Prologue
Dylan Frei turned off the engine of his 1960 Ford F-100 truck and stepped out. He took a deep breath, figuring he didn’t have many left. He removed a large duffle bag from the pickup’s bed, and stuck his arms through the looped handles, carrying it on his back. He walked over to the fissure in the hill as it spewed black smoke. He took his last breath of the crisp autumn air and climbed in.
The further he pressed into the mine, the harder he had to force himself to go on. The heat from the fire told him to go back, but his guilt pushed him on.
What started out as an ordinary trash-disposal job had become a town-wide incident without anyone noticing for weeks. It was common practice in this part of the state to burn garbage rather than collect it in a landfill. Unfortunately, Centralia, Pennsylvania used to be a coal-mining town, and a lot of the coal was still underground.
After some time of crawling and stumbling through the fissure the fire had exposed, Dylan reached the active fire itself. Luckily—if one could call being trapped with an active coal fire lucky—the chamber the flame was in was big enough for him to stand upright and move around. He dropped the duffle bag and took an inventory of his supplies. Two full fire extinguishers and five asbestos blankets were all he had to save his town.
Dylan took a moment to adjust to the hell he had created. He could barely breathe because of the fumes, and felt like the heat was going to make his lungs collapse. He covered his mouth with a rag and took as deep a breath as he could manage.
Dylan followed the flames’ path and found the heart of the fire. He rose to his feet—stumbling slightly, as he was already getting lightheaded—and removed one of the fire extinguishers. He pulled the pin, screaming as he discharged the whole thing on the flaming coal. When the smoke cleared, the primary flame in the room had been reduced to a faint glowing ember.
Unsatisfied, Dylan pulled the pin on the second fire extinguisher, and sprayed the fire while sweeping the area around the flame. Again, he waited for the smoke to clear—and this time he almost couldn’t believe his eyes.
There was no more fire. The temperature was already dropping noticeably. What had been a fearsome fire was now just a few hot spots he quickly covered with the flame retardant blankets. He took a few minutes to revel in his victory. Though the air was still stifling, he was too proud of his accomplishment. He hadn’t even told anyone he was coming down here, for fear they would talk him out of it. The fire was a sore subject—even mentioning it in the local bar was a bad idea, and everyone insisted it was inextinguishable.
Well, Dylan would be pleased to tell his friends and colleagues that he had survived and saved the town at the same time. After months of restless nights, he was finally going to be at peace with himself. He had finally killed the beast that threatened his town, his home, and his life.
Dylan picked up the extinguishers and put them back into his bag. He took one more moment to marvel at his work, knowing he’d probably never come back here again, and anticipating that no one would believe his story. It wouldn’t matter—deep down he’d know what he had accomplished here today, and that would be enough.
He began working his way out of the cave, carrying the duffle bag—empty and much lighter now—when out of the corner if his eye he thought saw a something flickering in and out of existence. He hoped it was his mind playing tricks on him, but decided he couldn’t leave without confirming what he thought he had seen. The fissure he was crawling through was too narrow to turn around in properly.
After quite a bit of struggling—he was forced to crawl backwards—he was back in the chamber, and had room investigate and confirm his fears. He was relieved to see it was just one of the blankets, smoldering slightly. Without any fuss, he stomped it out. The faint light was replaced by smoke billowing up from beneath his boot—the fire’s dying breath.
Dylan decided to wait a few minutes before making his exit. The air was noxious but bearable. He looked at his wrist to see how long he had been waiting, but realized he had left his watch in the truck. Besides, with the fire dead, the mine was pitch-black again. After waiting as long as he could, he didn’t see any signs of life in the fire, and decided to try to leave again.
No sooner had he turned his back on the blankets than he heard the whooshing sound of a flame coming to life. He slowly turned around and saw several new spots where the fire was burning through the blankets. He rushed over to stomp them out, as he had done before—but for each one he snuffed out, another one lit up. It was like playing a devilish carnival game—but with his life on the line.
He frantically reached into his bag and pulled out both fire extinguishers—hoping one of them still had some juice. He aimed one at the nascent flames and squeezed the handle. A pathetic plume shot out, having no effect on the fire. He shoved it aside and prayed the other had something in it. Once again, he aimed the extinguisher at the fire and squeezed the handle. He was in luck—the extinguisher had some fight left in it. When the fire was out, Dylan sank to the floor in amazement.
He was panting and his heart was racing—but he was alive and the flame wasn’t. He let out a triumphant yell, confident that his trouble was over. His excitement echoed around the chamber until it died out, leaving the chamber quiet and serene.
Then he heard the whooshing sound again.
All the blankets he had laid out were completely aflame. The fire quickly spread around the chamber, blocking Dylan’s only escape.
“No, no, no, no, no, no!” he screamed.
Out of sheer desperation, he threw the fire extinguishers into the flame—which of course did nothing. Surrounded by flames, he was hesitant to keep his back to any one side for too long—fearful that the flame would leap out at him like a mountain lion hiding in dense foliage.
He knew the flame wasn’t sentient, but he certainly didn’t trust it. After several revolutions, Dylan took comfort in the idea that the flame did not seem to be advancing toward him. He felt safe facing the crack in the wall—the one he had crawled through earlier. He wondered if he could make it through the flames and escape. Would the flames follow him? Would the flames even let him pass?
What did it matter? It was his only chance. He decided he had to take it. He swayed back and forth, trying to find the courage to leap over the flames, when he heard a loud bang. Before he could even react, he felt burning hot shards of metal piercing his right leg. He knew the fumes might make him hallucinate, but when he turned around he wouldn’t have been surprised to see the devil’s hand piercing his leg, ready to drag him off to hell.
Instead, he found the burning remains of the fire extinguisher he had foolishly thrown into the flame. He reached down and didn’t feel a supernatural hand squeezing him—just the wet, sticky sensation of his own blood. His head was already light, but now he could no longer stand. He collapsed to the floor, ready to give in. He had started the flame—it was only fair that his was the first life it took.
His blood pooled on the floor, seeping towards the fire. He watched as the two met, no longer caring what happened. He wished he could have put out the fire and saved his town. He wished he had finally done something right. But he had failed as usual. When the blood touched the flame, the fire traveled up it, as if the trail of blood was a fuse. Dylan smirked; he didn’t even know that was possible. Then the fuse ran out, and Dylan instantly burst into flame. No one from his town ever saw him again.