercial precinct. It was darker here and the road was lined with scrub-filled lots that had been pegged out to service Back Town’s creeping expansion. The two guys figured it was a perfect place to hammer an uppity local.

A man was kneeling, driving his locked arms rapidly up and down. The jeans and shirt he wore were soaking wet and beneath his pumping hands the body of my brother was dreadfully pale and dreadfully still. His chest flexed and one of his feet rocked back and forth through a short arc but it was plain to me that he was not alive. I dropped to my knees opposite the man. I felt a sudden desperate need to explain that I was the one here to whom this terrible event was most terrible, to confess to the ring of faces peering down at me my part in this tragedy.

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