The Dark Lord of Oklahoma Page 2

  Deacon drove into the darkness. From his brisk walk into the car, his glasses were covered in drops of rain, making it difficult for him to see. His windshield wipers futilely beat against the glass as the water continued to cover the windshield. With little success, he tried to talk into the phone. The gadget slipped from his fingers. He had to focus on driving. The rain continued to beat onto the windshield, becoming a hypnotic pattern.

  Rain. Wipers. Rain.

  Rain. Wipers. Rain

  Rain. Wipers. Brake lights!

  The red eyes of a car’s break-lights screamed into view. Slamming onto his breaks, Deacon’s vehicle slid on the dangerous combination of oil and moisture. The El Camino slid into the car in front of him. Understanding he had hit another vehicle, he rolled down his windows.

  Cries came from the vehicle. He heard a woman crying out for help.

  Without thinking, he got out of his vehicle and moved toward the screams.

  "Ma'am, are you alright?" asked Deacon.

  The woman's voice cried out louder. He ran back to his car and grabbed his cell phone to call for help, and ran back to the screaming woman.

  “Ma’am,” he cried as he ran towards her. “Ma’am, I’m calling now -”

  Suddenly, Deacon fell to the ground. He looked around the pavement and noticed a man hole. There was a gaping hole in the middle of the way.

  "How did that get opened? Those lock from the top."

  He got to his knees to get up and grabbed the cover.

  "Oh, I think you know how it was opened, and I think you know what is going down there," said a voice.

  Deacon's mouth gaped in horror. The phantom stepped forward. The albino figure wore no fedora, revealing two large pointed ears stood out against the figure's head.

  Deacon stood up, assuming a fighting stance and started to walk forward. Instantly, he felt pressure on his ankle. He looked down at his trapped foot; there was a green hand with black, distorted fingernails grabbing onto him.

  With his other foot, he smashed down at his attacker.

  One blow, then two.

  He could feel bones in the predator's fingers and wrist crack and fracture under the blows of his boot.

  "Do you know much about unconventional warfare, Mr. Andrews?" asked the albino figure.

  Two more green hands shot up, latching onto Deacon's feet. They viciously twisted; Deacon screamed as he felt his tendons tear.

  “Unconventional warfare,” he continued, “may not have the mass numbers of conventional warfare, but it’s more personal. You get to know your enemies - you know the people they go to for help - you know their families..."

  The amateur historian grabbed the utility hole lid. He dropped the lid right onto one of the assailant's knuckle. A cry emerged from the hole. The high-pitched scream did not sound like a human's, but an injured animal's. A severed green finger lay on the ground. Black blood seeped from it.

  "There is death. There is killing. But these acts are not just acts of war. In unconventional warfare, they are something else,"

  His unseen assailants began to pull him downward. Deacon pulled a buck knife from his trench coat then dug the blade into exposed green flesh. He swung down again, feeling the blade piercing something, but more hands reached onto his wrist. Another hand reached up and grabbed the knife.

  "It is about making a statement," said the phantom-like albino.

  Deacon’s arms and legs were pinned. The downward pull continued.

  The pale-faced enemy came forward and picked up the manhole cover.

  "Old man, do you remember the statement you made?" asked the albino.

  Deacon cried out pitifully and tried to calm himself with deep diaphragmatic breaths.

  “Yes, yes, I remember!” he cried.

  Only his upper body remained visible.

  "I remember my statement, and I have, I have something to tell you," said Deacon struggling.

  "And what is that, old man?"

  "I've got another statement coming.”

  “Really, and what is that?”

  The farmer spat. A mixture of saliva, mint snuff, and animosity landed on the right lens of the albino's Victorian-era spectacles. The pointy-eared monster smiled and wiped the tobacco from his goggles.

  “You've made your statement," said the figure, "Now, we make ours.”

  PART I

  The Walking Man

  “…I ain’t leavin’ town ‘til that girl is mine”

  425 Miles - Chance Anderson Band

  CHAPTER 1: CHICK FLICKS AND ICE CREAM

  Elena Doolin Henryetta, Ok

  Elena Doolin sat behind the desk of her office, in the small corner Henryetta High School gave the orchestra director. While she was a creative type, she kept her desk very tidy. Proudly hanging on her wall was her Diploma; Elena had a Bachelor’s in Cello Performance, from the University of Central Oklahoma. Elena was one of the best cello players in the history of Henryetta high school, with instructors going as far to call her a prodigy. After high school, she then went to play at the University of Central Oklahoma.

  Elena fitfully ran her hands through her brown hair before resting them on her pale skin. The orchestra director’s skin was particularly pale, but today her skin was even more pale than usual.

  There was a sticky note pinned to the bottom of her computer screen, which had the following:

  ❖ Rehearse Howard Shore

  ❖ Finish grading audition tapes

  ❖ Get back in the land of the living

  ❖ Don't think about it

  Holding a black permanent marker to her mouth, Elena gently chewed on the pen as she thought about the words.

  The word "it" stood to the left of two words that had been scratched out. Elena marked through the first three lines and pressed her marker against the fourth task. Thinking about this task and the pen suddenly felt heavy in her hands. Shaking her head, she vainly tried to get negative thoughts out of her head. Her beautiful green eyes swelled with emotion, then sighing she put the lid back on the pen.

  “Just don’t think,” she said to herself.

  Then she repeated the words, "Just don't think about…it."

  She tried to control her breathing.

  "Just don't... just don't think about him.”

  Again, Elena cupped her face in her hands and rocked back and forth in her chair.

  “Find your friend, and get out of this mess," she said to herself.

  Pushing herself out of her chair and forcing herself out of the office, Elena walked out of the music building and into the English Department. A teenage boy bumped into her, as he rushed to get out of school as the bell rang; it felt like a circus as all the students scrambled to leave.

  Going down the hall, Elena looked for her friend’s name tape hanging outside her class room. Her eyes scanned the walls.

  There was the name: Sasha Ferrell.

  The orchestra director slightly opened the English teacher’s door. She noticed a student inside the room. He was standing in front of Sasha’s desk, with Sasha sitting behind it. Elena looked around the room, taking in all the small changes the English teacher continually did to her room. The room was decorated with artwork that celebrated the English language and literature. There was a picture of a wyvern that hung on the wall, as well as a play-bill for the movie Othello.

  In contrast to Elena's build, Sasha was slenderer. While she had dark hair, Sasha had a shock of bright blonde hair. Sasha may have appeared to be thin, but in reality, she was wiry, with long, thin muscular arms and legs.

  Sasha's hair drew the attention of many because it was so blonde it almost looked white. She insisted that she did not dye her hair, and the bright pigment was natural.

  The English teacher's eyes scanned the computer screen, and using one hand, she ran a red pen through students' assignments. In addition to their physical appearances, their sense of fashion clashed as well. In comparison to pantsuit that Elena wore, Sasha wore a red leather jacket she
had put on between classes, and she wore a chrome-colored ring that covered the entirety of her little finger. An apparent look of agitation was plastered on her face. Laughing at the situation, Elena knew that the irritation did not come from the work, but from the presence of Samson Otto, the student who stood squarely in front of Sasha’s desk.

  Samson played football, a fact that he was very proud. He stood about 5’9” with a strong build. That day, he had on his white shirt, blue jeans and the letter jacket which he never took off. The teenager let everyone see his pride in constant wear of his letter jacket and his loud talk about the games and practice. It was unclear if it was his age or his personality, but Sam had sloppy confidence, that many times crossed into arrogance. On more than one occasion, Elena had scolded him for the way he spoke to girls in the hallway. This was particularly embarrassing for Elena because she knew Sam and his family from church. If she had been his age, Elena would have been impressed with his confidence, but now being older and wiser, she found his arrogance somewhat annoying.

  Even with the time he spent at practice, in the weight room, or memorizing his playbook, Sam was a decent student, but Elena also knew him to be an indifferent student. His indifference is why she was incredulous that he was staying after class to get academic help. Sam continued his boastful and incoherent side conversation. He had somehow transitioned the conversation about the recent test over Othello to a discussion about his recent game. Biting her lip, Elena tried not to laugh. Sasha slapped her open palm against the desk.

  Sam's rambling stopped.

  "Don't you have some work to do, Sam?" asked Sasha.

  "Yeah, um, I guess -" started Sam.

  “Leave, Sam. Do whatever you need to do," said Sasha.

  Samson looked at her, with such embarrassment that Elena thought he was going to cry.

  “Go, Sam!” cried Sasha with a level of excitement that shocked Elena.

  Muttering to himself, the teenager shoved his hands deep into his pocket so far that his shoulders hunched over. He exited the room, moping on his way out.

  "So you don't think he was staying, just to get help with his homework?" asked Elena in a teasing manner.

  "Ugh, I wish!" said Sasha.

  "So big bad Otto has a little crush on you? That’s too funny!" said Elena.

  "He doesn't have a crush on me," said Sasha. "He worships me."

  "How cute," said Elena.

  "Holy cow! Elena, it's exhausting."

  “All these high school boys seem to be obsessed with you.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. I hear a lot of talk about you," said Sasha.

  “Well, for starters I don’t want to be in that boat. All I hear in these hallways are high school boys talking about how they are in love with you.” Elena said with her emerald eyes full of laughter. “Also, boys may say ‘oh that is pretty’ or whatever, but with you, it's on an entirely different level! Like you said…they worship you!”

  “Well, at least Chance is obsessed with you,” said Sasha. “I can’t get any work done, because I am always half-tempted to pepper-spray these guys in the face -”

  The conversation fell silent as Elena looked up at her brunette friend. Her pale skin was sheet white, and her green eyes swelled with moisture.

  “You pick up on all the little things, don’t you, Sasha.”

  “I have an observant eye," said Sasha.

  “He just quit on me,” said the cellist.

  “Oh no,” said Sasha getting up from her desk to embrace her friend, “I’m sorry. Did he say anything? Did he do anything weird?”

  "No. He just quit answering my calls and texts,”

  "That doesn't make sense, he loved you," said Sasha.

  “I know…I just don’t get it. Crap. He’s all I can think about. I loved him and he just gave up on us. He dumped me. I've started slipping, and little things are really bothering me.”

  “Those sweet little tidbits from the past relationship?”

  “No, I mean little things. My keys, my pens, and pencils. I forget things. I'll check in my purse, and the contents will be completely rearranged. Oh, yesterday, when I woke up, my house was completely unlocked, and my front door was wide open," said Elena.

  “That’s scary.”

  “Yes, very.”

  “Well my friend, you know me. You know I love to know things. I have only one question left.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Your favorite type of ice cream?”

  "Well, that is a welcome question. My answer is mint chocolate."

  ***

  "Wakey, wakey!" said Sasha, shaking her friend by the shoulder.

  "Whoa!" screamed Elena and went from lying on her couch to sitting straight up.

  "Are you alright?" asked Sasha, "you're trembling."

  "It's okay, it's okay. I just thought I had locked the door."

  "You did. So did you just come home and fall asleep on your couch, right after school?"

  "Yes, what time is it?" Elena asked as she looked at her watch. "I'm so sorry, I was supposed to come to your house."

  "That's alright. Sometimes plans have to change."

  “You weren’t scared to come out to the boonies where you? My house is kinda tucked away in the woods so it can be creepy at night.”

  “The darkness doesn’t scare me,” said Sasha.

  “Wait...when did I give you a key?" asked Elena. "Oh!"

  Before she could say anything else, Sasha tossed a pint of ice cream at Elena. Elena caught the carton before it dropped to the ground.

  "I also brought ice cream and the most important ingredient of all," said Sasha.

  "And what is that?" asked Elena.

  “A healthy dose of hatred for whoever broke your heart," said Sasha.

  "Ah, well thank you, but the hate won't be necessary," said Elena as she stood up to go get her cosmetic remover kit.

  "Did you guys get back together?" asked Sasha.

  “No, I just mean, I don’t hate him,” said Elena as she removed her cosmetics.

  "Not even now? Why not? I thought tonight was supposed to be an ex-hating party!” said Sasha.

  "No, tonight is a marathon of self-pity, complaining, and ice-cream."

  “And friendship.”

  “Yes, specifically friendship. Sasha, thanks for keeping an eye on me. I'd be lost without you," said Elena.

  “I’m not that great of a friend. I’m really just selfish. I can’t stand to see my friend get hurt.” Sasha smiled while playfully punching Elena on the shoulder.

  “Besides, she continued, it’s too much work to go out there and find a new friend. Also, I know when the time comes, you'll take care of me."

  For the next few hours, the two watched chick-flicks. Initially, it was a team effort. Both women watched the movies, but then there was the constant ding from Sasha's smartphone. Sasha, at first, would look at the screen, and then put the device back in her pocket, but later she became more absorbed. Elena smirked as she watched her raising both hands in the air as if she was directing a symphony in her mind.

  “What are you laughing at?” asked Sasha.

  "You," said Elena. "Do you know who you remind me of?"

  “Me?" asked Sasha.

  “Ludwig von Beethoven and Egmont. That is a piece of music that conductors specifically learn to conduct. The reason music programs like to train conductors on that piece is, at times, you have to conduct at different times with different hands. That is what you remind me of. It looks like you have an internal dialogue, thinking about putting numbers of people to tasks, to different locations. Is that right?" asked Elena.

  “Beethoven, huh? Well I guess you could say I am orchestrating some things,” said Sasha.

  “What are you doing other than school work?” asked Elena.

  Sasha jerked her head back away from her phone and acted as if she was surprised by either her own words or by Elena’s question. She fumbled once more with her smartphone, and then put it i
n her purse, before looking back at Elena, “I am doing some research.”

  “Research?" asked Elena.

  “Yeah, a high school reunion,” said Sasha.

  “So it’s back to Miami?” asked Elena, ensuring she pronounced it with the proper Oklahoma pronunciation of “Miam-uh” indicating Miami, Oklahoma and not Miami, Florida.

  The phone dinged again, and Sasha pulled her phone back from her purse. She gritted her teeth and went back to texting.

  “No, sorry, I graduated from Picher,” said Sasha.

  “Picher? I thought you graduated from Miami,” said Elena.

  The English teacher's mouth gaped. The phone hone dropped. Sasha reached down and grabbed it.

  "Did I say Picher?" asked Sasha.

  “Yeah, you said you graduated from Picher High School, but I thought you had graduated from Miami, Oklahoma.”

  “I guess we had not talked about it,” said Sasha, “I went to Picher High School.”

  “Picher? Picher. That name sounds very familiar. Did something big happen there?" asked Elena.

  “In Picher? No, not really. They won a state championship in football back in 1985, but that’s about it. Nothing big enough to fuss about," said Sasha.

  The conversation paused as Sasha got up and grabbed the remote control. On the screen, the DVD replayed the menu track over and over again. She clicked a button on the remote and the TV screen went back to cable.

  “Picher, that name still sounds familiar,” said Elena. She said this more to herself than to Sasha.

  “…accusations today of the so-called Death Squad."

  Channels flipped.

  "....today the Sooners are in the weight-room...”

  "...this was David Cronenberg's greatest film."

  "No, turn it back on!" said Elena.

  "What?"

  "Go back. Go back to that story, I want to hear about it," said Elena.

  "Which one?"

  "The Death Squad, I want to hear about the Death Squad."

  "Further investigations will be held to see the level of involvement of state or local governments with the so-called Death Squad.”