BLOOD FOR OIL (2000 / 2018)
NOTE: I began work on this story in 2000, but set it aside due to writer's block. Eighteen years later, I finally got back to it!
Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweeping down the plain. Except in this case it wasn't wind, but fire and brimstone, that threatened the Sooner State—and by extension, the world.
Thursday, August 10th, 12:30 p.m. Mountain Time. Elk City was located in Osage County, less than a half-hour from the Kansas border. Lone Star Oil practically owned Elk City. Roughly 82% of its population worked for the company in one capacity or another. In the case of the 12 men and women who died that day, said capacity included the drilling of oil wells. They were testing a new model whose inventors claimed it could bore deeper into the Earth than any drill before it. They were right, though they may have wished they weren't.
3:00 p.m. Eastern Time. Tony Vincenzo, my ulcer-plagued roly-poly editor, came out of his office. “Kolchak, you're going to Oklahoma.”
I rolled my eyes. “Who did I piss off now?”
“Nobody! There's an oil well fire; up to 12 people are dead.”
Call me ghoulish, but if anything piques my newsman's interest, it's violent death. And for once, it seemed these particular deaths would not send me chasing after some evil entity. Little did I know.
6:15 p.m. Mountain Time. My flight set down at Tulsa International. I picked up my rental car and spent the next hour driving north on Route 75 to Elk City. For the final 20 minutes, I saw a massive plume of black smoke rising ever higher. I didn't even check into my motel. Rather, I headed straight for the action.
As I neared the oil fields, a patrolman stopped me but waved me through when I showed him my press I.D. Lucky for me, a strong breeze blew at my back and kept the lion's share of the smoke away. Otherwise, I'd be coughing violently and gasping for breath.
I parked a good distance from the fire but still felt the heat. Factor in that the air temperature was 98 degrees and you can well imagine how uncomfortable things were. Wiping my brow, I climbed out of the rental car and saw a man of about 30 sitting on the running board of a fire engine marked LONE STAR OIL COMPANY. He was clad in bluejeans and heavy work boots and had taken his shirt off. The man was covered in sweat and smudges of black dirt.
I walked up to him as he guzzled a can of Pepsi. “Hi! Carl Kolchak, Independent News Service. Mind if I ask you some questions?”
He motioned to the spot next to him, so I sat down.
“You're a fireman?”
“Yeah.” He offered his right hand. “Jimmy Gallagher.”
I shook his hand. “Looks like you've been going at it pretty hard.”
“Man, that is one stubborn fire!”
“Stubborn?”
“Yeah.” He crushed the empty soda can in his hand and threw it. “Do you know anything about oil well fires?”
“I really don't.”
“Well, the first thing you do is, you set off a high explosive as close to the wellhead as you can get it.”
“A high explosive?” I exclaimed.
“Yeah, like dynamite. What that does is, it pushes away the oxygen so the oil can spill out of the ground without catching fire. It's like blowing out a candle. Thing is, with this fire, we can't get to that stage.”
“Why not?”
“It's too powerful! We've blasted every damned thing we could think of, but it's not enough to push all the oxygen away. If anything, the flames have increased in intensity. It's like the goddamned fire is daring us to extinguish it.”
“I understand 12 people are dead?”
“That's how many were at the drill site. I don't know what they hit, but the flame shot right out of that hole and burned every last one of 'em to a crisp. I didn't see it, but someone told me it was like the fire zeroed in on those people.”
“How can that be? It's not like fire is sentient.”
“Buddy, I couldn't begin to explain it to you. I've seen a lot of fires, but this one scares me.”
I photographed the scene and wrote extensive notes. When I decided that I had seen all I was going to, I drove into town. I checked into my motel, changed clothes, and took a shower. As I stepped out of the bathroom, I heard my phone ringing. Who else but Vincenzo?
“Carl, are you in Oklahoma?”
“I am.”
“Why haven't you returned my calls?”
I explained that I had gone to the locus before the motel and had not looked at my phone in the last few hours.
“So, what did you see?”
“Tony, this is one hell of a fire!” I relayed what Jimmy Gallagher had told me.
“Oh, no! Not another Kolchak special?”
“I'm just telling you what the fireman said.”
“Just make sure you stick to the facts, please? I don't want read about fire-breathing dragons.”
“Fire-breathing dragons? Boy, do you live in a fantasy world!”
“Just get the story, Carl. Pronto.”
By force of habit, I had brought my portable police scanner along. I didn't expect to hear much on the Elk City police band, but I still flicked it on. Then I sat at the laptop to write my first dispatch about the fire. I was still working on it forty-five minutes later, when the box squawked to life.
“Sheriff, you there?”
After about 10 seconds, “This is Rainwater. Go ahead, Jeff.”
“I was driving by the Carsons' farm just now. The cows are all dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah. Looks like they were gutted.”
“OK, I'm heading over.”
I bolted out of my room and jumped in the car. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I realized something: I had no idea where the Carsons' farm was. Luckily, a police cruiser marked OSAGE COUNTY SHERIFF happened by, so I followed it.
The farm was three miles outside of town, on a very dark and narrow road. The sheriff's car parked behind another cruiser. I followed suit.
“Excuse me! Sheriff?”
He shined a flashlight in my direction. “Who are you? Why did you follow me?”
“My name's Carl Kolchak. I'm a reporter from New York. I'm covering the fire.”
“You're in the wrong place. That's at the oil field.”
“Well, I know that! It's just that I heard on my police scanner, there's a bunch of dead cows out here.”
“Why would you care about that?”
“It's the way your deputy described them. He said they were gutted.”
“That's what I'm here to check out.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“Yeah, all right.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. I didn't get your name.”
“Marvin Rainwater.” He pointed his flashlight at the other cruiser. “Hey, Jeff! Where are you?” The sheriff walked to the passenger's side and inhaled sharply. “Son of a bitch!”
I ran over and saw what had shocked him. Lying on the ground with his guts hanging out was Deputy Jeff, his young face frozen in terror.
A mortified Rainwater returned to his cruiser to call for an ambulance. As he did so, I took pictures of the murdered deputy. Then I shined my flashlight through the slatted fence. A number of dead cows lay on the ground. Most were tipped on their sides and had been eviscerated, just like the sheriff's deputy. I took additional photos.
It didn't take long for the EMTs to arrive and load the murdered Jeff aboard their ambulance. As it drove off, I said to the sheriff, “Any idea what could have done this?”
“None. And why do you say 'what?' Don't you mean 'who?'”
“That's a good question.”
But for a single barroom, not one business in Elk City was open on Main Street after sunset. Rainwater and I decided to get a drink.
Now that we were out of the pitch darkness of the Osage County night, I got a good look at Marvin Rainwater. He was about six feet tall and 200 pounds, not one ounce of which was fat. He wasn't muscular but could clearly hold his own in a fight. I would best describe his facial features as chiseled—not in a male model way, but more like a man whose career in law enforcement showed him more about the dark side of human nature than he ever wanted to know. I guessed his age as forty-five.
The sheriff asked for a Marshall's Red Ale, I for scotch. The bartender, a chunky, gray-haired Osage woman of 60, delivered our drinks without a word. We sat in silence for a time, staring at the TV set. It was tuned to CNN's live coverage of the oil well fire.
The bartender broke the silence. “So Marv, you gonna introduce me to your friend?”
“Oh, yeah! Sorry. This is Carl; he's a reporter from New York.”
“Hi, Carl. Josie Littlefeather.” She offered her hand, which I shook. Josie's dry, firm handshake suggested a woman who had spent her life working very hard. “You here about the fire?”
“Yes, I am.” I motioned to the TV set. “Looks just as bad now as it did when I was out there, and that was hours ago.”
“Doesn't usually take 'em this long to put out a fire. I wonder what the deal is with this one?”
“That's what I hope to find out, Josie.”
Without warning, a jarring image appeared on the screen—a face had formed in the thick black smoke! The CNN reporter asked the desk anchor, “Jill, do you see that?”
Jill replied, “Yes, I do. What is that, a face?”
The reporter told the cameraman, “Zoom in on that.” As he did so, the awestruck reporter asked, “What in God's name are we seeing?”
Josie said, “I don't think God has anything to do with it.”
I turned to Rainwater. “You want to head out there?”
I rode with the sheriff, who flashed his lights but left the siren off. At this time of night, there was no traffic to impede us.
During the drive, he got on the two-way. “Sherry, you there?”
A woman's voice crackled through the static. “Yeah, Marv. What's up?”
“Do me a favor? Tell Father Declan to meet me at the oil field.”
The scene was abuzz with activity. The myriad TV cameras were as close to the phenomenon as the authorities allowed, while firefighters (both private and public) surrounded the site with hoses and other equipment at the ready. Dozens of fire engines were present, some from Kansas and Missouri. The Oklahoma State Police and National Guard had also been called in. I heard the Army was also on its way. Figuring that would mean a press blackout, I talked to as many people as I could. Not one of them had an explanation for the face in the smoke.
Using my digital camera, I snapped one photo after another. The face itself was charcoal-colored but its eyes glowed orange. Seeing it made me shiver despite the stifling August air and the heat of the flames. I didn't know what I was looking at, but it felt like pure evil.
I jumped as someone tapped my shoulder. It was the sheriff. Standing next to him was a freckled, red-haired man in his late 30s.
“Carl, I want you meet someone. This is Father Declan. He runs the church on Redbud Road.”
“Hi, Father. Carl Kolchak, Independent News Service.”
“Declan McManus.” As we shook hands, he said, “Usually when I get a call this late, it's a parishioner having a bad night.”
“I'm thinking we're all going to be having some bad nights with that thing.”
Shaking his head, the father told me, “I've never seen anything like this in my life. It can't be what I'm thinking.”
“What are you thinking?”
He fingered the cross around his neck. “I'd rather not say.”
Friday, August 11th, 2:20 a.m. Willie Winfield, 38, was the night manager at Elk City's only all-night convenience store. He was outside smoking a cigarette when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was the last thing he ever saw.
3:30 a.m. Robin Luke, 17, picked up the bundle of newspapers he delivered in the early mornings. Over the next few hours, Robin's customer's would open their front doors and find nothing to read.
4:40 a.m. Linda Jones, 41, backed her 18-wheeler up to the loading dock of the big box store in town. As she climbed the stairs to the loading dock, Linda was horrified to see two store employees lying dead with their guts hanging out. A moment later, she joined them.
5:45 a.m. Arlene Smith, 24, stepped out her front door and began the short walk to her waitressing job. The Elk City Diner was a popular breakfast nook for workers on their way to the oil field. But those hungry laborers had to do without Arlene's fast service and glowing smile; she never made it to the diner. Instead, she ended up at the morgue.
Meanwhile, the face in the smoke grew bigger.
“Hello, Mr. Kolcheck.”
“Whaaa?” I was jolted awake and sat up in bed. A shadowy figure stood at the foot of it. I flicked on the light and saw a dark-haired man with a mustache.
He folded his arms across his chest. “Remember me?”
“Bob Palmer?”
“The very same.” He pointed a finger at me. “You sent me to hell!”
“Uhh, no. You did that to yourself. I merely sped up the process.”
“I'm not here to argue; I have a message.”
“Message?”
“Yes. My lord is returning. He has dispatched his underlings to prepare the Earth for his dominion.”
“Your lord?”
“You know who I mean. Until we meet again, Mr. Kolcheck.” Palmer faded into the air.
I rubbed my eyes and wondered if I had just had a bad dream.
There was a Bible on my nightstand. I opened it and read the parts about Satan. When I was done, I got on-line and found a website on Biblical scholarship. What I learned made horrifyingly perfect sense, given the events of the last 24 hours.
Father Declan had given me his card, so I called his home number. Given the earliness of the hour, my call awakened him. When I told him what was on my mind, he asked that I come over immediately.
As I drove to his house, I saw not one but two murder scenes. Each time, I stopped to ask questions and take pictures. Sheriff Rainwater was at the scene of Robin's Luke death, looking heartsick and desperate. He told me, “Carl, this is the fifth gutting since Jeff last night. I'm in way over my head.”
“Have you asked for help?”
“Yeah. The FBI's on its way.”
One more barrier to my getting the facts out.
Father Declan was still in his bathrobe when he answered my knock. We were in his kitchen, which contained a white plastic water dispenser with a blue tank on top.
“Can I get some of that?”
“Sure,” he said, pointing to the cabinet above his sink. “Grab a glass.”
I pushed the lever and filled the tall glass. As I took a gulp, Father Declan invited me to sit at the kitchen table.
“Now, what was this about an apparition?”
I told him about Bob Palmer—my first experience with him in Chicago, followed by his appearance in my room just now.
“His lord is returning? That's what he said to you?”
“His exact words.”
Father Declan's youthful face was a mask of worry. “I knew when I saw that face in the smoke….”
“Listen, you know way more about the Bible than I ever will. Didn't Lucifer start out as God's top angel?”
“Yes, God made him perfect in every way—too perfect. Lucifer became prideful and wanted to overthrow God so HE could rule the universe. Lucifer persuaded one-third of the angels to join him, and a war erupted in Heaven. But God won, and Satan was cast into Hell for 1,000 years.”
I said, “A number of Biblical scholars believe that happened in the year 1000.”
“You're right. Some do posit that argument.”
“Well, what year is it now?” When a worried-looking Father Declan didn't respond, I continued. “I think Lone Star Oil drilled so far into the Earth, they penetrated the roof of Hell and set the Devil free. He sent his minions up ahead of him to ready the Earth for his return. So far, they've eviscerated five people. And they're just getting started!”
“I think you're right, Carl, and I don't know what to do about it. I could contact the church's higher-ups, but I doubt they'd believe me.”
Before the young priest could voice his next thought, the kitchen door flew off its hinges and smashed into the opposite wall. What entered the kitchen must have come straight from the bowels of Hell. It was a hideous creature the size and shape of a man but with green skin that exploded with abscesses, gnarled and disproportionately sized hands and feet with frighteningly sharp claws, a bulbous head with elephantine ears and short black horns, and eyes of scarlet.
Father Declan gasped, grabbed a cross off the table, and held it in front of himself while chanting in Latin. The creature rushed past him and lunged at me. Instinctively, I threw my glass of water at it. To my amazement, the water sizzled and steamed as it hit the demon's flesh. The monster shrieked in pain, clawed at its wounds, and ran out the door.
Father Declan sweated profusely and gasped for breath. “I'd better call the bishop.”
Bishop Frank Tardogno was 66 years old and bore the authoritative air of a man even the Devil wouldn't mess with. Still, his voice was soothing and his manner reassuring. The bishop listened patiently as Father Declan and I related what had just happened.
Tardogno said nothing for several moments, processing what he had just heard. “Declan, that's an incredible story, but I've never known you to jump to conclusions. Factor in that your door is, indeed, off its hinges and I believe something happened here. One thing puzzles me, though. Mr. Kolchak, when you threw your glass of water at...whatever it was...you say it sizzled and steamed?”
“Yes.”
“Only holy water can do that. I don't understand how regular water would have that effect. Declan, is there something special about your water cooler?”
The father looked at the floor and shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.
The bishop repeated, “Declan?”
“This is so embarrassing.”
“Please, Declan! You need to tell me everything.”
McManus looked up at Bishop Tardogno. “The sheriff and I are drinking buddies. But as a man of the cloth, I can't go to a barroom. So Marv and I visit each others' houses and get drunk together, usually once a week. Now when I'm drinking, I tend to get really silly. So last week, Marv and I were here in the kitchen, sharing a bottle, when I started....well, blessing things.”
The bishop's eyebrows raised. “Blessing things?”
“Yeah. I blessed the oven, the fridge, the microwave, the cabinets, even the water cooler.”
I said, “So, I hit that demon with holy water.”
“Yes, you did.” Father Declan said, “Bishop, I'm really sorry. My behavior was unbecoming a man of the cloth.”
He smiled beatifically. “It's all right, Declan; you're human. God doesn't expect you to be perfect. Besides, I enjoy a drink or two myself. As for the issue at hand, I need to make some phone calls.”
In my travels around Elk City, I had seen a Toys-R-Us. I walked in the minute they opened. After I made my purchase, I looked for a good source of water. The janitor's closet of a gas station/convenience store gave me what I needed. Back at Declan's house, I laid my purchases out on the kitchen table.
“Father, I need you to bless these Super Soakers.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on! You blessed a water cooler, why not my Super Soakers?”
“Why do you want me to bless them?”
“Because if a demon tries to gut me, I want to hit him with holy water!”
“Carl, we're talking about the Prince of Darkness—the main source of all the evil in the universe. Do you really think you're going to take him down with a Super Soaker?”
“Just bless the damned things, will you please?”
Father Declan sighed and produced a cross. “I can't believe I'm doing this.”
My next stop: the sheriff's office. He was there with a couple of deputies, a severe-looking woman in a business suit, and a U.S. Army Colonel.
“Ah, Carl! There's some people I want you to meet.” He motioned to the woman. “This is Agent Barbara Crandall with the F.B.I. They're handling the murder investigation now. And this is Colonel George Braddock. The Army took charge of the oil field.”
“Pleased to meet you both,” I lied.
Agent Crandall gave a weird look. “Is that a Super Soaker?”
“Yes,” I replied, “and I have more in the car. I had a priest bless them so we can fight the Devil and his minions with holy water.”
Now it was Colonel Braddock's turn to look at me strangely. “The Devil and his minions?” To Rainwater, “Who is this man?”
“I'm a reporter.”
“Oh, a reporter? Well, I ordered a press blackout, so don't even think about going near that oil field.”
“Yeah, sure. Listen, whatever weapons your soldiers have, they're not going to work.” I held up my Super Soaker. “Holy water, and lots of it—that's the key.”
Agent Crandall interjected, “You can't be serious.”
“I am! The Devil is escaping from Hell through that hole in the ground. He sent his minions ahead of him to wreak havoc on the Earth and prepare it for his return!”
Rainwater said, “Carl! Come on, man, you're making me look bad.”
Ignoring him, I told Braddock, “There must be 50 fire engines at that oil field. Get some religious leaders to bless them, shoot all that holy water at the fire, and maybe it'll drive the Devil back to Hell! Then Lone Star can seal up the hole and keep him there.”
The incredulous-looking colonel was about to say something when his cell phone rang. “Colonel Braddock.” His face took on a look of dread. “I'll be right there.”
Rainwater asked, “Something wrong, Colonel?”
“I have to get back to the oil field, now.” He pointed to me. “And I don't want this man anywhere near it!”
Once he was gone, I turned to Rainwater. “Oil field?”
“Bet your ass!” To Crandall, “You coming?”
She smiled. “Wouldn't miss it.”
Though it took some urging on my part, Rainwater agreed to bring the Super Soakers along. I transferred them from my rental car to his trunk.
Between the sheriff and the F.B.I. agent, we had no trouble getting through the Army checkpoints. And we quickly saw why Colonel Braddock had run out on us.
The landscape was littered with gutted soldiers and civilians. You could barely take a step without setting your foot down in somebody's blood. And that wasn't even the worst part; dozens of demons like the one that attacked me and Father Declan dotted the oil field. The cops and soldiers fired at them, but it did no good. The Devil's minions eviscerated their prey like machetes cut sugarcane.
“The Super Soakers!” I shouted. Rainwater, Crandall and I jumped out of the car and grabbed the plastic toys from the trunk.
Not a moment too soon. A demon was bearing down on us. I gave off a “Gyah!” and fired at it. No sooner did the water hit the demon then the ugly bastard screamed in pain and dropped dead. An obviously frightened soldier, seeing what had just happened, ran up to me.
“How did you kill that thing?”
“Here.” I handed him a spare Super Soaker. “It's holy water.”
“Thanks, pal!”
Rainwater suggested we spread out. As he and Agent Crandall took off in separate directions, a minivan pulled up. Father Declan drove while Bishop Tardogno sat in the passenger's seat. Once the van stopped, five men and a woman got out. They were dressed in the black cassock and white collar of the church.
Relieved, I placed my hands on the father's shoulders. “Am I glad to see you! There are two more Super Soakers in the trunk.”
“We don't need them.” He motioned to the others. “These are all higher-ups from the church. And there's more on the way. Some are flying in from as far away as the East Coast.”
“Great,” I exclaimed. “Gentlemen—and lady—start blessing those fire engines! I know it sounds weird, but...”
The bishop cut me off. “Mr. Kolchak, your idea might just save us.” He and the others ran toward the fire engines, waving their respective crosses at any demons who crossed their paths.
I grabbed the remaining Super Soakers from the sheriff's car and beheld the carnage. It played out for as far as I could see. It was sickening, but I needed to focus.
I had to find Colonel Braddock, but had no idea where to look. I ran aimlessly as the face in the smoke continued to grow. I shot down a few more of Satan's green hordes and worried that my Super Soaker felt much lighter than when I had filled it.
I saw Braddock. “Colonel!”
His face flushed with anger. “I thought I told you to stay the hell away from here!”
“You can put me in the stockade later. Listen, I know how to make this stop.” I held up my Super Soaker. “I've already killed four or five of those demons with this thing. Here, take one.”
The colonel was about to reply when a demon leaped at him. I pulled the trigger and hit its face and chest with a stream of holy water. It died immediately.
To Braddock, “Believe me now?”
Incredulous, he accepted a Super Soaker.
“Listen, a bunch of priests are blessing those fire engines. Once they finish, you give the order to hit the wellhead with all they've got.”
The colonel, looking shell-shocked, replied, “All right, we'll give it a try.”
It wasn't long before 50 or so geysers of holy water drenched the wellhead. The face in the smoke began to shrink! Its orange eyes grew dimmer. An enraged cry emanated from the belly of the Earth, causing the ground to quake. The demons stopped attacking people and discomfitingly bellowed, aware of their fate. A crack formed in the ground and swallowed them up, including the dead ones. When the last demon was gone, the fissure closed itself up. Not one human, dead or alive, had fallen in.
As the fire went out, the face in the smoke appeared to fold in on itself. There was one more bellow, much weaker, before the face vanished.
Braddock ordered the firefighters to shut off their hoses. Once they had done so, he commanded a crew of Lone Star Oil workers to seal up the well. He didn't have to ask twice.
Of course, you never read about these events—except in the Weekly World News and on the fringes of the Internet. They included quotes from Sheriff Rainwater, Father Declan, and “an anonymous government source.” (Agent Crandall, perhaps?) They also published a few of my pictures. But who takes that stuff seriously? The story was a fabrication, the quotes were all made up and the photos doctored. Right?
The dozens of people who lost their lives in Elk City were all swept under the carpet. Through the combined efforts of the Army, the Bureau, Lone Star Oil, and the mainstream press, humanity will never know just how close to perdition it came.
I can't help wondering if someday, another drilling crew might punch a hole in the roof of Hell? Let's hope we've rethought our addiction to fossil fuels before that happens.
