by Dan Padavona
“No power, no working gas pumps, right?”
“Right.”
She cursed under her breath. A pale haze replaced the deep blue sky.
They passed a farm fronted by a massive red barn and silo. A broken wooden fence ran off the barn. Three horses that had freed themselves from the fenced-in pasture stood feeding in the meadow. One horse grazed ten yards from the highway guard rail, and as the Civic motored past, the horse raised its head in curiosity.
A few miles ahead, a travel center shimmered in the heat. At the same time she noticed the travel center, a road sign announced its presence at the next exit.
“Maybe we should try the pumps. Just in case.”
“They aren’t going to work.”
“But what’s the harm in trying?”
A half mile from the exit, Tori let up on the accelerator and coasted. Suddenly Blake pushed back into his seat, pressing his head against the head rest. His eyes were wide and frantic, as though he saw a decrepit witch’s face pressed against the windshield. Tori pumped the brakes, jerking the car and causing her stomach to roll over.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
Blake’s back pressed harder against the seat. His face had the washed-out look of plain yogurt.
“Skip the exit. Keep driving,” he said, his voice shaking.
“Why? We have to get gas—”
“Not here. Something is wrong.”
“Calm down,” she said, watching him from the corner of her eye. As she took her foot off the brake, allowing the car to roll toward the exit ramp, he stared out the passenger window. He watched the travel center’s buildings emerge over the wind-whipped trees as though he looked upon a graveyard at midnight.
His erratic behavior came from nowhere. Tori questioned her decision to invite the boy into her car. Is he dangerous? She realized she knew nothing about the boy. He could be one of the serial killers he envisioned living within those solitary houses that glowed with lantern light after sunset, like a Halloween pumpkin.
“You’re making a mistake. Just drive, and we’ll try the next exit.”
“Blake, this is full travel center. Even if the pumps don’t work, it will have bathrooms, and a mini mart. I don’t know about you, but I really need to use the bathroom, and I’m getting hungry.” The car coasted around a long, winding curve. The terror etched into Blake’s face made it seem as though the car was descending into hell. “You’re scaring me.”
“Then drive past.”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
“It just doesn’t feel right,” he said, his eyes studying the thick, green flora pressing against the shoulder of the road.
The Civic swept around the curve and emerged at an intersection. Tori brought the car to a halt at the stop sign, automatically looking both ways for oncoming traffic despite not having seen another vehicle since the previous night. A Burger King sat across from the exit with a sign hung in the front window, soliciting summer jobs. The intersecting road fell off to the right, descending into a sleepy village with a handful of cars parked within the village center. If the pumps don’t work, maybe we can find a car with a full tank, she thought. The way left ran into dark woodlands that threw shadows across the asphalt. Ahead rested the travel center, winking in the sunlight like a long-abandoned castle.
She turned left and made a quick right, following a blacktop pathway next to a sign which read, Enter Only. The strip of windows fronting the Subway and mini mart were black.
“The power is out,” he said, his eyes darting back and forth as though he expected a mountain lion to bound out from behind the travel center. “Let’s just turn around and try the next exit.”
She noticed a beaten pickup next to pump 18 on the far end of the plaza. Red rust flaked off the metal, and a wooden bed ran off the back. The truck looked older than dirt.
From behind the far side of the truck snaked a bulky hose. As the Civic rounded the pumps in front of the mini mart, Tori noticed the hose was attached to a pump. A second hose ran off the back of the pump into a well beside the pumps. Her heart beat faster with hope. Was the shimmer of heat off the pump tricking her, or was the pump running?
A man emerged from behind the pickup. His head shot up at the approaching sound of the Civic’s motor. For an instant, Tori thought she saw anger in the man’s eyes, but then he raised a hand and waved. The man’s face fixed into a grinning rictus.
“I told you it was a good idea to stop here,” Tori said, smiling and waving at the man.
“Be careful, Tori. We don’t know anything about him.”
“We know he figured out how to get gas out of the pumps. Maybe he will let us fill our tank, too.”
Tori inched the car toward the pump. The man, whose face was much younger than she expected given the ancient, shabby exterior of the pickup, motioned her forward. When she was a few feet from the pump, he put his hand out to stop her. The well’s metal covering sheet was propped against the pumps, shaking with each gust of wind, booming like stage thunder.
The man wore tight, faded blue jeans and a red short-sleeve t-shirt that accentuated his lean, muscular body. He stood smiling, as though the smile was permanently carved into his face. His white teeth glimmered.
“Keep the car running,” Blake said.
“It isn’t safe to pump gas when the car is on.”
“Just do it.”
Tori sighed. “Fine.”
The man kept on smiling, his eyes searching the windshield glare concealing their faces. Blake climbed out of the car first, moving no farther than the Civic’s side mirror.
“Howdy,” the man said. “Getting low on gas, I’ll bet. As you can see, they’re having a sale today. Free gas.” The man nodded toward the car. “You’ll have to turn off the engine, though. Don’t want to take any chances—”
His grin momentarily disappeared when Tori bounced out of the front seat. Then the smile returned, this time resembling the grin of a hungry tiger eyeing a hunk of raw meat. The hot wind gusted, blowing the fiery curls away from Tori’s face.
“As I was just saying,” the man said, his eyes fixed on Tori. “You’ll have to turn off your car. Too dangerous to pump gas into a running vehicle.”
“You see?” Tori looked across the hood toward Blake. “I’ll turn it off.” As she turned back toward the door, Blake shook his head. Ignoring him, she sighed again and switched off the ignition. The car went dead silent, save for a metallic pinging as the engine cooled.
“The name is Mickey Keller,” the man said.
“Mickey? You don’t look like a Mickey,” Tori said. She seated herself on the hood of the Civic, but quickly hopped off upon feeling the sun-seared heat of the metal against her thighs. She stood rubbing the backs of her legs as Mickey watched.
His eyes followed the smooth curves of her legs, catching a glimpse of white panties beyond the blue jean short-shorts riding up her thighs. His eyes were back on her face before she could notice. He wet his lips with his tongue.
“What is a Mickey supposed to look like?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, a tinge of pink in her cheeks.
“Maybe if I said—” His voice rose an octave, mimicking Mickey Mouse. “Oh, boy, I sure am glad I met some new friends today!” She laughed. Mickey looked pleased with himself. “Where are you two headed?”
Tori glanced at Blake, who moved to the front of the car. “No place in particular. Just headed south.”
“South?” He flipped his voice back to Mickey Mouse. “I sure do miss all of my friends down south. Goofy, Pluto, Dopey, Sleepy—”
“Don’t forget Minnie Mouse,” she said.
“Why bother with Minnie Mouse,” he said, switching back into Mickey Keller, “when there are so many pretty girls in the world?” She recognized his flirtation, and it pleased her. Mickey looked like the type of guy who could protect her from the Jacob Mann’s of the world. When he turned off the portable pump, the wind became loud and fretful. �
��This stupid pump will kill my battery before long. But as long as I have the pump, I get free gas.”
“So what about you, Mickey Keller? What do you think happened to everyone?”
“Maybe they all walked off the edge of the world. It’s better without them, I say. No more waiting in long lines to ride Space Mountain.” He winked at her. “He always this talkative?” Mickey asked, pointing a thumb toward Blake.
“I don’t know. We just met this morning.”
“Oh,” Mickey said, grinning wider. “So the two of you aren’t brother-sister or boyfriend-girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s a shame for you, eh, Sport?” Blake didn’t answer. “Nope. Not very talkative.
“After I get your car gassed up, how about the two of you follow me back to my place? I’ve got a little ranch on the west side of the village. It’s not much, but the refrigerator is fully stocked, and I’ve got a big Coleman generator. Until the gas station tanks run dry, I’ll have all the power I want.”
“We should really get going,” she said, curling her hair with her forefinger.
“Why? You have nowhere to go and all day to get there. Stay awhile. We’ll crack open a few beers. I’ll fire up a steak on the grill. How does that sound? I’ll bet you haven’t had a good meal in days.”
“Well, maybe if it was just for a few hours,” she said, turning to Blake. Blake gave her a pointed look over the hood.
“I don’t think your friend trusts me very much,” Mickey said, switching his gaze to Blake.
Tori caught a flash of rage in Mickey’s eyes, and although it was only visible for a split second, she recognized it as the look he had given them when the Civic first approached his pickup. A chill ran down her arms. Maybe Mickey couldn’t protect her because he was no different than Jacob Mann. “Maybe next time, Mickey.”
“Next time,” he said with a voice devoid of natural intonation. His glare locked on Blake, and for several seconds, the air bristled with tension, like the moment before a bullwhip cracked across a bare back. Then Mickey grinned as though there wasn’t a problem in the world. “Hey, you can’t blame a guy for wanting some company, can you? I’ll take a rain check. If you ever come through Pennsylvania again, be sure to look me up. I’ll be the only guy with electricity. Now how about we get you gassed up and on your way?”
Tori breathed a sigh of relief. Mickey removed the hose end from the pickup’s gas tank and walked the coil toward the back of the Civic. “Hey, Sport. Do me a favor and hit the door release for your gas tank.” Blake watched Mickey, a distrusting look on his face. “Come on, kid. I can’t gas you up if you don’t let me at the tank.”
Blake rounded the car, his eyes locked on Tori’s. She interpreted his gaze as saying, be careful, but she didn’t see any danger in letting Mickey fill their gas tank.
When Blake disappeared inside the car, Mickey said, “Now we’re getting somewhere. Darling, I’ll need you to press that round button on top of the pump to get it running.”
Tori smiled. As she walked toward the pump, Tori heard the dull pop of the gas tank’s door release over the wind. Then she heard footsteps running up from behind her. Before she knew what was happening, Mickey struck the back of her neck with the side of his hand. She lurched forward, her legs turning to Jello. Moments before the world went black, she felt herself lifted off the ground and hustled toward the pickup’s open door.
She landed onto torn vinyl seating that scraped her skin. Her eyes drifted open to a spinning interior. She felt his hands on her legs, shoving her knees toward her chin as he stuffed her into the back seat of the cab. The door slammed, turning the howling wind to a muted, faraway cry. She heard Mickey’s shrill laughter, and in her fading consciousness, she thought he almost sounded like the real Mickey Mouse. Blake screamed her name.
“Sorry, Sport, but I never liked you anyway,” she heard Mickey say. The thunderous explosion of a gun shot. Another. One more.
The front door to the cab opened, and the cacophony of grinding pump motor and gusting wind roared into the pickup’s interior. The motor shut off, and as Mickey lugged the pump into the back of the truck, Tori tried to lift her head. She couldn’t. It felt as though her skull was stuffed with lead.
The truck’s motor fired to life, growling like a dragon.
“Don’t you worry, pretty one,” she heard him say, as the pickup started moving. “I’ll take real good care of you. We’re going to have a good time. Just the two of us.”
He struck the side of her head with his fist, and she lost consciousness, crumpled on the backseat.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Burn It Down
Ricky had slept through the previous night, slumped over in a booth inside of Peter Pig’s barbecue pit, listening to flies buzz in and out of his ears. They crawled across his skin, and in the gray of semi-sleep, he felt revulsion as the flies burrowed in and out of his nostrils and open mouth. When he came awake for good during mid-morning, there were so many flies on his arm that his skin appeared to be caked with flecks of mud. He jerked his arms off the table, and the flies buzzed away like a black cloud, settling on the decayed food remains inside the open garbage container.
He no longer smelled the familiar barbecue scents. It was as though the fragrance had melted back into the walls, replaced by something redolent of carrion. Disgusted, he crawled out of the booth. Head drowning in a river of agony, Ricky was struck by a wave of dizziness. The floor rotated up past his eyes, and then he saw the booths and the kitchen counter whip by as though seen from a tilt-a-whirl. He vomited, smelling the digested remnants of yesterday’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He stood hunched over, hands on knees, until the nausea passed. Slinging rancid fluid off his lips, he leaped over the mess and ran for the exit.
The sun over Chardray was an angry furnace. Shielding his eyes, he felt along his face. He didn’t need to see his reflection in the window to know his face swelled with purple bruises. Someday, sooner or later, he’d cross paths with Viper again. Next time would be different. Oh, yes. Next time, he would hurt Viper badly. A fire burned through Ricky.
The town, what little there was of it, lay baking in the morning heat. Searching the vacant windows for signs of life, his eyes stopped on Hank Jenner’s house. Are you still in there, Mr. Jenner? Giggling to himself, Ricky cut across the fissured pavement, angling across overgrown lawns where the grass extended halfway to his knees. At Hank’s house, he ran to the front door.
When he placed his hand on the screen door handle, he stopped. What if Hank has a gun? Thinking that maybe busting into the house without checking things out wasn’t so smart, Ricky banged on the screen door.
“Hank. You in there?”
He banged again, and the screen door made a sound like a snare drum.
“Hank. It’s Ricky. Hey, I just wanted to tell you that I was sorry about yesterday.”
Ricky pulled the screen door open. Pressing his ear to the wooden door, he listened for approaching footsteps. Nothing. He jiggled the door handle and found it locked.
Not a problem.
He walked around the left side of the house and up the driveway. He found an empty car port with its top encased by a vining plant, like a den of pythons. Scanning the ground, he bent down and picked up a brick. After circling back to the front yard, he hurled the brick against the plate glass window to Hank Jenner’s living room. The brick made a small puncture hole in the glass that spider webbed toward the corners. He waded through shrubbery, retrieved the brick, and threw it against the window again. This time the brick broke through cleanly, opening a hole large enough for him to squeeze through. Knocking away the shards, he grabbed the sill and boosted himself up.
Ricky poked his head into the living room.
“Anybody home? Nobody but us chickens?”
He dropped onto the couch. The first thing he noticed was the missing picture frame of Amy. I’ll bet there are other pictures of Amy inside the house.
; The idea of being secretly inside someone’s house excited him, and he felt himself stir within his pants. As he surveyed the interior—more pictures on the mantle, the furniture where Hank’s daughter had sat and read, the bannister leading up the stairs into the unknown—he grew hard. Now in a state of euphoria, he didn’t care that Hank’s daughter had probably vanished into thin air with the rest of the world. As far as he was concerned, she was a real, living woman, and he wanted to see her. That Hank had forbidden him from handling the picture inspired Ricky more.
Chuckling, he bounded up the stairs two at a time.
Here was a short hallway with three open doors. A bathroom. Hank’s room. And down the hall, door number three on the left.
What’s behind door number three, Johnny? Is it a new car. Is it a box of Rice-A-Roni?
I’ll take the booby prize, Johnny.
Ricky was overcome by giggles.
Booby prize. That was Hank’s daughter, all right. One fine booby prize.
He dashed into her room, plunging himself onto a twin bed nestled in the corner. Burying his nose into her pillow, he thought he smelled the hint of her perfume. Had she slept here last month over Easter vacation? Did you come home to visit your Daddy, Amy?
A menagerie of stuffed animals watched him from the shelves, their black eyes catching the filtered sunlight through the drapes and seeming to come to life. On the bed stand, he found another picture of Amy. Amy’s college sweatshirt, and the other smiling girls holding beer bottles by the necks, marked the photo as having been taken during her university years. All of their eyes were focused on him.
This is Ricky’s world, now. What Ricky wants, Ricky gets.
His arousal swelled. Unbuttoning his blue jeans, he slipped into her cool bedsheets. He masturbated under the blankets, holding off for as long he could, savoring her smell, soaking in all of her private memories on the shelves. When he finished, he didn’t feel dirty. Instead, he felt powerful.
The wind gusted against the frame of the house. From down the hall, a floorboard groaned.
Ricky froze.