The Devil's Road: A SERIAL NOVEL
The Devil's Road: A SERIAL NOVEL
CHAPTER 01: THE DANCE --- ISSUE 01: GORE, OKLAHOMA
Okay, so I really jumped the gun on this, but I’ve always been bad at waiting to share things I really love. From gifts to surprises, I really shouldn’t be trusted. I announced a new series I’ve been working on this morning on Threads, and it felt silly not to share it here as well. A little background for you dear reader …
I completed a pilot last year that won nine finalist laurels in various screenplay competitions, but I wasn’t satisfied to let it sit. So, I decided to tell the story in a different format, a serialized novel here on Substack.
This is an “in process” piece of writing that could shift and change as we journey forward together in the story. I’ve got a map, but the paths toward the end are various. We may find dead ends, precipices of death, or loops that seem impossible to get out of safely, but I would love for you to move on this journey with me.
The first three issues will be available for all of my readers, but if you want to continue, please sign up for a paid subscription and join the dozens and dozens that will get to follow along in the action. Your support helps make these stories possible.
And now, please enjoy the free, first issue of … The Devil’s Road.
In 2004 an Oklahoma Bureau of Investigations analyst discovered a crime pattern along the Interstate 40 corridor between Oklahoma and Mississippi. Subsequently, The Federal Bureau of Investigations (F.B.I.) started the Highway Serial Killings Initiative. They discovered over 500 bodies of women along the interstate highway system with more than 200 potential suspects, a trail of bloodshed that coats the heartland. The Devil’s Road is a serialized novel based on this horrific discovery.
Storm clouds stretch across the open, empty plains of an Oklahoma skyline like a goose-down blanket protecting against the horrors that might exist on the other side. Rain lightly patters on the warm blacktop road. Steam rises as the pavement releases the heat of the day. Of all the days to take a ride across the prairie without air conditioning, today was a bad choice.
A shit-brown Chevy Caprice with Arkansas plates rolls down the highway toward a building in the distance: the Gore Motel. Despite its name, taken from the nearby incorporated township of Gore, Oklahoma, the two-story roadside cinderblock building is nothing short of quaint. The flowerbed, full of colorful petunias, gives an air of frivolity, and the large pink flamingos that line the roadside could make your lip curl with a wry smile—if you were in the proper mood.
The Caprice pulls into the parking lot in front of unit 107. The driver slides the shifter into park, turns off the motor, but leaves the battery running. “The Dance” by Garth Brooks plays from the tinny, busted speakers on the dash.
A mousy-looking lady sits in the front seat. She seems nervous and uncertain. We’ll call her Sandy.
Sandy opens her purse, pushes aside a palm-sized .22 pistol, and pulls out a pack of Capri menthol 120s. She glances up at the driver to make sure he didn’t see the weapon. “Mind if I smoke?” The driver doesn’t respond, just keeps listening to Garth.
The sun peaks from between the clouds as Sandy opens the passenger door. She walks under the balcony of the second-floor walkway, looking for some cover and to keep dry.
She lights her cigarette and takes a long pull. It calms her. The red wig on her head has slipped a bit, so she adjusts it to stay in place.
One of her press-on nails snaps loose and falls to the concrete at her feet. She’s never gotten used to all the effort this line of work requires. She looks at the remaining soldiers at the ends of her fingers, wondering if she should just pull off the rest. They’re Tiffany blue, her favorite color.
Garth’s song finishes, and the radio DJ starts warning about a wave of storms coming through the area. The driver turns off the radio and climbs out of the Caprice. His work boots crunch in the gravel parking lot. He’s a heavy walker.
“I ain’t payin’ you to smoke.” The driver takes the cigarette out of Sandy’s hand and thumps it into the rain just starting to fall. A crack of lightning sparkles across the daylight sky.
“He gave her a good smack on that one,” Sandy says as she reaches into the driver’s pocket and pulls out the hotel key. The driver gives her a confused look.
“Ain’t you never heard the expression, ‘the Devil’s beatin’ his wife’?”
“No.” He takes the key from Sandy, unlocks the door, and goes inside. Sandy looks at the half-smoked cigarette smoldering in the gravel of the parking lot, daring the drops of rain to find it. They’re nearly three dollars a pack now. She walks into the rain, picks it up, takes another long pull, and then another as she exhales through her nose. She drops it and crushes it with the heel of her boot. No sense in wasting it.
She looks up at the sky, watching the drops fall around her, on top of her, and opens her mouth to let it drip inside. Rain’s supposed to be sweet, according to the poets, but this rain is just wet.
