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The Burning Cars on I-10
Every day, and every night of the week I made the same commute for almost three years. I used to work at the Motiva refinery in Port Arthur, but I live in Mont Belvieu, always have. It’s an hour drive, but it was simple enough. Just a straight shot down I-10 til you get to Winnie and take the exit onto Highway 73, taking you right into Port Arthur. I’ve driven that stretch of road so many times I could tell you anything you’d ever want to know about it. All the spots to fill up on gas, where to get a bite to eat, every name of every tiny town from Wallisville to Hankamer to Stowell. But, that’s not why I’m posting here. I don’t like to think, much less talk about that drive anymore if I can help it. If it can be avoided, I never drive east. At least, not that route. I’ll take the extra hour, hell I’ll take five if it means I never have to drive that length of I-10 again.
I’m only revisiting this memory that I’ve tried my best to bury for the sake of warning anyone living in the area, anyone traveling through there, a detour may be well worth your while. That drive nearly cost me my life, it’s the very reason I quit working at that refinery. If I’m still breathing after what I saw, I ought to do what I can to tell people about it. Might save someone a brush with the reaper, might not. Maybe they’ve moved on to someplace else. Either way, I like to think this is worth talking about. If nothing else comes of it, at the very least it might help me come to terms with what happened.
It started off unassuming enough. Two months ago, almost to the day, I was making my way home from work. I was tired, hungry, and ready for a shower, but even in such a state there was no mistaking what I saw. There’s a part of the drive between Winnie and Mont Belvieu where there’s little activity, especially at night. You don’t see too many other drivers, or much of anything really til you get close to Lake Anahuac.
About halfway along that quiet stretch of road is where I saw it. An orange glow, off in the distance, slowly getting closer. I could just make out the pillar of black smoke rising above it, cutting through the dark blue of the night sky. As I closed the distance, the details of the scene became clear. It was a car, completely overtaken by fire, sitting in the median strip of the highway.
At least, it had once been a car. There was little left of it besides the bones. After taking in the sight for a second something really struck me as strange, nobody was around. No cops, no fire truck or ambulance, no signs that anything was out of the ordinary. When I passed by the wreck, I could feel the heat radiating off of it even through the side of my truck. I had the brief thought to stop, see if anyone needed help, but there wasn’t anybody on the side of the road, near the car or further along. I came to the morbid conclusion that if someone was in that car, and they hadn’t already been picked up by somebody, they had gone up in smoke with the vehicle they were in.
I’ve had to deal with fighting a few fires before, a refinery’s not the safest place to work after all, but I wasn’t equipped to deal with something like this by myself. So, I drove on home, accepting that if there was even anyone left to help, I wasn’t the one to do it. When I got back to my apartment I grabbed a beer, heated up some leftovers and tried to not think about what I’d seen. But, it was useless.
For whatever reason, the image of that burning car had settled itself in my mind, there was something I found captivating about it. I questioned my decision to keep driving, my refusal to get involved. I tried to figure out what had happened with only that one piece of information, but it was futile. It felt like an incomplete picture, and I wasn’t satisfied with any answer I could come to, they all felt wrong. This argument with myself went on for an hour or so before I tired my mind out, and decided to go to sleep. That night, I saw the car again in a dream. I heard someone screaming from inside.
I woke up in a pool of sweat, like my body felt the heat of the fire even from within a nightmare. But, I had no time to worry about that, I had to get ready and hit the road in an hour if I was gonna make it to Port Arthur on time. It was another normal day at work, nothing out of the ordinary. I thought about telling my coworkers about what I’d seen but decided not to. They weren’t exactly a talkative bunch, and that kind of work doesn’t inspire much in the way of conversation. It’s hard, thankless.
Since I worked there for a while they let me take longer shifts on weekdays to get guaranteed weekends off, usually you’re expected to be available any day of the week if they need you. I took the extra money, but I didn’t see much of a difference besides that. I just got home later. I didn’t do much with my free time anyway, the weekends always escaped me.
When it came time to clock out, an anxious feeling started brewing between my temples. I got worried, wondering if I’d see something like that again tonight. I tried to shake it off, but it followed me outside, stopped me in my tracks when I reached to open my truck door. I felt silly. “What are the chances of me seeing a thing like that again in my lifetime, much less two nights in a row,” I asked myself. This question was enough to quiet my whining nerves, so I got in and drove off the lot to make my way home. If only I knew, the chances were already rigged in advance.
I felt a knot come up in my throat when I made the switch from Highway 73 to I-10 in Winnie. I felt something else was gonna happen that night, another piece of that picture was waiting for me. As my truck glided along the asphalt I scanned the sides of the road, looking for anything to confirm my aching suspicions. Then, near the same spot I’d seen that car the night before, almost down to the mile, I saw the same glow that’d haunted me all day. There was another car between the opposing sides of the interstate, cocooned in flame. But, there was something different from the first wreck I’d seen. All around the car, a circle of people were holding hands.
The sight of them standing there was enough to tip the scales, curiosity weighed too heavy on me to let me keep driving without an answer. I came to a stop, parked my truck on the shoulder and got out to ask them what was happening. But, with every step I started noticing some details about this group of strangers that made me slow my pace. They were all dressed in long black robes, and I couldn’t make out any of their faces. Their features were obscured, even those facing the bright glow of the fire.
They noticed me coming, and had stopped holding hands. Once I felt I was in earshot I had enough sense to stop my advance before I asked them, “what’s going on here? Is anyone hurt?” They didn’t offer any answer, all staying silent. There was a stomach-churning smell on the air, and it wasn’t the smoke. I tried again, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to stand that close, y’all might get hurt. I can call the police, did any of you see what happened?” At this they finally stirred, suddenly making their way towards me in unison, like they all came to the same decision at once.
I started backing away from them, saying with admittedly little confidence, “easy now, stay back.” This failed to slow their step, so I quickened mine. They didn’t utter a single word, all steadily approaching with their shrouded gazes fixed on me. “I have a gun in my truck, I don’t wanna use it, just calm down!” I was lying, out of some desperate hope this might get them to reconsider their course, but not one of them paused at the threat. I gave up any hope of reasoning with them and turned to run back to my truck. As I did, I heard the scraping of boots across gravel as they began to chase after me. A couple dozen yards had never felt so far.
Luckily I had forgotten my keys in the truck’s ignition, I’ve never been so thankful to be forgetful. I slammed the door shut and kicked the gas pedal to the ground, seeing flashes of them sprinting towards me in my right side mirror. As I took off I felt a thud against the side of my truck, but I paid it no mind as I raced back up to the speed limit. I escaped, but that anxiety I felt at the refinery was nothing compared to the panic I was lost in at that moment. Every few seconds my eyes darted from one mirror to another, looking to see if my pursuers had followed me in their own vehicle. After passing through Wallisville about 15 minutes later I finally eased up, figuring they hadn’t been after me any longer. The thought brought me very little comfort.
Even after concluding I hadn’t been chased back home, I wasn’t much less of a frantic mess when I reached my apartment. When I parked my truck I was breathing sporadically, hesitant to get out, so I took some time to catch my breath. That was when I noticed it, as my eyes reflexively checked that right side mirror again. Something was sticking out of the side of my truck bed. Whatever ease I had settled into left me, my whole body tensed up at the sight of it. I slowly opened my door and walked to the back to see what it was. It was a knife. One of them jammed it into the side of my truck right before I drove off. That’s how close they were.
After struggling for a bit I got the knife unwedged. It was a hunting knife, 8 inches long, still sharp even after being stabbed into the chassis of a truck. I ran into my apartment, dead bolted the door, locked all my windows, and helplessly paced the floor expecting I’d get a visit from those creeps at any second. Time seems to fly faster when your adrenaline’s pumping, because it wasn’t long before I saw it was midnight.
I’d been obsessively looking through my window blinds for any shady figures but it was as quiet as ever. I hadn’t eaten anything yet, or even had a sip of water. That calmed me down some, but the whole time I ate I couldn’t stop looking at the knife, now laying on my coffee table. Sleep seemed impossible but I tried my best in spite of that. It took half of one of my emergency trazodone pills and some deep breathing, but eventually I coasted into unconsciousness.
I never dream when I take trazodone, but that night I was right back on I-10, staring into that fire again. This time, those people were there, all in a circle around me. The last thing I remember was them staring at me, all screaming at the same deafening pitch. I woke to that same sensation of a bed soaked in sweat, still groggy from the sleep aid. I dreaded the idea of going back into work, but calling out the morning of had never gone over well before. At the time I was convinced I couldn’t afford to lose that job, and I had no reason that would be good enough for my manager. He was proud to be a bit of a taskmaster.
That day at work was obnoxiously normal. Maybe I was looking for something extraordinary to happen, something to take my mind off of what I’d been through, but no. It was a typical, painfully slow day. When it came to an end, my body just wouldn’t let me leave. I was frozen stiff at the thought of getting back into my truck. My manager noticed me standing there. To my surprise he came up to me, and in a shocking moment of care he gently asked, “what’s got you troubled son?” I tried to play it off, saying I just needed a moment of rest before I took the drive back to Mont Belvieu. He could tell I was lying. “Really? It seems like there’s more to it than that, you’re looking awful pale. You can tell me, I’m off for the night anyway.” So, I told him everything.
I was shocked that he believed me, he even gave me what seemed like some good advice. “If those bastards were there round the same time two nights in a row, they could be there again tonight. I’d say it’s best that you stay here for a little while. Wait as long as you need, then head back home when you’re ready.” I’d never known him to be a man capable of being so warm, especially with his workers, so I decided to take advantage of this rare display of kindness. “Thank you, sir. I won’t be too long, I just don’t want to run into them again.” He could tell how frightened I really was. “Just stay safe son, and don’t get out of your car no matter what you see. You just head straight home. Good night, see you on Monday.” With all that was going on I’d completely forgotten it was a Friday night.
I waited there for an hour. A slow, patience-testing hour, but I refused to leave any sooner. When the clock finally read 10pm I made my way to my truck, and left Motiva refinery. I’ve not been there once since that night, and I’ll never return. Not after what happened on that drive.
Port Arthur to Winnie was uneventful. This late there were only so many drivers out on Highway 73, but I wasn’t worried about 73. I was sitting in silence, no music, nothing, trying to prepare myself for what I might see on the interstate. Just like the last two nights I saw nothing out of the ordinary coming out of Winnie, but I could feel my heart rate rise as I came up to that same spot the cars had been.
My body was tired, my eyes ached, but I didn’t even want to blink else I’d miss something. I had the knife in my passenger seat, and my hand started to grip the handle hard. I could feel how clammy my hands were against the wood. But, that 12th mile came, it went, and I saw no sign of a fire. There was nobody on the side of the road, not a thing. I’d never felt such a sense of relief, like years worth of stress all evaporated at once. It was short-lived.
A couple miles down the road, my joy was soon snuffed out. I prayed it was just a string of headlights on the other side of the road, but I quickly gave up any hope of that being true. The highway was bathed in an orange glow, brighter than ever before. It took a moment, too long for me to recognize what I was seeing was really there ahead of me, but my vision hadn’t failed. Across the interstate was a line of cars, all ablaze. In front of them, shoulder to shoulder, was a string of people, all facing towards me.
I slammed on my brakes, brought the truck to a halt and made sure all my doors were locked. They didn’t move an inch, but as I looked around I realized what fate awaited me if I didn’t get out of there right away. I saw several cars on the side of the road between me and the barricade. It was hard to tell but the fire’s light was bright enough to make them out. Sprawled on the ground were several bodies, lying in pools of blood.
Right as the impulse to hit the gas and turn around hit me, my windows were shattered from all sides. There were others, waiting on the sides of the road, and they had surrounded me. One of them reached in and slammed my head against the wheel. This disoriented me enough for them to unlock the car and drag me out, kicking and screaming. They brought me to the barricade, my legs and feet scraping along the asphalt. Once we reached the line of people, my captors grabbed the back of my head, and forced me to look up at one of their number. They broke the line and all flocked to him, the only distinguishable member among them. He had a symbol, a white M, on his hood.
Another hooded man brought him a knife, kneeled to the ground and presented it to him like he was a king. He held it up in the light of the fire behind him, looked at me and said in a cold, gruff voice, “took something that wasn’t yours, didn’t you?” They all began to laugh at this remark, but as he sharply raised his other hand in the air they stopped at once. I opened my mouth to protest, met immediately with a knee to my right side and a twist of my hair. After my silence was ensured, he looked back down at me, and pressed the knife against my neck.
“You could’ve kept driving last night. You’ve been indifferent all your life, unphased, unbothered. You only had to look the other way one more time. But, you woke up from your stupor, you decided to be curious.” He pressed the blade harder. I felt the sting of a cut, a drop of blood run down my neck. “You wanted answers. This is your answer.” He pulled the knife back, raised it above his head, but just as I readied myself for the plunge one of the others stopped him. I opened my eyes to see blue and red lights flash across his cloaked face, and heard a shout from behind, “Freeze, put the knife down!” the police had shown up.
The masked crowd reacted immediately, rushing towards the cops in mass. Shots were fired off indiscriminately, some flying past my captors and I into the fiery barricade. There was an intense struggle right behind me that only my ears could sense. But then, I felt the grips on my arms loosen, and I saw my opportunity. I struck their knees, shook free and rushed for the treeline on the side of the road. I hoped none of them would follow me into the fields with the cops to worry about, but after the fight on the interstate was far enough away I could hear another set of feet running close behind.
I was tired and weak, my pursuer had little trouble catching up to me. He tackled me into the grass, and in spite of any effort to break out he flipped me over, pinning my right arm with his leg. “You just had to wait as long as you could!” Two punches landed, one to the cheek, one to the nose. He put a hand on my neck, digging his finger into the cut, “I thought about gutting you in the parking lot, but they don’t like me making a mess there. Well, that’s fine by me!” Even through dazed eyes, I saw a glint of light flash across the blade as he raised it above his head.
In the shine of the knife I could see death, and all the years he would take from me if I didn’t resist. Whatever strength I had, any dormant desire to keep living lunged out. I refused to die there on the side of I-10. With my one free arm I punched up, hard as I could manage, and made the bastard bite his own teeth. The knife landed just beside my head. In one swift, impulsive motion I grabbed the handle and shot my arm upwards before I could see what I was aiming for. It pierced his neck, right beneath the Adam's apple.
I pushed him off me, got up and looked down at my attacker. All that anger, that righteous fury had gone, and life was leaving his limbs. His body twitched, his mouth sputtered, and I was looking at a man dying. I briefly wondered what he might be thinking. Was he still angry, was he sorry he had ended up here, in a field off I-10? Or, was he just a blank page with no words left? I came back to my senses shortly, and remembered something he had said as he was just about to put that knife through my eye. Something he shouldn’t have said, but did.
I finally noticed, with just enough light reaching through the trees from the still burning cars, this was the man with the white M on his hood. Part of me may have already guessed, but I had to know. I couldn’t walk away until I knew. I lifted his hood, and saw a face that I’d seen every weekday for almost three years. It was Frank Cotton, 42 years old, father of two, and my manager as long as I had worked at the Motiva refinery. He was lying there, at my feet, choking on his own blood.
After staring at the ruin of that man for a few more minutes, I recalled the fight I had fled from, and realized how quiet it had gotten. I walked back to the highway, only to be greeted with an awful sight. If there was a winner there was no one left to claim it, as dozens of bodies laid lifeless between the two shoulders of the road. I walked over them, around them, slowly making my way over to my truck. I was lucky enough to be alive, but not enough to have an easy way out of there, all four tires had been slashed. The cop cars were no better, believe me I tried.
So, I started walking. I walked all the way from there to Wallisville. It took me about five hours, I got there around 4am. The whole trek there I clutched the handle of that knife, listened for any give that I may have been followed. I was expecting I might meet one of those hooded freaks along the way. Once again, I was lucky.
I found a small church, Middleton Memorial Methodist off the feeder road, and slept in the grass near the back door. I was terrified, but I couldn’t stay awake any longer. It barely felt like I had slept at all when I was woken by a pastor. He was kind enough to give me water and some food. As I got ready to explain everything, his radio already started telling the story. 37 found dead on Interstate 10 between Winnie and Anahuac. 8 were police officers. 20 of the other 29 bodies were all wearing matching uniforms. One was found in a field nearby.
After we ate, the pastor gave me a lift to my place back in Mont Belvieu. He never asked me what happened, why I was passed out behind his church, but I don’t think he needed to. That was two months ago, almost to the day. I work in Seabrook now, not sure I should say where. It’s a shorter commute thankfully, and I’ve been working on moving soon, maybe there, maybe League City, we’ll see. I don’t know what Frank was really up to with those people, if they had anything to do with Motiva, and I’m never going to know. I’m not looking for answers anymore, I made it out with my skin still on and my heart still beating, that’s all I can ask for. The last thing to do before I can leave this all behind me for good is tell people what really happened that night.
If you’re driving into Houston from the east, and you find yourself on that stretch of I-10 at night, don’t stop for anyone or anything. No matter what you see, it’s best you don’t get involved, and keep on driving. They may still be there, they may not, I’m not gonna be the one to find out. I hope you never have to find out. Lastly, if anyone who still works at that refinery happens to read this, keep it to yourself. Don’t ask questions, don’t let on that you’ve even heard of someone named Frank Cotton. You might be putting yourself in danger just by knowing this ever happened. Stay safe, stay alert, and never stop for a burning car on Interstate 10.
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Every day, and every night of the week I made the same commute for almost three years. I used to work at the Motiva refinery in Port Arthur, but I live in Mont Belvieu, always have. It’s an hour drive, but it was simple enough. Just a straight shot down I-10 til you get to Winnie and take the exit onto Highway 73, taking you right into Port Arthur. I’ve driven that stretch of road so many times I could tell you anything you’d ever want to know about it. All the spots to fill up on gas, where to get a bite to eat, every name of every tiny town from Wallisville to Hankamer to Stowell. But, that’s not why I’m posting here. I don’t like to think, much less talk about that drive anymore if I can help it. If it can be avoided, I never drive east. At least, not that route. I’ll take the extra hour, hell I’ll take five if it means I never have to drive that length of I-10 again.
I’m only revisiting this memory that I’ve tried my best to bury for the sake of warning anyone living in the area, anyone traveling through there, a detour may be well worth your while. That drive nearly cost me my life, it’s the very reason I quit working at that refinery. If I’m still breathing after what I saw, I ought to do what I can to tell people about it. Might save someone a brush with the reaper, might not. Maybe they’ve moved on to someplace else. Either way, I like to think this is worth talking about. If nothing else comes of it, at the very least it might help me come to terms with what happened.
It started off unassuming enough. Two months ago, almost to the day, I was making my way home from work. I was tired, hungry, and ready for a shower, but even in such a state there was no mistaking what I saw. There’s a part of the drive between Winnie and Mont Belvieu where there’s little activity, especially at night. You don’t see too many other drivers, or much of anything really til you get close to Lake Anahuac.
About halfway along that quiet stretch of road is where I saw it. An orange glow, off in the distance, slowly getting closer. I could just make out the pillar of black smoke rising above it, cutting through the dark blue of the night sky. As I closed the distance, the details of the scene became clear. It was a car, completely overtaken by fire, sitting in the median strip of the highway.
At least, it had once been a car. There was little left of it besides the bones. After taking in the sight for a second something really struck me as strange, nobody was around. No cops, no fire truck or ambulance, no signs that anything was out of the ordinary. When I passed by the wreck, I could feel the heat radiating off of it even through the side of my truck. I had the brief thought to stop, see if anyone needed help, but there wasn’t anybody on the side of the road, near the car or further along. I came to the morbid conclusion that if someone was in that car, and they hadn’t already been picked up by somebody, they had gone up in smoke with the vehicle they were in.
I’ve had to deal with fighting a few fires before, a refinery’s not the safest place to work after all, but I wasn’t equipped to deal with something like this by myself. So, I drove on home, accepting that if there was even anyone left to help, I wasn’t the one to do it. When I got back to my apartment I grabbed a beer, heated up some leftovers and tried to not think about what I’d seen. But, it was useless.
For whatever reason, the image of that burning car had settled itself in my mind, there was something I found captivating about it. I questioned my decision to keep driving, my refusal to get involved. I tried to figure out what had happened with only that one piece of information, but it was futile. It felt like an incomplete picture, and I wasn’t satisfied with any answer I could come to, they all felt wrong. This argument with myself went on for an hour or so before I tired my mind out, and decided to go to sleep. That night, I saw the car again in a dream. I heard someone screaming from inside.
I woke up in a pool of sweat, like my body felt the heat of the fire even from within a nightmare. But, I had no time to worry about that, I had to get ready and hit the road in an hour if I was gonna make it to Port Arthur on time. It was another normal day at work, nothing out of the ordinary. I thought about telling my coworkers about what I’d seen but decided not to. They weren’t exactly a talkative bunch, and that kind of work doesn’t inspire much in the way of conversation. It’s hard, thankless.
Since I worked there for a while they let me take longer shifts on weekdays to get guaranteed weekends off, usually you’re expected to be available any day of the week if they need you. I took the extra money, but I didn’t see much of a difference besides that. I just got home later. I didn’t do much with my free time anyway, the weekends always escaped me.
When it came time to clock out, an anxious feeling started brewing between my temples. I got worried, wondering if I’d see something like that again tonight. I tried to shake it off, but it followed me outside, stopped me in my tracks when I reached to open my truck door. I felt silly. “What are the chances of me seeing a thing like that again in my lifetime, much less two nights in a row,” I asked myself. This question was enough to quiet my whining nerves, so I got in and drove off the lot to make my way home. If only I knew, the chances were already rigged in advance.
I felt a knot come up in my throat when I made the switch from Highway 73 to I-10 in Winnie. I felt something else was gonna happen that night, another piece of that picture was waiting for me. As my truck glided along the asphalt I scanned the sides of the road, looking for anything to confirm my aching suspicions. Then, near the same spot I’d seen that car the night before, almost down to the mile, I saw the same glow that’d haunted me all day. There was another car between the opposing sides of the interstate, cocooned in flame. But, there was something different from the first wreck I’d seen. All around the car, a circle of people were holding hands.
The sight of them standing there was enough to tip the scales, curiosity weighed too heavy on me to let me keep driving without an answer. I came to a stop, parked my truck on the shoulder and got out to ask them what was happening. But, with every step I started noticing some details about this group of strangers that made me slow my pace. They were all dressed in long black robes, and I couldn’t make out any of their faces. Their features were obscured, even those facing the bright glow of the fire.
They noticed me coming, and had stopped holding hands. Once I felt I was in earshot I had enough sense to stop my advance before I asked them, “what’s going on here? Is anyone hurt?” They didn’t offer any answer, all staying silent. There was a stomach-churning smell on the air, and it wasn’t the smoke. I tried again, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to stand that close, y’all might get hurt. I can call the police, did any of you see what happened?” At this they finally stirred, suddenly making their way towards me in unison, like they all came to the same decision at once.
I started backing away from them, saying with admittedly little confidence, “easy now, stay back.” This failed to slow their step, so I quickened mine. They didn’t utter a single word, all steadily approaching with their shrouded gazes fixed on me. “I have a gun in my truck, I don’t wanna use it, just calm down!” I was lying, out of some desperate hope this might get them to reconsider their course, but not one of them paused at the threat. I gave up any hope of reasoning with them and turned to run back to my truck. As I did, I heard the scraping of boots across gravel as they began to chase after me. A couple dozen yards had never felt so far.
Luckily I had forgotten my keys in the truck’s ignition, I’ve never been so thankful to be forgetful. I slammed the door shut and kicked the gas pedal to the ground, seeing flashes of them sprinting towards me in my right side mirror. As I took off I felt a thud against the side of my truck, but I paid it no mind as I raced back up to the speed limit. I escaped, but that anxiety I felt at the refinery was nothing compared to the panic I was lost in at that moment. Every few seconds my eyes darted from one mirror to another, looking to see if my pursuers had followed me in their own vehicle. After passing through Wallisville about 15 minutes later I finally eased up, figuring they hadn’t been after me any longer. The thought brought me very little comfort.
Even after concluding I hadn’t been chased back home, I wasn’t much less of a frantic mess when I reached my apartment. When I parked my truck I was breathing sporadically, hesitant to get out, so I took some time to catch my breath. That was when I noticed it, as my eyes reflexively checked that right side mirror again. Something was sticking out of the side of my truck bed. Whatever ease I had settled into left me, my whole body tensed up at the sight of it. I slowly opened my door and walked to the back to see what it was. It was a knife. One of them jammed it into the side of my truck right before I drove off. That’s how close they were.
After struggling for a bit I got the knife unwedged. It was a hunting knife, 8 inches long, still sharp even after being stabbed into the chassis of a truck. I ran into my apartment, dead bolted the door, locked all my windows, and helplessly paced the floor expecting I’d get a visit from those creeps at any second. Time seems to fly faster when your adrenaline’s pumping, because it wasn’t long before I saw it was midnight.
I’d been obsessively looking through my window blinds for any shady figures but it was as quiet as ever. I hadn’t eaten anything yet, or even had a sip of water. That calmed me down some, but the whole time I ate I couldn’t stop looking at the knife, now laying on my coffee table. Sleep seemed impossible but I tried my best in spite of that. It took half of one of my emergency trazodone pills and some deep breathing, but eventually I coasted into unconsciousness.
I never dream when I take trazodone, but that night I was right back on I-10, staring into that fire again. This time, those people were there, all in a circle around me. The last thing I remember was them staring at me, all screaming at the same deafening pitch. I woke to that same sensation of a bed soaked in sweat, still groggy from the sleep aid. I dreaded the idea of going back into work, but calling out the morning of had never gone over well before. At the time I was convinced I couldn’t afford to lose that job, and I had no reason that would be good enough for my manager. He was proud to be a bit of a taskmaster.
That day at work was obnoxiously normal. Maybe I was looking for something extraordinary to happen, something to take my mind off of what I’d been through, but no. It was a typical, painfully slow day. When it came to an end, my body just wouldn’t let me leave. I was frozen stiff at the thought of getting back into my truck. My manager noticed me standing there. To my surprise he came up to me, and in a shocking moment of care he gently asked, “what’s got you troubled son?” I tried to play it off, saying I just needed a moment of rest before I took the drive back to Mont Belvieu. He could tell I was lying. “Really? It seems like there’s more to it than that, you’re looking awful pale. You can tell me, I’m off for the night anyway.” So, I told him everything.
I was shocked that he believed me, he even gave me what seemed like some good advice. “If those bastards were there round the same time two nights in a row, they could be there again tonight. I’d say it’s best that you stay here for a little while. Wait as long as you need, then head back home when you’re ready.” I’d never known him to be a man capable of being so warm, especially with his workers, so I decided to take advantage of this rare display of kindness. “Thank you, sir. I won’t be too long, I just don’t want to run into them again.” He could tell how frightened I really was. “Just stay safe son, and don’t get out of your car no matter what you see. You just head straight home. Good night, see you on Monday.” With all that was going on I’d completely forgotten it was a Friday night.
I waited there for an hour. A slow, patience-testing hour, but I refused to leave any sooner. When the clock finally read 10pm I made my way to my truck, and left Motiva refinery. I’ve not been there once since that night, and I’ll never return. Not after what happened on that drive.
Port Arthur to Winnie was uneventful. This late there were only so many drivers out on Highway 73, but I wasn’t worried about 73. I was sitting in silence, no music, nothing, trying to prepare myself for what I might see on the interstate. Just like the last two nights I saw nothing out of the ordinary coming out of Winnie, but I could feel my heart rate rise as I came up to that same spot the cars had been.
My body was tired, my eyes ached, but I didn’t even want to blink else I’d miss something. I had the knife in my passenger seat, and my hand started to grip the handle hard. I could feel how clammy my hands were against the wood. But, that 12th mile came, it went, and I saw no sign of a fire. There was nobody on the side of the road, not a thing. I’d never felt such a sense of relief, like years worth of stress all evaporated at once. It was short-lived.
A couple miles down the road, my joy was soon snuffed out. I prayed it was just a string of headlights on the other side of the road, but I quickly gave up any hope of that being true. The highway was bathed in an orange glow, brighter than ever before. It took a moment, too long for me to recognize what I was seeing was really there ahead of me, but my vision hadn’t failed. Across the interstate was a line of cars, all ablaze. In front of them, shoulder to shoulder, was a string of people, all facing towards me.
I slammed on my brakes, brought the truck to a halt and made sure all my doors were locked. They didn’t move an inch, but as I looked around I realized what fate awaited me if I didn’t get out of there right away. I saw several cars on the side of the road between me and the barricade. It was hard to tell but the fire’s light was bright enough to make them out. Sprawled on the ground were several bodies, lying in pools of blood.
Right as the impulse to hit the gas and turn around hit me, my windows were shattered from all sides. There were others, waiting on the sides of the road, and they had surrounded me. One of them reached in and slammed my head against the wheel. This disoriented me enough for them to unlock the car and drag me out, kicking and screaming. They brought me to the barricade, my legs and feet scraping along the asphalt. Once we reached the line of people, my captors grabbed the back of my head, and forced me to look up at one of their number. They broke the line and all flocked to him, the only distinguishable member among them. He had a symbol, a white M, on his hood.
Another hooded man brought him a knife, kneeled to the ground and presented it to him like he was a king. He held it up in the light of the fire behind him, looked at me and said in a cold, gruff voice, “took something that wasn’t yours, didn’t you?” They all began to laugh at this remark, but as he sharply raised his other hand in the air they stopped at once. I opened my mouth to protest, met immediately with a knee to my right side and a twist of my hair. After my silence was ensured, he looked back down at me, and pressed the knife against my neck.
“You could’ve kept driving last night. You’ve been indifferent all your life, unphased, unbothered. You only had to look the other way one more time. But, you woke up from your stupor, you decided to be curious.” He pressed the blade harder. I felt the sting of a cut, a drop of blood run down my neck. “You wanted answers. This is your answer.” He pulled the knife back, raised it above his head, but just as I readied myself for the plunge one of the others stopped him. I opened my eyes to see blue and red lights flash across his cloaked face, and heard a shout from behind, “Freeze, put the knife down!” the police had shown up.
The masked crowd reacted immediately, rushing towards the cops in mass. Shots were fired off indiscriminately, some flying past my captors and I into the fiery barricade. There was an intense struggle right behind me that only my ears could sense. But then, I felt the grips on my arms loosen, and I saw my opportunity. I struck their knees, shook free and rushed for the treeline on the side of the road. I hoped none of them would follow me into the fields with the cops to worry about, but after the fight on the interstate was far enough away I could hear another set of feet running close behind.
I was tired and weak, my pursuer had little trouble catching up to me. He tackled me into the grass, and in spite of any effort to break out he flipped me over, pinning my right arm with his leg. “You just had to wait as long as you could!” Two punches landed, one to the cheek, one to the nose. He put a hand on my neck, digging his finger into the cut, “I thought about gutting you in the parking lot, but they don’t like me making a mess there. Well, that’s fine by me!” Even through dazed eyes, I saw a glint of light flash across the blade as he raised it above his head.
In the shine of the knife I could see death, and all the years he would take from me if I didn’t resist. Whatever strength I had, any dormant desire to keep living lunged out. I refused to die there on the side of I-10. With my one free arm I punched up, hard as I could manage, and made the bastard bite his own teeth. The knife landed just beside my head. In one swift, impulsive motion I grabbed the handle and shot my arm upwards before I could see what I was aiming for. It pierced his neck, right beneath the Adam's apple.
I pushed him off me, got up and looked down at my attacker. All that anger, that righteous fury had gone, and life was leaving his limbs. His body twitched, his mouth sputtered, and I was looking at a man dying. I briefly wondered what he might be thinking. Was he still angry, was he sorry he had ended up here, in a field off I-10? Or, was he just a blank page with no words left? I came back to my senses shortly, and remembered something he had said as he was just about to put that knife through my eye. Something he shouldn’t have said, but did.
I finally noticed, with just enough light reaching through the trees from the still burning cars, this was the man with the white M on his hood. Part of me may have already guessed, but I had to know. I couldn’t walk away until I knew. I lifted his hood, and saw a face that I’d seen every weekday for almost three years. It was Frank Cotton, 42 years old, father of two, and my manager as long as I had worked at the Motiva refinery. He was lying there, at my feet, choking on his own blood.
After staring at the ruin of that man for a few more minutes, I recalled the fight I had fled from, and realized how quiet it had gotten. I walked back to the highway, only to be greeted with an awful sight. If there was a winner there was no one left to claim it, as dozens of bodies laid lifeless between the two shoulders of the road. I walked over them, around them, slowly making my way over to my truck. I was lucky enough to be alive, but not enough to have an easy way out of there, all four tires had been slashed. The cop cars were no better, believe me I tried.
So, I started walking. I walked all the way from there to Wallisville. It took me about five hours, I got there around 4am. The whole trek there I clutched the handle of that knife, listened for any give that I may have been followed. I was expecting I might meet one of those hooded freaks along the way. Once again, I was lucky.
I found a small church, Middleton Memorial Methodist off the feeder road, and slept in the grass near the back door. I was terrified, but I couldn’t stay awake any longer. It barely felt like I had slept at all when I was woken by a pastor. He was kind enough to give me water and some food. As I got ready to explain everything, his radio already started telling the story. 37 found dead on Interstate 10 between Winnie and Anahuac. 8 were police officers. 20 of the other 29 bodies were all wearing matching uniforms. One was found in a field nearby.
After we ate, the pastor gave me a lift to my place back in Mont Belvieu. He never asked me what happened, why I was passed out behind his church, but I don’t think he needed to. That was two months ago, almost to the day. I work in Seabrook now, not sure I should say where. It’s a shorter commute thankfully, and I’ve been working on moving soon, maybe there, maybe League City, we’ll see. I don’t know what Frank was really up to with those people, if they had anything to do with Motiva, and I’m never going to know. I’m not looking for answers anymore, I made it out with my skin still on and my heart still beating, that’s all I can ask for. The last thing to do before I can leave this all behind me for good is tell people what really happened that night.
If you’re driving into Houston from the east, and you find yourself on that stretch of I-10 at night, don’t stop for anyone or anything. No matter what you see, it’s best you don’t get involved, and keep on driving. They may still be there, they may not, I’m not gonna be the one to find out. I hope you never have to find out. Lastly, if anyone who still works at that refinery happens to read this, keep it to yourself. Don’t ask questions, don’t let on that you’ve even heard of someone named Frank Cotton. You might be putting yourself in danger just by knowing this ever happened. Stay safe, stay alert, and never stop for a burning car on Interstate 10.
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