Centralia (17 page)

An hour later, Ronnie, who had been quietly gazing out the windshield and effortlessly guiding the truck down the road, making all the turns Peter instructed him to, shifted again in his seat, scratched his head, and rubbed his face. “Hey, uh, dude?”

Peter gave the kid his attention.

“Uh, what’s your name, anyway?”

“Dude works.”

Ronnie shrugged. “Whatever, man. Hey, uh, we’re gonna need some gas soon. We’re on E.”

Peter checked the fuel gauge. The kid was telling the truth. “You always drive around on an empty tank?”

“I was gonna get some after my shift. I wasn’t planning on getting carjacked. This is a carjacking, right?”

Peter turned his body toward Ronnie. “Ronnie, it’s whatever you want it to be. Now listen to me: here’s what we’re gonna do. Up ahead here about a mile, take a right. There’s a small town about a mile more down the road from there. There’s gotta be a station there. Pull in and up to a pump.”

Ronnie threw several quick glances at him. “And then what?”

“I’ll give you more instructions when we get there. I don’t want to overwhelm your brain.”

Ronnie made the right as instructed and a mile and a half farther steered his truck into the parking lot of Jerry’s Quick Pump & Mart.

Peter said, “First turn off the engine.”

Ronnie turned the key and the engine quieted to a rhythmic tick.

Presently there were no other cars at the pumps or the mini-mart. Jerry’s was out of the way enough that the commuter traffic had already come and gone. It wouldn’t see steady business again until afternoon quitting time.

“Now, get out and fill it up. You’ll pay cash inside.”

“I don’t have that kind of cash, man. I always use a card.”

“This one’s my treat. Just do as I say. When you’ve filled the tank, come back to the window and I’ll hand you the money. And don’t even think about running or doing anything stupid. I’m a dead aim and will drop you with one shot before you can get past the tail end of the truck.”

Ronnie looked at the gun pointed at him, then at Peter. “Got it. Fill it up, get money from you. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Peter smiled. “You’re a fast learner, Ronnie.”

The kid exited the truck and unscrewed the fuel cap. After pumping twenty-three gallons of gas, he replaced the nozzle on the pump and returned to the window.

Peter handed him the cash but, before allowing Ronnie to take it, said, “I want you to do exactly as I say; you got it?”

Ronnie nodded.

“Ronnie, I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Go in, get some drinks
 
—water for me and you get whatever you want for yourself
 
—then pay for everything. No small talk, no talk at all except what’s necessary. Got it?”

Ronnie nodded again.

“Ronnie.”

“Yes. I got it.”

Peter let him have the money and watched as Ronnie crossed the pavement and entered the convenience store. He did not turn his head side to side but walked straight and rigidly, his movements mechanical, as if he were a programmable windup doll carrying out the instructions given him. Ronnie disappeared from view for a minute or so, then appeared at the counter. The clerk, a midtwenties stocky guy with a thick goatee and wire-rim glasses, rang the items up, then turned his head and looked directly at Peter. Ronnie’s head snapped up, and he said something and the clerk looked quickly away.

Ronnie glanced at Peter, and there was fear in his eyes and sorrow
 
—apologetic sorrow.

He talked. The kid talked.

Peter pushed open the truck’s door and stepped out. He crossed the parking lot with long, quick steps. Inside, Ronnie left the counter and ran toward the back of the store. When Peter opened the door, the clerk met him with a shotgun. Peter didn’t flinch or hesitate. He grabbed the end of the shotgun’s barrel and yanked it from the clerk’s hand, then jammed the butt of the gun into the
clerk’s face. He stumbled back, crashed into the wall of cigarette boxes, and fell to the floor.

Still holding the shotgun, Peter rushed to the back of the store and caught Ronnie by the collar of the shirt just as he was shoving open the back door.

“Get back here, Ronnie.” He dragged the kid through the store, Ronnie stumbling and sputtering something about not wanting to die.

At the counter the clerk was just climbing to his feet. Peter pointed the shotgun at him. “Get down and stay down. And keep the cops out of this or I’ll be back and it won’t end nicely for you.”

But Peter knew he’d call as soon as they left. They’d have a description of the truck and Ronnie. There would be state troopers crawling over this area like mice in a cheese factory in no time, helicopters too. It would be an all-out manhunt.

“Grab the drinks, Ronnie.”

Ronnie did as he was told and didn’t resist when Peter pushed him forward and said, “Get back to the truck.”

At the truck Ronnie hesitated. He shook uncontrollably. “Are you gonna shoot me?”

Peter aimed the shotgun at Ronnie’s chest. “Get in the truck and start it up.”

Eyes wide, Ronnie said, “Dude, you know you could just leave me here. Take the truck. You can have it. I won’t call the police, I promise.”

“I wish I could trust you, Ronnie; I really do. Besides, your friend in there is going to call the cops as soon as we leave anyway. And I need you in case things get hairy.”

“As a hostage? Are you taking me hostage? People don’t kill their hostages, right?”

Peter motioned to the driver’s seat. “Get in.”

This time Ronnie obeyed without further argument.

Peter got in the passenger seat. “Drive.” He pointed straight ahead. “That way.”

Ronnie shifted the truck into gear and stepped on the gas. The back tires screeched on the concrete and the truck lurched forward.

Peter’s face was still hot with anger. His pulse raced. So many things could have gone wrong back there. If there had been other shoppers in the mini-mart or at the pumps . . . “That was stupid, Ronnie. So stupid.”

“I’m sorry, man, okay? I panicked. It’s not every day I get carjacked and kidnapped and held hostage.”

“Up here,” Peter said, pointing to an approaching road on the right. “Turn here.”

Ronnie steered the truck onto the road and hit the gas again.

“Drive faster. We need to get out of here quickly.”

“You think he’s gonna call the cops?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“’Cause you said you’d come back and kill him.”

“That won’t stop him.”

“I don’t know, man. He looked pretty scared.”

“Here.” Peter motioned toward the next road. “Go left.”

They were putting good distance between themselves and the gas station. Ronnie went as fast as he could while still maintaining control.

After a few minutes, Ronnie said, “Are you gonna kill me?”

Peter didn’t answer. Instead he continued to give Ronnie instructions. Turn here, turn there, go faster, turn again. They were doing a good job of avoiding primary roads and sticking to secondary and even tertiary roads that were concealed from above by
heavy forestation. But still Peter knew he’d need yet another new vehicle, and he’d need to get rid of Ronnie.

“Pull over, Ronnie,” Peter said.

“What? Why?”

“Pull over.”

Ronnie slowed the truck, pulled to the side of the road, and stopped. His face flushed, and beads of sweat formed on his brow and cheeks. “What’re you doing?”

“Get out.”

“Why? I don’t
 
—”

Peter shoved the barrel of his handgun against the side of Ronnie’s head. “Get out.”

“You gonna kill me here? In the woods? Dump my body where it won’t be found? Is that how you work? I thought you said you needed me. I’m your hostage, remember? Hostages need to be alive to be any good.”

“You’re no longer needed. Get out.”

With his hands up and fear trembling his lips, Ronnie said, “Okay, okay,” and exited the truck.

“Listen to me, Ronnie. You’re a good kid, you hear me? A good person. The world needs more people like you. Don’t ever let anyone tell you differently and don’t let anyone make you feel like you’re worth less than they are. You aren’t. I want you to understand something. Are you listening?”

Ronnie nodded, wiped at the sweat on his forehead.

“That scar and everything it represents played a role in shaping who you are today. You’re a fighter, a survivor. You remember that.” Peter waved him on with the handgun, motioning toward the forest. “Now walk. Get going.”

Ronnie hesitated, looked at the gun, then at Peter, then back at the gun. “You gonna shoot me in the back?”

“You’re a survivor. Walk and keep walking until you can’t go any farther. Don’t turn back. Don’t turn around. Just walk. Okay?”

Ronnie nodded and stepped off the road and into the forest. Peter watched until the kid was about a hundred yards away, then got in the truck and took off. He had Ronnie’s mobile phone, so even if the kid turned around, he’d have no way of contacting anyone. The nearest town was miles away now, and they hadn’t seen a single vehicle on this road or any of the roads around here.

He should have killed the kid
 
—that’s what he’d been trained to do
 
—but he couldn’t. Ronnie didn’t deserve that. As he drove down the road, Peter checked the rearview mirror; he hoped Ronnie would find his way out of all this.

The road leading into Centralia was as pocked, creviced, and scaled as a crocodile’s back. Tendrils of smoke, like the final breath of those occupants who were long ago driven from their small community, rose from the ground as testaments to the memories that were made there, memories of families and lovers and children playing and men working, memories of community and friendship. In the air hung the pungent odor of sulfur and the smell of decades of death.

Highway 61, which had at one time passed through Centralia and brought travelers and business, had been detoured around the town, and now the only way in was the old Route 61, a service road lined with trees stripped of bark and leaves and bleached as white as limestone by the heat radiating up from the underground fire.

Peter Ryan parked the truck along the side of the road and set out on foot. He stuck to the road’s shoulder, avoiding the buckles in the pavement. Ahead he could see where the town line had once been. A sign, faded and vandalized and harkening to better times, read
Welcome to Centralia
.

Above, the sky was overcast and gray as slate, the clouds as scarred and rutted as furrowed soil.

All was quiet. Too quiet. No birds sang; no squirrels chattered. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic on the highway as it sped past the abandoned and forgotten town.

Peter stopped and reached his hand around to one of the pistols tucked into the waistline of his pants. It was within easy reach should he need it. Over each shoulder was slung an automatic rifle. He switched off the safety on each. He had come prepared, not knowing what to expect.

Walking forward as if entering the most combative of combat zones, scanning the surrounding woods and growth for anything that appeared threatening or ill-boding, Peter reached the town line and stopped. There were only a few houses left; the rest had been dozed and cleared, empty stone or concrete foundations now overgrown with witch hobble, honeysuckle, and greenbrier the only sign that a home had ever been there. To his right, the road branched but was claimed by underbrush and saplings not thirty yards beyond. To his left, a side street ran a good distance, then turned left. There were two homes on the street: one appeared to have been gutted by fire, its roofless second-story frame jutting upward like blackened fractured bones; the other was obviously abandoned. Windows had been broken out, the front door knocked off one of its hinges, and spray-painted graffiti boasting an assortment of names and a variety of vulgarities covered the exterior walls.

There was no sign of anyone else around, no other vehicles, no cameras. Nothing. The place was as much a ghost town as any forsaken whistle-stop in the old west.

Peter approached a small sinkhole along the side of the road and knelt beside it. A memory hit him then, a flash of summer lightning.

“Welcome to Centralia, Sergeant.”

It’s that man’s voice again. Deep and thick.

He’s in a room, white walls, white floor, white ceiling, white table and chair. No pictures, no color. Only one door in or out. The lights are bright
 
—so bright he needs to squint and shield his eyes.

“Are you ready to become the soldier you were born to be? The soldier your country needs?”

He was a soldier? Why didn’t he remember being in the military? Or did he remember? There were those flashbacks of combat, Baldy, the dog, the Humvee. But he had no personal ties to any of them. To him, they might as well have been scenes in a movie once watched but not entirely forgotten.

Another flash of memory struck him.

He’s bound by his wrists and ankles and strapped to some kind of bed. Above him the white ceiling seems to draw closer as if to crush him.

Then the shocks come, electric jolts in waves, coursing through his body like gunshots, making every muscle tense enough to tear at its moorings, jamming his teeth together, scrambling his eyesight.

He grits his teeth, grinds his molars, and finally, when the torture stops, lets out a hideous holler.

Peter rubbed his eyes and face. What was this place? What kind of horrors had he endured here?

He needed more information. But there was nothing here. It
was an empty town, uncivilized, deserted, left to rot. Why would Karen bring Lilly here?

Peter then remembered the phone number from his dream, the one he’d found in the notepad on the desk. Nichols. He had no recollection of a Nichols, didn’t know the name from any other name. But it had to have some meaning if it was in his dream. Nichols had to be someone of some importance to him or his mind wouldn’t have stored the name and number. And he wouldn’t have found it in the room.

Sticking to the tree line and growth along the side of the road, Peter walked as cautiously as one might traverse a minefield. He went another block, then another. It was more of the same. Gutted homes, barren foundations taken hostage by brush. The ghosts of a perished town, lost memories, forgotten futures. The road was scarred and faded, cracked and littered with witchgrass and waist-high weeds. There were no street signs, no mailboxes. Occasionally he’d see the remnants of a driveway that led to no home, just a barren lot overgrown and claimed by the wild.

Three blocks off what was once the center of town, in a large clearing, stood the shell of a one-story building. The faded and vandalized sign on the facade said it was the elementary school. Most of the windows were knocked out and the words
Do Not Enter
were spray-painted on the front door.

Peter walked the perimeter of the school. It was the only building other than a handful of homes still standing. Why was the school left intact? Why not raze it like they had nearly every other building?

In back of the school were the remains of the playground. A swing set sat undisturbed, the swings still suspended by their chains, waiting for the long-lost children of Centralia to come out
for recess. To the right of the swings, a jungle gym sat quietly, the orange paint mostly chipped off. The grass around the school was long but not untidy. It looked as though it hadn’t been cut in a couple weeks. Someone was keeping it mowed, keeping the weeds at bay, keeping them from encroaching on the school. The woods and undergrowth that had taken over much of the rest of the town had been warded away from this spot. But why?

Approaching the school, Peter peered through one of the broken-out windows and into what once was a classroom. Desks lay on their sides; chairs were toppled; a thick film of dust covered everything. Scrawled across the blackboard in bold letters were the words
KEEP OUT
. Posters encouraging students to do their best, to persevere, to study hard for a solid future, hung in shreds like torn wallpaper.

Peter looked around the property one more time before climbing through the window and into the school.

Standing in the midst of the decay with the smell of dust and mold in his nose, Peter had another memory, which consisted of nothing more than a series of quick images highlighted by a slow strobe.

He’s a kid, no more than twelve, sitting at a desk. Alone. There’s no one else in the room.

A teacher enters, female, middle-aged, slender, hair loose around her shoulders. She’s wearing a dark skirt and light-blue blouse, plain.

Now the teacher is next to his desk, hovering over him, hands on her hips.

She wags a finger at him. “When will you learn to apply yourself, Mr. Patrick?”

Peter snapped back to the present and the ruin that used to be Centralia Elementary School, but the woman’s voice resonated in his head. Not Patrick, but Mr. Patrick.

He moved through the classroom, stepping over and around fallen ceiling tiles and school supplies that spilled from the overturned desks. In the hallway he drew in a deep breath of the musky air and let it out. What little light filtered into this area of the building colored the walls a chalky gray.

The next room was another dilapidated classroom. More fallen ceiling tiles littered this room, like skin peeled away, exposing the electrical circuitry overhead. Peter tried the light switch, but nothing happened. He really didn’t expect the electricity to still be on.

In another part of the building, several rooms down the hallway, as faint as the movements of ghosts, he heard the scuff of shoes on tile.