Centralia by Mike Dellosso Read Free Book Online Page B

wearing khakis and black long-sleeved polo shirts. One was taller than the other and bulkier. The smaller one wore glasses and had his head nearly shaved. High and tight, military style. The woman’s father had been in the Army, a career soldier; she was raised a military brat. Her husband had been in the Army too. She knew the type when she saw it.
    The men said nothing because they didn’t need to. The woman and her daughter knew the routine. Her daughter pulled away from her and approached the men like a willing sacrifice resolved to place herself on the altar. They looked at her as if she were some lab freak and handled her indifferently, clinically: no emotion, no tenderness, one hand on the upper back, keeping an arm’s distance between them.
    If they only knew how sweet she is, how innocent. How brave. They wouldn’t treat her so coldly. They couldn’t.
    Before she left the room, the girl turned, made eye contact with her mother, and smiled. It was a smile that said everything would be okay, a smile that told her mother not to worry, to trust God because he would protect his child. Then the door closed, and the woman was once again alone with her tears. And guilt.
    Every day they took her daughter, and every evening different men returned her. The girl said they did things to her   —she called them “experiments”   —but she never went into detail. The woman prodded her, even pleaded with her to tell her what they did, but she would never say. She’d only ever say that God was with her, that he gave her strength and protected her. At least she referred to experiments and not abuse, and there were never any marks on her. But did an eight-year-old even know what abuse was?
    Regardless, the girl was immovable in her faith. It was incredible. Almost inhuman. As far as the woman knew, her daughter had performed no miracles, but still she should be sainted for her faith.
    The woman went to the bed and sat there, her hands in her lap, tears falling from her eyes. She thought of her husband as she did every day. They told her he was dead, that he’d died a hero’s death and that she should be proud. She was proud, but she was also angry. Not at him   —goodness, no. They had both agreed that he needed to do what he’d done. It wasn’t his fault. She was just angry. Maybe at herself, maybe at God   —it was hard to tell. But besides anger, there was the guilt   —such terrible guilt. It was her job to protect her daughter, to make the right decisions, to keep her sweet, precious girl from harm, but instead she’d led them right into the devil’s lair.
    They’d been in this place so long she’d lost track of the time. It could be weeks but was probably months by now. Time seemedto move in a circular fashion here rather than linearly as it did in the outside world. Days ran together, and if she didn’t know better, she wouldn’t be surprised if they repeated themselves. If days became more days before turning into weeks. Maybe weeks didn’t even exist here in this secluded world, months or years either. It could just be days and days and more days. Just an endless string of hours ticking by with no beginning and no end.
    She didn’t know who it was who held them, but their captors provided decent care. Three meals a day, a shower a day, and the room. It was nothing special, certainly no five-star accommodations, but it had a double bed, a dresser, a table and chairs, some area rugs, and a lamp. Everything she and her daughter needed to at least not be uncomfortable. There was no television, but they supplied her with books to pass the time, mostly classics like Austen and Brontë and Steinbeck and Twain. She’d never been much of a reader before, but now she devoured books   —sometimes two a day. After all, there was little else to do. After a while, passing the time in one’s own mind could lead to all sorts of thoughts. The mind had a tendency to wander, to meander to strange places and