Elderville

By Roy Innes

David Radcliffe, an eye surgeon, and his wife, Kathy, returning from a medical convention in San Francisco, bypass a highway accident by turning off onto a country road which winds through farm country near Eugene, Oregon. Totally lost when their car’s GPS fails from what appears to be a cyber blackout, they come upon ELDERVILLE, a town nowhere noted on their highway map, and with a populace they soon discover is made up entirely of old people. What begins as relief turns to terror as the couple are entrapped by a bizarre scheme to prevent them from leaving.

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Jan 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781956788310

Roy Innes

Roy Innes is a west coast writer whose published works include a crime novel series, Inspector Coswell of the RCMP, short stories and a smattering of poetry. He lives high on a bluff on Gabriola Island, looking across the Salish Sea to Vancouver, B.C.

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Elderville

by

Roy Innes

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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World Castle Publishing, LLC

Pensacola, Florida

Copyright © Roy Innes 2022

Smashwords Edition

Paperback ISBN: 9781956788303

eBook ISBN: 9781956788310

First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, January 10, 2022

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

Smashwords Licensing Notes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

Cover: Karen Fuller

Editor: Maxine Bringenberg

CHAPTER ONE

Keep talking to me.

Keep talking? Fifteen years married, and he asks her to keep talking? But she knew why—he was getting drowsy, potentially fatal on Washington State I-5, infamous for its multi-vehicle crashes.

Keeping up a constant chatter, however, required something to chatter about. The Eye Surgeons’ Conference they attended in San Francisco turned out to be a big bore, certainly from her point of view. David signed up for so many courses that not only were his days filled but most evenings as well. She soon tired of shopping, and doing San Francisco without someone to share it with was no fun.

She had never been a mixer with the wives who talked mainly about their children, and she and David were childless. The romantic dinners for two in famous San Francisco restaurants that she had hoped for didn’t happen.

Even the drive was dull. I-5 was his chosen route coming and going; the scenic coastal highway out of the question. Takes too long, he said. We’d have to overnight somewhere, and I want to get back home and give myself a day off before I have to be back in the office.

The signs posting the mileage that remained to their condo in Portland came up way too slowly. Six hundred cursed miles in all. They should have flown, of course. God knows they could afford it, but David had an aversion to flying, claiming a childhood fear. But she suspected he was just being his usual cheap self.

It’s not where you are, he loved to say, but where you came from. Living in poverty during his childhood had marked him, and he never got over it despite his present six-figure income.

Another annoyance: if he was in such a damned hurry, why didn’t he drive faster? He had an infuriating habit of travelling in the slow lane. Safer, he said. And there’s room on the right to bail out in an emergency. More likely to improve his gas mileage, she thought.

They were barely fifteen minutes out of Salem when he suddenly decelerated. What the hell is happening up ahead?

Must be an accident, she said. Cars are slowing down in both lanes.

Damn. Fifty miles left to Portland and now this. It’s not even dark yet, and the highway’s dead straight. How can there be an accident?

Tail lights flashed, the traffic slowed to a crawl, and then in both lanes, one vehicle after another came to a full stop. They ended up just six vehicles back of the accident scene.

Oh, God, David, I can see it. A van in the ditch right over on its side. You’ll have to go help. You’re a doctor.

No bloody way. I’m an eye surgeon, Kathy. I haven’t done trauma like that in twenty years. They’re far better off having a first responders’ unit tend to them.

Your license plates.

Yeah, I know—MD. But bugger it, I’m less likely to get sued by dodging this mess than jumping into it. I’m turning off.

Where? I don’t see any place to do that.

There’s something off to the side just ahead.

Some farmer’s access to a field, most likely. I don’t see any sign.

Worth a try. We’re trapped otherwise.

He pulled onto the shoulder and inched forward until he could make the turn.

It’s gravel, she said. And I still don’t see a sign.

Good. Maybe it’s an access to a crossroad and not somebody’s farm.

He drove slowly even though their Lexus SUV handled the rough surface easily. The road, which had begun straight, soon started to twist and turn through acres of cultivated land.

Switch on the GPS, he said to her. I think we’re going mainly east, but I’m not sure. I can’t see the highway behind us anymore, and I’ve lost track of exactly where the sun went down.

She pushed the select button. When the screen lit up, she tried to make sense of it. It appears we’re in the middle of a big dead space.

Zoom out until you get approximately where we were on I-5, then find us a way back to it well past the accident.

Silence while she fiddled with the buttons. Okay. I can’t really find this road, but if we are going east, we should run into something called Brush Creek Road. A left turn there, and we’ll connect with Route 218. Straight west on that will get us back on I-5 miles north of the accident.

Good. Keep your eyes peeled. Brush Creek Road? Sounds like the boondocks for sure.

After twenty minutes and nothing but junctions with farm driveways, his patience began to leave him. Where the hell is that road? What does the arrow say on the GPS?

It’s gone, David. The bloody thing has disappeared.

That’s impossible. A GPS can get your location in the middle of the Sahara Desert, for Christ’s sake.

Maybe it’s broken.

David pulled the car over to the side of the road and stopped. Let me see.

She sat back in her seat, annoyed. I’m not stupid, she said. I know how to work it.

He said nothing as he jabbed at the buttons, cursing, but the directional arrow refused to appear, and even more frustrating, the entire screen went blank.

See, she said. It’s broken.

He took a deep breath, gripped the steering wheel hard for a few seconds, and then exhaled with a loud sigh.

Okay. You’re right. Piece of electronic junk. But you saw the zoom out view okay, so we’ve got to end up on that Brush whatever Road soon.

I hope so. It’s really getting dark.

Five minutes later, the first sign they’d seen since leaving I-5 finally appeared in the beam from their headlights.

At last, she said. That must be Brush Creek Road. I didn’t think we’d ever get there. Now remember. Turn left.

He slowed, flicked on his turn signal, and then laughed. That was a useless move, he said. I haven’t seen a set of lights other than ours since we left I-5.

He rolled to a full stop when they finally were able to read the sign.

Elderville! What the hell is that? Did you see any Elderville when the GPS was working?

No. I told you this whole area was blank.

I think there’s an old highway map in the glove compartment. Have a look and see if it’s on that.

She found the map and turned on the overhead light. After a few minutes of searching, she shook her head.

Nope. No Elderville. Probably too small to rate a dot.

Damn. I guess we have to keep going.

No, she said. I need a pee break. Let’s drive into that town. Even if there’s nothing much there, we can get directions.

Okay. The fuel gauge is showing low, too, so maybe we can gas up.

He made the right turn onto a dirt road. What a goat track, he said. Makes the one we just left look like a turnpike.

Funny we don’t see any lights, though, she said. It’s totally dark ahead.

Trees. Big ones. Looks like they left a bit of the forest standing when they cleared the land. Nice touch.

But much more than a bit of forest had been left—almost five minutes’ worth at a steady fifty miles per hour before the town of Elderville suddenly appeared before them.

Wow! she said. I certainly didn’t expect this. Look at all the lights. I can’t imagine why it’s not on the map.

For sure. I wonder why the GPS didn’t pick it up.

A huge wooden sign bearing WELCOME TO ELDERVILLE carved in ten-inch letters swung from a steel cable suspended between two fir trees on either side of the road. As they neared, in smaller script below the town’s name, was Best little retirement community in the Pacific Northwest.

Never heard of it, she said. But I see a gas station coming up on my side. Esso.

Esso! You mean Exxon.

I can read. It says ‘Esso.’

I’ll be damned. You’re right. I thought Esso went out in the ‘70s.

They pulled in, only to be astonished again.

These pumps look fifty years old. I hope they’re not full of bad gas.

She smiled. Don’t be such a worrywart. They’re probably quite modern. Actually, it gives a nice antique look to the place.

A man dressed in overalls emerged from what looked like a tiny office attached to a one-bay garage, its door closed. The office was brightly lit, however, and two or three individuals could be seen sitting inside.

The man paused for a moment to put on a hat that looked like it was borrowed from a New York City traffic cop. He walked around the back of the Lexus and approached from the driver’s side. David rolled down his window.

Fill’er up, sir? the man said.

He was old. Very old.

Yes, please, David said. Highest octane you have. These foreign cars are touchy.

Not a trace of a smile.

Premium it is, the man said.

Kathy leaned across. Do you have a washroom I could use?

Finally, a smile. Not one that you would want to use, ma’am, he said. But the Dew Drop Inn has a ladies. It’s just a bit further down this street. Opposite side as us.

David watched in his side mirror as the man lifted the gas hose from its cradle and cranked some sort of lever on the side of the pump. He then turned to face the side of the Lexus and stopped, nozzle pointed upward.

David quickly pushed the button to release the fuel door latch. The man jerked back, startled.

He’s probably half blind, David whispered. No idea where the gas goes.

Shh.! He might hear you, Kathy said.

I doubt it. He’s probably half deaf, too.

You’re cruel.

They waited.

I need to pee now, too, David said, but this place gives me the creeps, and that old buzzard must be eighty. I can’t imagine what the washroom looks like.

You’re such a priss.

The door to the office opened again, and another man came out. He was big, and the oversized Mac that he wore made him appear even bigger. He had nothing on his head despite the evening chill, but a full crop of snow-white hair that hadn’t seen a barber in a while made