Polaroids
The Devil’s Road —— CHAPTER 01: THE DANCE
Welcome to Issue #3 of The Devil’s Road, a serial novel following the exploits of Samantha Hart, a Sequoyah County Sheriff, full of vengeance and fury using her badge to hunt down her sister's killer as she uncovers a trail of bloodshed that coats the heartland.
Miss the first two issues? Check out Issue #1: Gore, Oklahoma by clicking the link below.
If you are enjoying this series, please consider sharing it with others, and don’t hoard all the good stories for yourself.
And now, please enjoy the third issue and the conclusion of chapter 1 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.
Sandy pushes open the bathroom door and reenters the motel room. The curtains are pulled closed, and it’s clear the storm has worsened. There’s barely any sunlight filtering through the shades, and the lights are off. One of the two motel beds has been stripped. Sheets and covers lie on the floor. The Driver appears to be gone.
She steps further into the room, checking the closet. Nothing.
“We playin’ hide and seek, sweetie?”
Polaroids are scattered across the bare mattress. The warm calm from the meth begins to shift. That little voice of warning starts whispering in her ear. This isn’t good. The buzzy warmth turns into a sting. She feels pressure mounting in her chest as she leans over to look at the photos on the bed.
Broken, beaten, bloody bodies fill each picture. She picks one up. In the photo, a woman’s face stares back at her. One eye is swollen shut; the other, once blue, now has a milky white finish. A few strands of her red hair are matted in the dried blood around her ears. Sandy drops the Polaroid. The other photos show more of the same. Different women, some alive… some not.
A soft sliding noise echoes in the room. Sandy’s eyes dart around, searching the dim light for movement. She backs toward the front door, fumbling along the wall for the light switch. At the same time, she unconsciously tugs at the red wig still on her head, dislodging the pins. It slips from her fingers and falls to the floor, forgotten.
She finds the switch, and light floods the room. She’s alone. She goes to the window and pulls back the curtain. The car is still parked outside. Then she hears the sliding noise again and spins on her heels. Again, nothing.
The gun. She pulls at the zipper on her boot. There’s a metal-on-metal creak as the bathroom door slowly swings closed. Sandy’s fingers find the .22. She looks up just in time to see a blur of flesh charging at her. The white, bloated, naked body of the Driver flashes across the room, swinging a wooden club that connects with her face. Everything goes black.
Sandy’s hands lie palm-up in her lap. The hemp rope around her wrists hasn’t left her skin raw yet because she’s unconscious. Same for her ankles and midsection, all tied to the chair. There’s a bit of dried blood on her forehead from the club’s impact. Otherwise, you might think she was peacefully sleeping.
The Driver sits on the bare mattress behind her, flipping through his photos, waiting for Sandy to wake. Her head rolls from one shoulder to the other. It’s nearly time.
He rolls her head straight back, exposing her neck. Sandy’s head dangles, her mouth open, long, deep breaths escaping as she struggles to regain consciousness. The Driver uses a plastic comb to brush her hair out of her face and begins to reapply the wig. It’s a difficult process with worn leather work gloves, but he’s patient, meticulous. He continues to pin it as he stands over Sandy, looking down at her face, her looking up at his. Her eyelids flutter.
A tickling sensation fills Sandy’s head as the Driver whispers in her ear. “You think that when you look at folks, you see ‘em, but you don’t. Truth is, nobody wants to be seen. We hide in our little lives, in worlds we create so that others never really find out who we are.” He finishes repining the wig and walks to the bathroom.
“The real person lives just under the surface of the skin. Maybe they’re a good person, maybe they’re not. Doesn’t matter.” He returns with a washcloth and wipes the blood from her face.
“All we get is the show they put on. The image they want us to see. The mask they wear. But if you’re lucky, you get to see what’s underneath… underneath all those lies.” He takes off one glove and softly caresses her cheek, skin to skin.
A shock runs through her body as the world reignites in her eyes. She opens her mouth to scream, but a gag quickly covers her attempt.
“Shhh. I’m not finished.” She sees the Driver standing behind her in the mirror over the dresser. He’s nude except for the work gloves and a short wooden bat hanging from his wrist by a leather strap. She bites and pulls at the gag with her teeth.
“Look at me,” he says. She closes her eyes and turns her head. He grabs her skull and forces her face back to the mirror, squeezing.
“LOOK,” he repeats. Sandy’s large brown eyes open, and he loosens his grip. She manages a muffled, “fuck you.”
“This is the raw, the real. There’s no mask here, and now I’m going to do the same for you.” He reaches down to the bed and shuffles through the Polaroids until he finds what he’s looking for.
Sandy hears the click, click, click as the box cutter blade in the Driver’s hand opens. She pulls at her bonds with everything left in her body. She tries to scream but can’t find her voice. The rope won’t give, but the chair’s old. It cracks and creaks as she strains its joints.
“Hold still.” The Driver tries to grab her face, but she squirms away. One of the chair legs begins to crack. He slaps her, and the momentum of the hit sends her to the floor. The chair leg snaps, and one of her legs is free.
The Driver leans over her to pull her back up, and she kicks out, hitting his nose. It snaps under her heel, and blood explodes across his face and eyes. She pulls at her other ankle, slipping it free from the bottom of the chair. She slides her hands down her legs, undoing the knots around her wrists.
Leaning over the sink, the Driver watches his nose drip into the bowl as he examines himself in the mirror. He’s forgotten his prey.
Sandy wiggles free from the bonds around her chest and stomach. She’s on her feet and launches for the door. Daylight floods the room as she rips it open. She’s going to live—and then the world goes black again.
When her body hits the ground in front of room 107, it makes a wet smack as her head finds a puddle in the gravel. The Driver glances around the parking lot as he stands over her, naked. He’s alone.
The storm has passed, and the sun is setting over the prairie. The normally brown and barren landscape turns golden in the low sunshine, and the clouds that once threatened rain now glow pink and purple. It’s an Oklahoma postcard: “Visit Gore, Oklahoma!” emblazoned in bold font over the picture-perfect sunset in contrasting bright colors.
The Driver leans over, grabs Sandy by the feet, drags her inside, and shuts the door.
