The Devil's Road: A SERIAL NOVEL
The Devil's Road: A SERIAL NOVEL
CHAPTER 01: THE DANCE --- ISSUE 03: POLAROIDS
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 have been pulled closed, but it’s apparent the storm has gotten worse. There’s barely any sunshine coming from behind the shades and the lights are switched off. One of the two motel beds has been stripped. The sheets and covers lay 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?”
There are polaroids spread across the raw mattress. Sandy’s warm calm from the meth begins to shift towards fear. The buzzy warmth starts to sting. She can feel the growing pressure mounting in her chest as she leans over and looks at the photos on the bed.
Broken, beaten, bloody bodies in each picture. She picks one up. In the photo, the face of a woman looks back at her. One eye is swollen shut, and the other one used to be blue, but now has a milky white finish. A few strands of her red hair are matted in the dried blood around her ears. She drops the Polaroid. The other photos are more of the same. Different women, some alive … some not.
There’s a soft sliding noise in the room. Sandy’s eyes dart around in the dimly lit room looking for anything moving. She backs towards the front door fumbling along the wall looking for the light switch. At the same time, she is unconsciously pulling at the red wig still on her head, dislodging the pins. It slips from her fingertips 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. She hears the soft 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 to see a blur of flesh charge at her. The white bloated naked body of the Driver flashes across the room and swings a wooden club that connects with her face. Everything goes black.
Sandy’s hands lay palm up in her lap. The hemp rope around her wrists hasn’t yet left her skin red and raw yet because she’s still unconscious. Same for her ankles and her midsection, all are tied to the chair. There is a little bit of dried blood on her forehead from the impact of the club. Otherwise, you might just assume she was peacefully sleeping.
The Driver sits on the raw mattress behind her. He flips through his photos, waiting on Sandy to wake. Sandy’s head rolls from one shoulder to the other. It’s nearly time.
He rolls her head straight back, exposing her neck as her head dangles unconsciously behind her, her mouth open. Long, hot, deep breaths come out as she struggles to regain reality. He 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 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, worlds we create so that others don’t ever truly find out who we really 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. Don’t matter.” He returns with a washcloth and uses it to wipe the blood from her face.
“All we get is the show they put on. The image they draw for 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 slowly caresses her cheek, skin to skin.
A shock runs through her body as the world reignites in her eyes. The raw marks on her wrists and ankles are just starting. She opens her mouth to scream and a gag immediately covers her attempt.
“Shhh. I’m not finished.” She can see 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 turns her face back to the mirror and squeezes.
“LOOK,” he repeats. Sandy’s large brown eyes open and he loosens his grip. She’s able to get out 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 onto 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 bounds 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 legs of the chair begins to crack. He slaps her and the momentum sends her to the floor. The chair leg snaps and one leg is free.
The Driver leans over her to pull her back up and she kicks out, finding his nose. It snaps under her heel and blood explodes across his face and eyes. She pulls at the other ankle, slipping it free from the bottom of the chair leg. She slips her hands down her legs undoing the knots around her wrists and she pulls at the bounds on her chest.
Leaning over the sink, the Driver’s nose drips into the bowl as he examines himself in the mirror. He’s forgotten his prey.
Sandy wiggles free from the bounds 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, with his club firmly gripped in his right hand. 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 were threatening to rain now glow pink and purple. It’s an Oklahoma postcard. “Visit Gore, Oklahoma!” emblazoned in some bold font over top of the picture-perfect sunset in contrasting bright colors.
The Driver leans over, grabs Sandy by the feet, drags her inside, and shuts the door.
