The Devil’s Road Chapter 6: The Coming Storm
The rain-soaked Oklahoma highway becomes a stage for desperation and danger, as a lone semi-truck looms like a shadowed sentinel in the storm.
The road stretches on, Faithful Rambler, as we delve deeper into the blood-soaked highways with Chapter 6 of The Devil’s Road. Today, we find Madeline barreling down a rain-soaked Oklahoma highway, a duffle bag full of meth riding shotgun and a deadly storm closing in. But the brewing tempest outside is nothing compared to the danger lurking just out of sight, waiting to strike when she least expects it.
For those just joining, there’s a trail of death stretching behind us, and with each chapter, we draw closer to uncovering the truth buried in the dust.:
This is the final chapter of Part 1 of The Devil’s Road. Part 2 will be coming to your inbox after the first of the year.
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.
Chapter 6: The Coming Storm
issue one — Cold Steel and Red Dirt
Heather’s feet pound into the red dirt clay of the trash-strewn hillside behind the Old 64 Truck Stop. She has to keep moving, faster than her lungs can handle. Her heartbeat drums in her ears, her breath is short and tight, but she can’t slow down. Madeline—her Madeline— has just taken off for Tulsa with a duffel bag full of crystal meth riding shotgun and a Sequoyah County Sheriff’s cruiser tailing close behind. Today was about to go from bad to worse.
At the bottom of the hill, Heather reaches the edge of the gravel lot where semis idle in the rising morning sunshine. She runs between two of them, making a beeline for the payphone on the back wall of the truck stop. Madeline had bought a cell phone a month back, and Heather had laughed, calling it a waste of money. Who needs to be that connected all the time? Now, it’s the only link she has to warn her that there is danger on her tail.
The gravel gives way to asphalt as she nears the diesel pumps. She skids to a stop as she gets to the phone, shoving her hands into the pockets of her cutoff shorts, pulling out a few loose coins. She cradles the receiver between her shoulder and ear as she feeds the money into the payphone’s slot with shaky fingers.
Two dimes and a nickel slide down into the phone’s guts and jingle as they land in the pile of other coins. She steadies her hands to dial Madeline’s number, taking a couple of deep gulps of air, trying to slow her pounding heart. She doesn’t want to sound too panicked when Madeline picks up.
The phone rings through the earpiece. It rings a second time, and then a third. What if Madeline doesn’t pick up, or maybe she’s already been pulled over? The drugs sitting in the passenger seat are their only hope to escape this sinkhole of a life. Madeline’s got to answer.
“Come on baby, hear it ring,” Heather whispers into the receiver.
“Hello,” Madeline’s voice comes through, calm, the faint sound of radio music in the background. She’s safe. Well, at least for the moment.
Heather opens her mouth to warn Madeline, but a force slams her against the back wall of the truck stop. The receiver slips from her hand, dangling from the cord. A heavy body presses against her from behind, one hand shoving her head forward to prevent her from turning. Another hand siezes her right wrist, twisting her arm behind her back, pinning her hard against the wall. Cold metal snaps over her wrist—handcuffs.
“Gotta sneak up on me, you bitch?” Heather snarls, assuming it’s Sheriff Samantha Hart, who’d been watching her from across the highway. She spits out, “Been getting your rocks off watching me every morning, and now you gotta come get yourself a feel?” If she’s going to jail for life, which she most certainly will if they find those drugs, she might as well earn every day of it. She readies herself for a fight.
But when Heather’s spun around and shoved back against the wall, it’s not Hart. It’s worse. It’s the man from yesterday, the man with the gun, the one who’d given her a light right before she found the drugs. Were they his?
Moses Blackrock reaches into his jacket, pulls out his badge, and flashes it in her face. His expression is cold unreadable.
“I take it from the look on your face, you remember me,” Moses says, slipping his badge back in his pocket. “And, you don’t look a bit surprised to see me.”
Moses searches Heather, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and the rest of her loose change, tossing it on the sidewalk. “I’m looking for some answers, and you’re going to help me.”
“Got a funny way of asking for help,” Heather snaps back.
“Look, I got a couple of questions I need answered, and I think you might be able to help. But, you keep giving me lip, and I’ll try a different method. Got it?” Moses says as he gets a little closer, using his size to intimidate her.
“Yeah, you look like the type that likes to slap around little girls,” Heather says a second before she receives a fist as hard as a cinder block to the ribs. Her breath catches as her lungs collapse. The world starts to dim and she slides down the wall and lands flat on the sidewalk. She struggles to pull in air, but her lungs aren’t listening to the request.
“Now do have your attention?” Moses asks as he sits her upright, waiting for her to catch her breath. He watches as her eyes lids begin to droop and close. She’s going to pass out. He slaps her in the face. “Hey!” he snaps.
Heather’s eyes flutter open, the world still spinning, and she starts to laugh, though the pain in her side stifles it. Moses smiles. She’s a tough cookie. He gave her a little bit of his weight to get her attention, but now she’s just laughing at him.
“What, you want another one?” Moses asks, looking down as Heather winces in pain.
A voice from behind Moses cuts in, calm but firm,“Put your hands behind your head and interlace your fingers.”
Heather looks up, a weak smile stretching across her face, “Never thought I’d be so damn happy to see a cop.” She spits the saliva building up in her mouth on Moses polished black loafers.
Sheriff Samantha Hart stands behind Moses with her gun drawn and pointing at his head. Her voice doesn’t waiver. “I said put your hands behind your head and interlace your fingers.”
Moses complies with Sam’s request. “You make a habit of beatin’ up on sex workers agent Blackrock?” Sam asks.
“What the fuck?” Heather protests.
“Keep your mouth shut,” Sam demands coolly. With the gun still aimed at Moses, Sam reaches inside his jacket and pulls his service revolver free. She steps back and holsters her own weapon.
“Can I put my hands down now, Sheriff?” Moses asks.
Sam clicks the release on the side of the weapon releasing the clip, pulls back the slide and clears the chambered round from the gun then tosses it back at Moses. He snatches it from the air and puts it back in his holster.
“So now what?” Moses asks.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Sam responds curtly.
Moses sighs, he doesn’t like explaining himself, especially when he’s just compounding one lie on top of another. “I told you I was working a case. She’s part of the case.”
“I been watching this one for over a month, and seen no evidence of using or dealing. Pretty rare given her daily occupation,” Sam counters.
“Look, I don’t know what ya’ll are talking about, but I’m not…” Heather starts, but Sam cuts her off with a look.
“Agent Blackrock, you may continue,” Sam offers.
“You’re really enjoying this aren’t you?” Moses says with a grin, but get’s nothing in return from Sam. “It was your idea to come check this place out, in case your forgot. Turns out to have been a good lead and I think this one here on the ground might of seen something. So, I was questioning her.”
“I didn’t hear any questions as I was walking up, just a sucker punch to the ribs,” Sam says as she motions for Heather to take her feet.
Sam unlocks her handcuffs. Heather rubs her wrists, looking wearily back and forth between the two officers. She does her best to keep a look of anger and defiance on her face, but inside all she can think about is getting back to her Madeline. Sam gives her a nod, signaling for Heather to take a hike.
Heather doesn’t need to be told twice. She tosses Moses handcuffs at his feet and and takes off around the side of the building, leaving Sam and Moses alone.
“Now, you wanna explain to me why you’re beating information out of a woman half your size, Agent?” Sam asks.
Moses scoffs at the question, running his hand over his stubbled chin. How much can he say without implicating himself?
“I got word that the product was left here by the mule to be picked up by a local dealer. It was in a small duffle. I figured since she works the lot, she probably saw somebody with it, and could point me in the right direction.”
Sam taps the clip from Moses’s gun in her hand, thinking. Something’s not adding up here, but standing in the rising morning sun arguing with a federal agent wasn’t going to do her or him any good. Madeline was carrying a duffle with her when she left Heather’s trailer this morning. Was it the same one? That would be a hell of coincidence. She’s also got to get Heather support. Freeing her today should go a good way towards that goal. With her help, Sam can get access to the surveillance tapes in the truck stop. If Heather’s arrested for trafficking, that’ll slow down her own case.
“Know anywhere we can get a drink?” Sam asks.
“At nine in the morning?” Moses says with a smile.
Sam shrugs at the question. Moses nods and says, “Sure, I know a place.”
Sam tosses the clip to Moses, her eyes never leaving his. “Good. Then you can explain to me what it is you are looking for. Maybe if I scratch your back, you can scratch mine.”
Moses slips the clip back into his gun, his gaze hardening. “I’ve got my case, Hart. Yours is yours, unless you’re looking to get tangled up in something bigger than you can handle.”
Sam smirks, “Oh, I can handle plenty. But try to push your weight around Sequoyah County again, and we’ll see just how big your think you are.”
Moses pauses, a flicker of something crosses his face. Respect? Admiration? Finally he nods. “Well then, let’s go have us a talk, Sheriff. Looks like we may be in this one together, whether we like it or not.”
Sam watches as he walks to his car, a half-smile playing across her mouth. Maybe Moses Blackrock thought he had the upper hand. But in the game she was playing, she’d seen men like him come and go. She knew this road better than he ever would, and she’d be damned if she was going to let a fed with a badge and a bad attitude slow her down.
Sam slips into her cruiser and picks up the receiver, “Bandy this is Sam, over.”
“Sheriff Bandy Williamson at your service, over,” Bandy answers.
“You still on that hatchback, over,” Sam asks.
“Yes sir, indeedy,” Bandy chirps back.
“Good, keep your distance, but don’t let her get out of sight. Hart, over and out,” Sam finishes as she hangs up the receiver. She cranks the engine, the rumble of the cruiser echoing across the mostly empty lot. She grips the steering wheel tightly. The path she was on was twisting in front her, pulling her towards some unforeseen ending. Whatever came next, she’d be ready.
issue two — on the edge of the blade
The cold white fluorescent bulbs in the Sequoyah County Correctional Facility pop and buzz as they come on in the visitation room. A couple of metal tables and benches, bolted to the floor, populate the empty space. A row of windows lines one wall, looking out over the empty prairie landscape and the eighteen-foot razor-wire fence, separating those on the inside from freedom.
Mac Gibbons, now in an orange jumpsuit, enters under the grip of a correctional officer. The officer walks him to the nearest bench and shoves him down. Mac raises his handcuffed wrists, expecting the CO to unlock him, but instead, they’re latched to a steel ring on the table, keeping his hands bound and stopping him from getting up.
“Jesus, man. I ain’t even done nothing,” Mac protests as the officer leaves with only a grunt in response. The nicotine-stained walls loom close, and the scuffed, torn linoleum seems to close in around him. A large, dark stain spreads under Mac’s feet, and he wonders if this seat was someone’s last stop. Depending on who walks through that door, it could be his too.
He’d arrived in the area with a cheap recipe for crystal meth and a handful of contacts in Little Rock and Dallas. He should’ve kept moving, but the thrill of making money on guns and drugs made him feel like Tony Montana. Nothing gave him a thrill like firing a fully automatic into the night sky after a big sale. But those guns came with partnerships, and one of them might be the reason he’s staring at that stain now.
The door swings open, and Mac tries to turn his head, but the handcuffs stop him from seeing who’s entered. The door whines as it slowly swings shut, the latch clicking back into place. Then silence.
“Hello?” Mac says, twisting left, then right, trying to get a look. “Somebody there?”
The thump in his ears grows louder as his heart pounds in his chest. Sweat beads on his forehead, and he can smell last night’s booze leaking through his pores. A long sigh floats over him from behind.
“Who the fuck is here, man?” Mac says, the hair on his arms standing on end. “You know what I’m in here for, my dude. I know people. You hear me?”
A large, calloused hand grabs Mac by the face, covering his mouth and pinching his nose, shutting off his airflow.
The Driver leans in close, voice low and sharp. “I could have one of these boys in here gut you like the pig you are, or maybe you’d prefer to earn your keep on your knees. Don’t matter, one way or the other. Now that the Feds have all the product, I got no use for you anymore.”
He lets go, and Mac gasps, coughing as he gulps down air. “I had it handled, man. I did — I did my part, I swear. That injun motherfucker is trying to screw us both, man. It ain’t me.”
“What do you mean ‘screw us both’?” the Driver asks.
“He’s the one that messed me up,” Mac stammers. “I met him at the spot and handed him the duffle. He asked if I wanted a drink, and I thought—”
The Driver’s hand moves to Mac’s throat, squeezing tight. Mac gags, his eyes bulging, pulling at the cuffs to get free. Just as the world starts to blacken, the Driver lets go.
Mac’s head slumps on the table, wheezing. “Just listen, man. Give me a second. He drugged me. I think he had it planned. Think about it—who handled the bust? He’s making a move on our spot, man. He’s after both of us. You’re next.”
The Driver grabs a handful of Mac’s hair, jerking his head up and off the table. “Nobody comes after me, you dumb shit. You, of all people, should know that by now.” He slams Mac’s face into the metal table, a sickening crunch echoing as his nose breaks. Blood drips down his face as he moans in pain, eyes filling with tears from the impact.
“You think you got it all figured out now, little piggy? Think you’re some sort of big man with all the answers? I think you’re just trying to save your own skin,” the Driver says, watching as Mac slumps back, resting his head on the cold table. A soft series of clicks come from behind him.
“What the fuck is that?” Mac asks, the fear growing sharp in his voice.
The blade of a box cutter presses into Mac’s three-day stubble, digging into his neck just enough to leave an impression.
“There’s nothing more efficient than a box cutter,” the Driver murmurs, his voice calm. “Cheap plastic, a razor sharp blade you just snap off when it dulls. Always sharp. No upkeep, no mess. Just clean and efficient.” He pops the stained, rusted tip of the blade off on the table, presses the thumb guard, and extends a fresh section.
The Driver places the blade under Mac’s chin, leaning close. “Your problem is, you think you’re smarter than the rest of us. You ain’t from around here, and you look down on us because you got a college degree. Well, turns out that degree’s only good for cookin’. And as much as I’d like to peel your fat head, you’re pretty good at it.” He presses harder, voice a deadly whisper. “Open your mouth.”
Mac presses his lips tight, shaking his head, but the Driver digs the blade in just enough for Mac to wince and comply.
“That’s right,” the Driver says, placing the blade on Mac’s bottom teeth. “Now bite down.”
Mac bites down on the blade. The Driver bends the plastic handle until the razor snaps off in Mac’s mouth. Mac whimpers as the metal touches his tongue.
“Now, keep that under your tongue, and don’t let the guards see it. You want out of here? Earn it. Maybe you’ll use it for me. Maybe I’ll test how tough you are. But if I were you,” the Driver says, his voice laced with menace, “I wouldn’t leave it in your bunk.” Mac nods quickly, holding the blade steady in his mouth.
The Driver releases him, and Mac can taste the blood pooling under his tongue. “Keep it tucked away, little piggy. Consider it a gift—a good deed, if you will. You’ll hear from me soon. Pray, if you got anyone left to pray to, that it’s good news.”
The door creaks open, then slams shut. Silence.
Mac spits the blade onto the table, a smear of blood and spit coating it, staring back at him as he trembles. The lights hum above, indifferent. He glances out the window just in time to see the Driver heading toward the gate, toward freedom. The Driver stops, turns, but Mac drops his head. He’s not ready to look that man in the eye.
With a shiver, Mac slips the blade back under his tongue, where it scrapes against his skin. He survived this meeting, but every second from here on, he’s on borrowed time.
issue three — last stop at the lone wolf
Alarms and buzzers sound as Sheriff Samantha Hart and FBI Agent Moses Alexander weave through the slot machines on the Lone Wolf Casino & Hotel betting floor. This hour of the morning, most machines are empty, but a few die-hards are here, cashing in their social security checks and sucking down Pall Mall cigarettes.
At the far end of the casino floor is a small bar, aptly named The Sure Bet—the only place here where you get what you pay for, maybe even a little extra. Sam and Moses slide into a booth as a waitress approaches, her furry miniskirt swinging a wolf tail as she places a tall glass of booze with ice and an excess amount of lime wedges in front of Moses.
“Extra limes, just like you like it, sweetie,” the waitress says with a wink. She turns to Sam, her tone still syrupy. “What about you, darlin’? Need a little something to take the edge off?”
“Whiskey, neat,” Sam orders.
Moses watches the wolf tail wag its way back to the bar to fetch Sam’s drink.
“You two old friends?” Sam asks, catching his gaze.
Moses takes a pull from his drink, draining nearly half the glass. “Yeah, you could say I’ve been here a time or two.” He’s either an alcoholic, or damn thirsty.
Sam takes off her hat, looking around the room. The bar stools are busted and rusty, with yellowing foam poking out through torn vinyl, and dirty glasses line the counter. A neon sign behind a single beer tap displays “Last Stop.” It couldn’t be closer to the truth.
“Not sure how you can stand that stuff. Tastes like rubbing alcohol to me,” Sam says, trying to ease into the conversation.
Moses replies with a toothy chuckle. “Yeah, well, beauty of it is, you can’t smell it on my breath after a couple. That’s what the limes are for.” He drains the glass as the waitress returns with another tall one for him and Sam’s neat whiskey.
“You gonna drink that in uniform?” he asks, eyeing her glass.
Sam raises her drink, offering a toast. “I took my hat off, didn’t I?” Their glasses clink, and Sam puts hers back on the table. Not time to celebrate yet; she’s got something to ask.
“I need your help,” Sam says, leaning in. “I’ve strung together a series of cases that I think may be linked.”
“Yeah, your prostitutes, right?” Moses says, surprising her. “Cops talk, even county sheriffs. The federal badge makes local folks chatty. They think the Feds have some secret device or team of G-men ready to crack their cold cases.” He leans in, voice lowering. “Thing is, I actually agreed to come here to ask you a favor.”
“Okay, you first,” Sam offers.
“You’ve been watching that pro back at the Old 64? You happen to be there yesterday morning? I’m thinking that’s when the drop happened.” Moses needs to know if she’s seen him or if he can keep spinning his current twisted tale to stay out of trouble.
“Only at sunup. Had another body turn up off Highway 4490. The perp sliced off her face and sewed it back on with dental floss.” Sam watches his reaction to the gruesome detail.
Moses, mid-sip of his vodka-lime concoction, nearly chokes. “Jesus Christ. That’s some twisted shit. He do that to all of ‘em?”
“No. He’s progressing. It started with bites, now it’s full mutilation.” Sam runs her fingers around the rim of her glass, making it whine. She’s got him hooked. Time to go for the kill. “You give me a hand finding this guy, and I might know where to find that bag you’re looking for.”
Moses’s attention sharpens. He sets his glass down, and his face hardens. “I’m listening.”
Sam drops her voice to a whisper. “I’ve got every damn highway report from Arkansas to Texas, every truck stop sighting of every victim, everything we need to build a case.”
Moses holds her gaze, the weight of her words sinking in. “You really think this guy’s a full-blown serial killer? How many cases you got?”
“Yesterday’s makes fourteen,” she says, letting the number settle. “Tomorrow could be fifteen. If it’s not tomorrow, it’ll be soon. He’s picking up his pace.”
“And the bag?” Moses asks.
“This morning, a woman drove away from a trailer behind the Old 64. She was carrying a duffle bag and looked like she’d spent the night with that punching bag you were questioning when I found you.” Sam studies him, waiting for his response. This is it—she’s either made the sale or about to have the rug jerked out from under her. “Well?”
Moses, a close study of people himself, sees that Sam’s dead sure she’s onto something. If she can put that bag in his hand, it’s worth the risk. “Consider yourself liaised on the federal manhunt of a multi-state killer, then.”
“Just like that?” Sam’s grip tightens on her glass.
“Just like that,” Moses says, polishing off his second drink.
“Alright, let’s go get your bag,” Sam says, standing and placing her hat back on.
“You didn’t even touch your whiskey,” Moses observes, standing to join her.
“I don’t drink on duty. Just wanted to see if you did,” Sam replies, turning with a cool finality. She strides back across the casino floor, moving through the flashing lights and bleary-eyed patrons, her figure swallowed by the haze of neon and cigarette smoke. The bells and whistles of the machines echo faintly behind her.
Moses lets out a low chuckle, watching her go, the glint of amusement fading from his eyes. She got him with that one, no question about it. Smart, sharp, and full of conviction—Sam had that rare quality in law enforcement, something Moses hadn’t seen in years: a willingness to lose it all if it meant making things right. But conviction didn’t get you far in his world; survival did.
As he swirls the last of the melting ice in his glass, his mind shifts to the duffle bag she dangled as bait, a key piece in his own tangled mess of half-truths and dirty favors. Opening a federal case for Sam was the last thing he wanted, but there was no sense trying to shake her now—not with her teeth already sunk in. She was stubborn enough to drag him into the deep end of this cesspool whether he liked it or not.
The thought darkened his mood as he tossed back the dregs of his drink. Sam might think she’s got him cornered, but Moses knows the game she’s playing all too well. As soon as he’s got his hands on that bag, he’d be one step closer to dealing with a different son of a bitch—one far meaner than the lowlife stalking the highways. And if things went south, well, he’d have to remind Sam that even partners can turn on each other when the stakes are high enough.
With a final glance in the direction she’d gone, he slips a bill under his empty glass and walks out, disappearing into the dim light of the casino, his mind already turning over what came next.
issue four — in the path of the storm
A darkening horizon on the Oklahoma plains might promise life-giving rain for farmers, but it can just as easily hide a killer. Most days, you can have one without the other, but today, the odds are not in favor of those traveling the sun-baked highways. Thunder rumbles across the open landscape, and a small hatchback rolls down the lonely blacktop, heading toward a growing wall of black clouds.
All day, the radio has warned travelers about the impending storm, but for Madeline, there’s no turning back. The duffle bag of crystal meth in the passenger seat can’t survive another night in her home. Heather wouldn’t make it through. Few things are as ravenous as an addict’s hunger, no matter how long they’ve been clean.
The music on the radio cuts off, replaced by three long emergency broadcast beeps. “Muskogee County, Sequoyah County, including the cities of Oklahoma City and Fort Smith, Arkansas, are under a tornado watch until 6:15 PM Central Daylight Time. Weather Service Doppler radar indicates a severe thunderstorm capable of producing a tornado, with winds in excess of seventy-five miles per hour.”
Madeline turns down the radio before the next series of beeps blare over her speakers. She leans forward, looking upward at the blanket of clouds overhead, watching for funnel clouds. Raindrops begin to patter on the windshield, and she flips on the wipers. She grew up around storms like this, but the clouds ahead show no sign of letting her off easy.
Five miles behind, sitting at the Sequoyah County line, Bandy Williamson takes a bite from the last jelly donut he brought along for breakfast. This one’s cherry, his favorite. His cruiser sits under an overpass as he watches the curtain of rain close in on him.
Static crackles over Bandy’s police radio. “Three-twelve, this is seven-four-seven. Where are you, Bandy? Over.” Sheriff Samantha Hart’s voice comes through the small speaker. Bandy quickly shoves the last third of the sweet treat in his mouth, chewing as he picks up his receiver to answer.
“Mmph—seven-four-seven, this is three-twelve, sittin’ at the county line, watching this gully washer creeping up on my front side. Over,” Bandy mumbles through a mouthful of jelly.
“And where’s that hatchback? Over,” Sam asks.
“Hell if I know,” Bandy chokes out, swallowing the last bite. “Followed her up 351 to the edge of my jurisdiction and pulled over to watch the storm. Over.”
Hart sits in the parking lot of the Lone Wolf Casino and Hotel with FBI Agent Moses Blackrock. Blackrock lowers his head in disappointment, hearing that Bandy abandoned what might be their only hope to recover the bag of product. Sam should have known Bandy wouldn’t keep up the tail on his own. Today might be the day he breaks protocol.
“Bandy, how far along do you think she got since you pulled back? Over,” Sam asks.
Bandy checks his watch and does a quick calculation. “Not more than about ten miles, I’d guess, given the condition of the roads. Over.”
Sam glances at Moses. “Want him to pursue?”
“What do you think?” Moses snaps.
“If he gets that bag, I’ll hand it over as soon as I see paperwork with a federal logo. You promised to federalize my case, and I don’t intend to be screwed over,” Sam says, holding Moses’s gaze. He gives her a reluctant nod.
Sam clicks the receiver button. “Kick that cruiser into high gear and get back on her tail. If she heads into town, follow her.” Moses gives her a wave as he jogs to his car. “Agent Blackrock is also in pursuit, but you listen to me, Bandy,” Sam’s tone drops, her voice low and firm. “You don’t let him get his hands on that duffle. If you can, I need you to take it from her. Do you understand? Over.”
Bandy’s already pulling onto the blacktop as he considers Sam’s request. “Sam, I ain’t so sure about this. I mean, we’re way outta our league, and he’s a Fed. Not to mention, he’s about twice my size.”
Sam knows it’s a tough ask, but she can’t let Moses get that bag first. “What’s visibility like? Over,” Sam asks.
“Pretty dismal. Maybe three hundred feet at best, and the rain’s really coming down,” Bandy replies, turning his wipers to max.
“Pull her over,” Sam instructs. “She won’t know the difference. Over.”
Bandy considers. His cruiser could be disguised well enough in this rain, and only his badge and patch might give him away. Then it hits him.
He barks back into his mic, “Got a slicker in the trunk! I’ll put that on so she won’t see the county logo. I got this, Sam. Don’t you worry. Bandy, out.” Bandy hangs up the receiver, a grin stretching across his face. “Magnum P.I., eat your heart out.” He punches the accelerator, testing his tires’ grip.
Madeline’s slowed her speed to a crawl. Pings and pops echo around the car as pea-sized hail pelts her windshield. Lightning streaks across the clouds like a spiderweb, thunder crashing behind. She passes under a bridge and brings the car to a full stop, looking up into the girders, debating whether to wait it out. She grabs her cell phone from the passenger seat. She has five missed calls from an unknown number. She flips the phone open and dials back.
On the first ring, Heather answers. “Maddy?” Heather’s voice crackles through on the other end.
“Yeah. Hey, where are you…” Madeline begins, but static fills the line.
“Cops! The cops are following you!” Heather finally breaks through.
Madeline spins in her seat, looking behind her. With visibility worsening, she might be feet from an F-5 tornado and wouldn’t know. No reason to chance it. She drops the car back into drive, accelerating into the storm.
“What happened? Are you okay?” Madeline shouts into the phone, hoping her volume might cut through the static.
“I’m … when you get … Maddy? Did you hear … DON’T TURN AROUND!” Heather’s voice manages before the line cuts dead.
Madeline throws the phone onto the passenger seat. She leans down, grabbing the red-handled duffle from the floorboard. The car veers over the yellow line as she stretches. Her fingers close around the straps as she feels the tires start to vibrate.
She looks up just in time to jerk the wheel back, narrowly avoiding the embankment. The car hydroplanes briefly before she regains control.
“Shit!”
Madeline checks her rearview mirror, watching the bridge vanish into the wall of rain. She flips the radio back on, hoping for updates. Lightning dances inside the dark clouds overhead, illuminating the storm in flashes.
She leans forward again, watching for funnel clouds. Her front tire drifts over the center line as she looks up. A break in Brooks & Dunn’s “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” crackles through the speakers, and she turns up the volume, still scanning for a tornado.
Headlights flash over Madeline’s face, and her whole body seizes as a semi’s horn blares. She jerks the wheel hard to the right, missing the truck but sending her hatchback into a spin. She wrestles with the steering wheel, finally catching traction, only to overcorrect. The car slides off the road, down an embankment, and into a storm drain. The front end slams into the muddy bank, and Madeline’s head smacks the steering wheel.
The car sits nose-down in the drainage ditch. Rain fills the ditch, water seeping in around her ankles. Madeline slumps unconscious, a thin trickle of blood trailing down her nose and onto her lap.
Meanwhile, Bandy’s cruiser slices through the rain. His siren blares, and the red and blue lights cast a funhouse glow through the storm. Eyes narrowed, hands tight on the wheel, Bandy scans the road ahead for the hatchback.
As he roars past a semi pulled over on the opposite shoulder, he misses the blue car, wrecked twenty feet off the road. He’ll be back, but by then, it’ll be too late.
Madeline bolts upright, gasping. Tammy Wynette belts out “Stand by Your Man” at full volume through the damaged, tinny speakers. She reaches for the volume knob, but it’s jammed. Blood drips into her lap.
Her hair wrap slips, and red hair falls around her shoulders as she dabs at the cut on her nose. She stares into the rearview, relieved it’s only a small cut. Water covers her ankles. She unbuckles her seatbelt, sliding down into the footwell, and grabs the duffle bag floating beside her. Her phone is nowhere to be found, but there’s no time to search. She jerks on the door handle, pushing it open, but the mud wedges it tight, opening only a crack.
Leaning to the passenger side, she pulls on that door handle. It swings open. Thank God. Madeline crawls into the mud, shakily climbing to her feet. She digs her toes into the hillside, fingers clawing into the muck as she pulls herself toward the road.
When she reaches the asphalt, she rolls onto her back. Rain pours down, fat and unrelenting, mingling with the blood and mud that streaks her face. She sees the dull flash of yellow lights in the distance. It’s the semi.
“Hey! Hey, I need some help!” she calls out, pushing herself up.
She stumbles toward the truck, grateful for what might be a reprieve from the storm. Gripping the side of the trailer, she limps along toward the cab, her right leg numb and useless. She pounds on the door. “Hey! You okay in there?”
She grabs the rail and hauls herself up, pulling the handle. The door swings open to reveal an empty cab. She climbs in anyway, grateful for the warmth and dry air. Closing the door behind her, she sinks into the driver’s seat, using her wet wrap to dry her face and hair. As she catches her breath, she spots a photo on the dash—two adults and a child in front of a modest home, their faces beaming. A happy day, it seems. A better day than hers.
Madeline sets the duffle in her lap and begins to tug on the zipper. But something feels off. She stops, looking around the cab, then out each window. She unzips the bag slightly, glancing inside to see the stash still intact, though a little waterlogged. She zips it up quickly and tries to settle in, finally warming up.
A clap of thunder shakes the cab as lightning illuminates the world beyond the windshield. She reclines slightly, exhaling in relief. But as she shifts back, her fingers brush something wedged between the seat and center console. It’s a wallet, worn pink leather—a strange sight among the truck’s dark leather and metal.
Her wet fingers slip off the latch as she tries to unbutton and open the wallet. She rubs them against her jeans and tries again. This time the latch lets go and the wallet falls open. There’s a driver’s license in a windowed pocket. The woman’s picture on the license looks familiar, but the name doesn’t ring a bell for Madeline. She fishes the license out and holds it up in the light.
A pair of dark eyes look back at Madeline. The woman’s face resembles so many other faces found here in the middle of the country. Her skin looks stretched and prematurely aged hanging from her hallowed cheeks. The gaunt diminished jaw line and all the rest show clear signs of drug use. The woman is smiling, but Madeline knows why she’s not showing her teeth. Another bolt of lighting cracks across the sky and thunder rolls loud enough to shake the cab.
Then it hits her. The autopsy photo from last night. The one that crazy sheriff was waving around at Heather.
A creak echoes from the back of the cab.
Madeline’s heart skips. She whips around toward the curtain separating the seats from the sleeping area. “Hey… somebody back there?” Her voice trembles, barely a whisper. She slides the license back into the wallet and gently closes the clasp, but the click sounds loud in the silence. She stashes it between the seat and console.
With one hand on the passenger door’s handle, Madeline reaches forward and pulls at the fabric to peek behind the curtain. It’s dark. She can’t see anything, but she can hear something … breathing.
A flash of light pops in her eyes, making her pupil constrict and ghostly orbs of color float in her vision. There’s a mechanical whir from the darkness as hidden machine within grinds through its work. Madeline pulls on the handle and falls backwards through the open door landing hard on the asphalt in the rain. A high-pitched shrill of laughter erupts from within the cab of the truck.
Scrambling backward, Madeline watches as a thick arm reaches out and calmly shuts the passenger door. She staggers to her feet, heart pounding, and looks back to realize she’s left the duffle in the cab.
“Shit!” she mutters, slumping against the back of the truck. She peeks under the trailer, spotting the man’s boots landing in a puddle as he jumps down, duffle in hand.
“Here, little chicky, chicky, chicky… you forgot something,” he calls, his voice taunting, cruel.
Madeline turns and slides down the embankment, slipping into the ditch as she makes a desperate run for her car. Her right leg is completely numb, her body refusing to obey. She hears his laughter drifting through the rain as he closes in.
“You take a mighty fine photo, little chick-a-dee,” his voice drifts over her, sickening and playful.
Madeline crawls through the mud, her body dragging her down. She tries to stand, her numb foot slipping around like a phantom disconnected limb. Every time she gets a bit of leverage the wind whips through tossing her back to the ground, and then it stops. There’s a sudden stillness, the rain slows to a trickle and the hail has abated.
Madeline’s been through enough tornados to know that it only gets worse whenever it gets quiet. As the air clears up she can see further into the field ahead of her. Her car is only another fifty feet further. She checks behind her, toward the semi, but the driver’s nowhere to be seen. She presses herself forward. The mobile phone’s somewhere inside that car. She puts her head and down and presses forward.
The driver’s in mid-air when Madeline sees his reflection in the water. He lands hard over the top of her, shoving her face down into the muddy ditch. Her nose and mouth fill with oily water and mud instantly sealing her nose shut as she sucks in deeper, trying to breathe. He puts a knee in her back, shoving her whole body now into the muck like he’s trying to bury her without having to dig a hole. Madeline tries to push herself up. She tries to squirm free. Every effort to make a sound or breathe just allows more mud and water to fill her throat. It’s in her lungs now. She coughs it back up, turning her head to the side to get a sip of air. That’s when the wooden club comes down and everything goes dark.
The driver stands over his lucky find, rubbing his hands together in the rain to wash off the dirt and mud. He rolls Madeline over and crawls on top of her. He sticks a finger in her mouth and clears it of the debris. He leans in, putting his ear near her mouth and hears a slight wheeze.
A toothy grin stretches across his face. She’s alive, at least for now.
If today’s chapter had you on edge, bring a friend along for the ride and unlock some wicked rewards
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REFER 2 FRIENDS: Unlock 1 month of The Devil’s Road for free—no strings attached.
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REFER 10 FRIENDS: Score 6 months free, along with a signed, mailed copy of The Devil’s Road pilot screenplay—your own piece of the story, right in your hands.With Halloween just around the corner, I couldn’t think of a better time to bring you, my Faithful Rambler, to the end of Part 1 of The Devil’s Road. Now six chapters in, I want to offer a refresher for any New Witnesses to the trail of bloodshed left behind by our enigmatic Driver. His identity remains a mystery—for now—but Part 2 may finally bring the truth to light.