A young lady exited the royal blue Reliant K and stepped lively to the front door of the squat, ranch style house. She pushed the buzzer and tugged on the hem of her red mini-skirt while she waited. She looked side to side, nervous.
Across the street, one house down, an Oldsmobile with heavily tinted windows sat parked in the driveway. Two men waiting in the front seat of that car smirked as they watched a guy open the door and usher her in. The guy poked his head out and looked around before shutting the door.
"Not bad," the man at the passenger's side said. He was a bodybuilder type with an enormous chest, biceps bulging against the short sleeves of his button-down, diamond-patterned shirt, and thick black hair above the dark, plastic sunglasses he always wore; day or night. His name was Brett.
"She could lose a few pounds," the man behind the wheel countered. His build was much more normal, average really, and he had a clean cut look with soft, neatly trimmed brown hair and a polo shirt over blue jeans. He called himself Virgil.
A window shade in the living room was open and the two men watched as the girl and guy embraced. The guy's hands went all over her, tugging her blouse up and out of the skirt. The girl pushed away and, quickly, closed the shade.
"Shit," Brett said.
Virgil chuckled.
Brett reached under the seat and came back holding a four-corner tire-iron.
"Wait," Virgil said.
"What for?"
"Let them...," Virgil made a circular motion with his hand.
"Really?" A smile broke across Brett's face. "Really? Like all the way finish?"
Virgil lifted a shoulder. "Why not? It'll be their last."
Brett set the tire iron on his lap and sat back. "So how long are we just going to sit here?"
"I don't know. You saw the guy, what do you think? Five minutes? Three?"
"The way he was tugging on her clothes? Ninety seconds. Hell, he's probably saying 'Sorry! I don't know what happened! I swear I don't usually come so fast!' right now."
Virgil took a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his Polo. "One of these and we'll go." He offered the pack to Brett who waved him off.
"Never touch the stuff. But you go ahead, just crack the window."
"Oh, why thank you." Virgil rolled his window down and touched fire to tobacco.
***
Virgil bit the cigarette down to its last ash, held it, and blew smoke out the corner of his mouth. He dropped the butt outside the window.
"Okay, lets...."
A red Firebird whipped around the street corner and came to a skidding stop in front of the driveway, blocking them in.
"You have got to be kidding," Virgil muttered.
A young man in a Judas Priest concert-T and khaki shorts stumbled out of the Pontiac and raced towards the Olds. "Guys! Guys!" he exclaimed as he gripped the edge of the driver's side window. "Hey, guys, it's been called off!"
Virgil held a hand up to stop his outburst. "Tell you what, Paul. Just on the chance nobody's called the cops yet, why don't you get in the backseat so we can talk private like."
"Oh, right." It took Paul a few tries with the door handle, but he eventually made it into car. "Wow, guys. I am glad I caught you in time!"
"Paul?" Virgil caught his eyes in the rear-view mirror.
"Yeah Virgil?"
Virgil looked at Brett who was gripping the tire iron so hard his knuckles were white. Virgil touched his knee, got his attention, and slightly shook his head no.
"Who sent you?"
"Oh! God, talk about lucky. Jimmy had left, right? To go get some beer and then the phone rings and it's the guy and, man, he is crying and blubbering and begging me to call it off. I'm like 'I don't think so', but he's like 'you have to!' so I get in the car and fly - I mean fly! - all the way here. Just in time, right?"
"The guy called it off?"
"Right. But he'll still pay. He made sure to tell me that he'll still pay. He said he'd even pay more - double! - if I could call it off. Man. Lucky, right?"
"Right. Okay, Paul, you can go now."
Paul looked at the rear-view. Virgil's eyes were fixed on him; steady and void of emotion. Brett's eyes were inscrutable behind his sunglasses, but the tilt of his head made and the set of his lips made Paul flinch.
"Oh. Okay. But it's good, right? That I got here in time? We'll get paid double for doing nothing! That's good, right?"
"Paul," Virgil said. "Get out of this car, go get in your car, and drive. The. Fuck. Away. Right?"
Paul hesitated for a moment, until he noticed Brett's head tilt another few degrees towards his direction, and then he left the Oldsmobile. Before he could close the door behind him, Virgil said, "And don't burn any rubber driving away. Just...." Virgil held his hand horizontal and made a smooth passing motion.
A moment later the Firebird slowly, cautiously, motored down the street and around the corner.
Virgil and Brett got out of the Oldsmobile and started walking towards the house across the street.
"You think they called the cops?"
Virgil shook his head. "No. Not these two. Not after what she's done. Still. They may be alert now. Might try something stupid."
"Yeah, well," Brett thumped the tire iron against his palm. "It has been a day for stupid."
"Anyway, no wasting time on this one."
Brett grinned. "I swear I don't usually come so fast."
***
The Oldsmobile's trunk swung open revealing two bodies wrapped in plastic tarps, some tools, and a pair of elegant cowboy boots.
"Okay, muscles," Virgil said to Brett. "I'll take the lighter of the two."
"Tell you what...," Brett moved towards the center of the trunk, edging Virgil away. Brett scooped up the guy's body, slung it over his shoulder, and then used one of his massive arms to hoist the girl over his other shoulder.
"Impressive." Virgil nodded.
"Clean living," Brett said and started walking to the down-hole that was around 50 yards away from where they'd parked.
Virgil lit a cigarette and followed. "Must be."
The sun was setting on the horizon of the expansive drilling field. Rigs dotted the landscape like an invasive species; some nodding their heads, others sleeping. The dying light of day turned the dirt salmon pink. A cooling breeze occasionally dipped low enough to create streams of dust across the land.
Thirty yards or so into the journey, Brett stumbled over a rut but caught his balance before falling.
"You just let me know you need help," Virgil offered.
"Psh." Brett adjusted his burdens. "I can do this all night."
***
Brett came to the edge of the down-hole and, without ceremony, chucked both bodies into the abyss. It took a long time until the muted 'thud' of contact was heard.
"You okay?" Virgil asked. Brett was breathing heavy with his hands pressed against his lower back.
"Oh yeah. Feels good. Some people say this is the best way to get a work out - doing real life chores, but with more weight or more resistance."
"There you go. The next big fad in exercise. Twenty pound irons and vacuum cleaners with square wheels."
Brett stretched his arms over his head. Virgil went about preparing the specially made rig. From a distance it looked like any other piece of oil-field equipment, but the drill-head was a unique design - a sphere instead of a cylinder, with swirling rings of vicious spikes and sharp edges circling the iron ball. It was covered with rust that was a shade darker, redder than you would expect from normal oxidation. Virgil swung the device over the down-hole and joined Brett at the control console. He pushed a button and gears inside the sphere started turning, the rings of spikes and razors spinning. He pulled a lever and cable played out, lowering the ball.
"Maybe we should wait until Paul's body is down there? Two birds, one stone," Brett said over the noise of the machinery. "Well. Three birds."
"Oh no," Virgil answered. "No, Paul's not going in this sacred ground. He made the kind of mistake that gets you a shallow grave in Texas. Too stupid to be covered up by good, honest Oklahoma dirt."
As the cable played out, the noise died down. In the dusk, they could hear crickets and the occasional call of a night bird.
"Why did you give them that time?" Brett asked. "The cigarette time?"
Virgil shrugged.
"No, I'm just asking because, had we gone in sooner, Paul wouldn't have had a chance to.... Well. Let's just say it would have been better for Paul had you not decided to have a smoke."
"He may have earned a few more days. Maybe a year." Virgil started another cigarette. "But he wouldn't have lasted long at this job anyway. Pretty obvious."
"He is Terry's cousin."
"So? I'm Jesus' son."
Brett laughed. Virgil eyed him through a drifting veil of cigarette smoke. "Why do you ask? You got something with Terry?"
"Not at all," Brett snorted. "Nothing like that. No, just.... Well, you remember Billy?"
"Yeah."
"He warned me about you."
"Yeah?"
"Maybe not warned, but he said you were funny. Not queer funny, just odd. I don't know."
"You think I'm funny?"
"Nah. You're just a romantic, I think. And I know you're a queer, the way you always look at my ass."
Both men chuckled. The sound of the cable unwinding was a gentle hiss, barely above the whisper of the night breezes blowing across the field.
Virgil tossed his cigarette towards the down-hole.
"Bad things are out there," Virgil said, "waiting for us all. We're lucky in that we can, because of who we are, who we know, and what we do, sometimes we can control bad things. It won't last forever; eventually the bad things will catch up to us - nobody gets out of this world alive and unscathed - but when I get a chance to allow something good...? If possible, I'll do it. Not because I'm romantic, but I'm not the worst thing out there. There are things worse than I am."
Suddenly the cable attached to the drill-head made a horrendously loud squealing noise and started whipping around erratically. Brett jumped to his feet while Virgil started slapping buttons on the console.
The equipment didn't respond to the kill command; the cable continued to whip and cut to and fro. The clamor from down-hole increased in severity. It sounded just like screaming. Impossibly loud screaming. Brett covered his ears and backed away from the hole.
The cable snapped. The bottom part smacked against the ground with force enough to slice a car in two. It whirred around, kicking up great clots of dirt, and then was sucked into the hole.
The gears stopped. The machinery gradually grew quiet. Dust settled.
"What the fuck...?" Brett joined Virgil at the control console.
Virgil walked cautiously towards the down-hole. It hissed and vapor rose from the opening. Shortly, a thick, dark liquid bubbled over the hole's edge.
"What is that?" Brett asked, joining Virgil at the site. "Oil? Did we strike oil?"
"Impossible," Virgil bent down and touched the liquid with two fingers as it continued to spread slowly over lip of the hole.
Virgil inspected the gunk stuck to his fingers. It was brick red and smelled just like blood.
"Impossible," Virgil reiterated. He furiously wiped his hand on his jeans and stepped away to avoid the growing puddle.
"We should go," Brett said. "Find a phone and call Jimmy about this."
"Yes," Virgil agreed. They turned and walked briskly toward the Oldsmobile, now barely visible in the dark distance.
After five yards, Virgil noticed the fingers that had touched the blood were freezing cold. He shoved that hand in his pocket for warmth.
Fifteen yards: Virgil couldn't feel his arm.
Halfway to the car Virgil had to stop. "Brett," he said, his voice slurred because one whole side of his face had become numb with cold. "Something's wrong."
Brett stopped and turned but before he could ask what was wrong, Virgil collapsed sideways, like timber falling to the ground.
Brett knelt at Virgil's side, but the man was incapable of communicating; only stammering incomprehensibly with a thick tongue.
"Okay buddy," Brett scooped up Virgil's body. "I got you.... Jesus! You're like a block of ice!"
Holding Virgil like a baby in his arms, Brett ran for the car.
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