The Adventures of Norman Oklahoma Volume One

by Steeven R. Orr

  “I know all about you, Norman,” the thing whispered into my ear. “I’ve researched you, studied you. I’ve learned all I could.”

  “Stop it,” I said as best I could with a mouth full of blood and broken teeth. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Don’t feel special. It’s something I do for all of my targets. It’s much easier to kill someone when you know their strengths and weaknesses. For example,” he said as he slammed my face into the concrete. “I know all about your healing ability.”

  I wanted to say something clever, something quick and witty, but my mind was a bit busy dealing with the pain and fighting to stay conscious.

  “The one thing I don’t know about you, Norman, is just how powerful this healing ability of yours is. I mean, it’s obvious that you can break, bleed, and feel pain.”

  He emphasized this by slamming my face into the sidewalk once again. I didn’t scream though. I mean, I wanted to, but it ain’t an easy thing to do with your face full of concrete.

  “Can you die, Norman Oklahoma? Can you be shuffled off this mortal coil? I must know.”

  He stepped on my back and pulled my head toward him until I both heard and felt my spine snap.

  That time I did scream.

  The Walrus just laughed and flung me back against the wall of my building. I heard more bones snap, but I couldn’t feel much of anything anymore.

  As I lay there, bleeding, I could see the Walrus take in the faces of the gathering crowd. The surrounding area filled with onlookers and gawkers who’d come out to see the show. He smiled and scratched at his chin. It appeared he was thinking things over.

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” I tried to say. I can’t be certain what actually came out of my mouth, but I know it wasn’t intelligible.

  “Look, Norman,” the Walrus said. “Everyone has come to watch.”

  He smiled and bent over me to whisper into my ear.

  “As much as I enjoy the eyes of all your friends and neighbors watching me break you, I think it might be best if we take this somewhere a little more private. What do you say?”

  With that he lifted me into the air and threw me over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

  “How about it, Norman? Your place or mine?”

  The Walrus carried me up and around the block. A few of the bystanders justified my never-ending hope in humanity’s inherent selflessness by attempting to intercede on my behalf, but they were no match for the monster. He pushed them aside like stalks of corn and loaded me into the trunk of a large black sedan as the rest of the onlookers ran.

  “How about your place?” he said and smiled once more before slamming the lid closed, leaving me in darkness.

  The ride out to my home was fairly uneventful. It did however; give me time to do two things. Think, and heal.

  The healing itch burrowed into me and I felt fear for the first time in a long time. I didn’t want to die, never really thought it was possible, but now... well, all bets were off.

  As I said before, I ain’t up there with the great thinkers of the world, but I needed a plan or I would learn if Death had made a place for me at his dinner table. Luckily, though I may not be a great thinker, I’m a fast one and a plan formulated in my mind. It wasn’t gonna be pretty, but it was sure gonna be simple. I was good at simple. Heck, I was the Einstein of simple.

  Most of the plan depended on a couple of variables.

  First, I had to pretend to be passed out, and I really had to sell it. Regardless of what the Walrus might do once we arrived at my home, I couldn’t cry out, I couldn’t open my eyes, I had to remain as still as the dead.

  Next, I had to gamble on a gut feeling that the Walrus would want to take his time with me. I figured that he might want to torture me a bit before he helped me, as he put it, shuffle off this mortal coil. I also had to count on the hope that he wouldn’t enjoy torturing me if I wasn’t awake to suffer through it. My hope was that as long as I was passed out, or as long as he thought I was passed out, he would wait to start in on me.

  Maybe he’d want to tie me up some and get everything ready for his big number while I remained void to the world. I had a lot to pin my hopes on, but I didn’t have much of a choice either way.

  So yeah, that was my plan. I needed to buy enough time to heal so that I could run and fight another day.

  Again, it wasn’t up there with some of history’s all-time great plans, but it didn’t need to be perfect. It just needed to work.

  The sound of the tires changed from pavement to gravel and I knew we were close, so I got my mind right. I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing... in through the nose, out through the mouth. Steady, calming breaths. I did my best to relax. It wasn’t easy.

  The vehicle slowed and then stopped. The engine died and the lid to the trunk popped open slightly. I had begun to gain some feeling back in my legs. I heard the steps of the Walrus as he made his way to the back of the vehicle and soon felt the cool autumn air on my face as he lifted the lid to the trunk.

  “We’re here, Norman,” he said. “Ah, are you sleeping? How nice.”

  He slapped me. Hard.

  By that point I’d gone to my happy place. I imagined my bed; the memory foam mattress and the thick comforter. Furthermore, I imagined myself in that bed, the comforter pulled up to my nose, snuggled deep within the folds of cotton and down, a look of bliss on my face. Then I added that final puzzle piece that made it possible for me to lie still as the Walrus slapped me around–I imagined a sky outside my bedroom window, a sky so filled with clouds that the sun could find no way through and pull me from my slumber. As matter of fact, I’d done such a good job creating my happy place that the one thing I had to struggle with was to keep from smiling.

  “Wake up, Norman. We’ve arrived at the end of your life.” He slapped me again, but harder than before.

  My teeth clacked together and my head rocked to the side by the force of the slap, but I had remained in my trance.

  For a moment or two nothing happened. I could only imagine that the Walrus was standing there at the open trunk, looking in at me in thought. I figured he was thinking it all through. Then I felt some pressure on my right trigger finger. The Walrus held it gingerly in his hands.

  It would happen quickly. I had to be ready.

  With a sharp stab of pain, the Walrus snapped my finger like a chicken bone. I didn’t move, didn’t cry out, didn’t even flutter an eyelash. It took every ounce of strength I had, but I did it.

  Again, nothing happened for a time. I could hear the sound of the Walrus breathing mixing with the birdsong and the wind. He was thinking long and hard on this one. He wanted me awake, wanted me lucid while he rained pain down on me. But on the other hand, he knew that I was healing. Yet, if he held on to me long enough to heal, he could break me all over again. I kinda figured he would like that thought once it reached his brain.

  Soon enough he scooped me up and carried me into the house where he dropped me to the floor. I kept my eyes closed but I could hear him rummaging around in the kitchen, opening drawers and going through their contents. I assumed he was looking for something to secure me, like duct tape or rope. Well, the joke was on him, I was all out of duct tape.

  But let him look. The more he looked, the less likely he was to pay me any mind. Folks tend to dismiss someone who’s passed out. See, if he knew I was awake, he may take a moment to break my legs and keep me immobile while he searched. But asleep as I was–or as I was pretending to be–his subconscious self would continue to tell him that I was harmless. In the meantime, the itch of healing continued like the legs of a thousand beetles crawling all over my face, spine, and now my finger.

  I wanted to try my legs again, give them a stretch, maybe even wiggle my toes a bit, but I didn’t dare with the Walrus in the room. I couldn’t risk him seeing. So I remained as I was, face down on the carpet of my living room.

  Face down was ideal at this point. Once the Walrus could see my face had all heale
d up, he might feel more inclined to spend a bit more time with me instead of looking for tape.

  The Walrus gave up his search with a grunt of frustration. The sound of his heavy footsteps moved toward me. I tried not to tense as I waited for the pain that was surely to come. But the Walrus just stepped over me and did the one thing I honestly did not figure he would do.

  He left the house.

  The moment the door closed behind him, I tried my legs. They bent, but it took some effort. I figured that the Walrus must have had some rope or tape or something in his car and that was why he had left. That meant he’d be back soon. I’d never have an opportunity like this again.

  So I put everything I had into it and eventually pulled myself into what would normally be for me a sleeping position. But I didn’t stop. I continued to struggle against myself. It was slow going, but it was going.

  It’s like a dream I’ve had fairly often. Not the nightmare that kept me up most of last night. No, this one wasn’t as terrifying, more of a psychological dream that speaks volumes about my feelings of self-doubt… if you believe in that sort of thing.

  In the dream I’m fighting something dark and shadowy with nothing but my bare hands. But every punch I give is slow, like trying to force my hand through air made of jelly. I can move about as normal in this dream, but when I try to fight, I go all slow-mo. That’s how I felt now and it made me want to cry.

  I heard from outside the sound of a car door slamming shut and knew that I had just seconds to make something happen. I pulled myself to my feet by sheer force of will. The Walrus had dropped me just inside the front door, so the deadbolt was within reach. I engaged the bolt with a quick flick and staggered toward the hallway. The lock wouldn’t stop the Walrus, I knew that, but it may slow him down for a moment or two. I imagined that it would take at least twenty to thirty seconds for that brain of his to process the confusion that would slide over him when he found the door locked.

  I moved haltingly down the hallway with a lot of starts and stops, like a zombie two years into the apocalypse. But with each step, I moved a little faster. My Peacemakers had still been sitting on the desk back at my office, I have to assume that they were still there, along with the Winchester, but they weren’t the only shooters I owned. I had a second Winchester, resting comfortably in the trunk at the foot of my bed. Yes, I had a second Winchester. In fact, I own three of them, and a Henry rifle, six other pistols, and a Sharps buffalo gun. Ain’t nothing wrong with being prepared.

  The Winchester, however, was going to be the easiest to get to as the rest were all locked in my gun room and my keys were in my coat.

  I’d neared the end of the hall when I heard my front door being ripped from its hinges.

  “Oklahoma!” the Walrus roared from the front room.

  But he was too late. I’d made it. I could feel, more than hear, the Walrus thundering down the hall to me, but by the time he got to my room, I’d snatched up my rifle, a belt of cartridges, and had slid out my bedroom window.

  19

  THE FOOL ON THE HILL

  I DON’T MUCH LIKE running from a fight. It burns in my craw something fierce. But though I would never be mistaken for a learned man, I ain’t stupid. I know that I would be no match against the Walrus using just my fists and wits.

  It’s why I grabbed the rifle.

  Yet, once I had the rifle and ammunition, I still ran. I ran like the wind—well, like the wind if it had been healing from a broken spine. I ain’t no coward, but if you’re gonna fight someone, try to be the one who picks the field of battle.

  About fifty or so yards from the back of my house is a large, wooded, hill. Once I was out of the window and onto the front lawn, I hobbled around to the back of the house, running as quickly as I could across the back yard, up the hill, and into the dense clump of woods that stretched back for a few miles out behind the house. Under the cover of the trees I fell to the ground, lying on my back and breathing heavily as I loaded the Winchester.

  I slid the last cartridge into the rifle when I heard the unmistakable sound of a walrus crashing through a bedroom window—my bedroom window. So far, everything had gone according to plan, but success hinged on the hope that the Walrus would follow me. The plan was to hide here among the trees on the hill and wait for the Walrus to peek his ugly face around the back of the house. Then I’d shoot him. Not actually in the face, mind you. I wasn’t out to kill him—I wanted to—but I figured it’d be best to let the law handle this one. If he forced the issue, then I’d have no other choice. Otherwise I figured on winging him a bit. Maybe I’d go for the knee and put him down long enough to get the boys in khaki out here to lock the thing up—for good this time.

  It all depended on the Walrus doing what I wanted him to do, which was follow me west behind the house.

  As I’ve said, I live in the country a few miles north of town. Based on what was around the house, geographically speaking, the plan put a lot of dependence on the landscape itself guiding the Walrus in my direction.

  I mean, when you think about it, I could have jumped out the window and continued east across the front yard and away from the house, but my front yard looked out toward a few hundred acres of cornfield, which at the moment sat unplanted, empty, and flat. Had I gone that way I’d have stood out among the nothingness like a lone figure streaking through an open field fleeing from a walrus a in a suit, so east was out.

  To the south was the Kansas River, and beyond that, Eudora. I wouldn’t get too far fleeing in that direction before I was up to my neck in brown water. There was a bridge, but I’d need to walk a few miles to the east to get there so it should be obvious that south wasn’t the best option either.

  The north was also out. Like the east, there was nothing for miles but more unplanted pastureland and no adequate cover.

  That left west, a half a dozen miles of trees broken only by the occasional gravel road. The Walrus wasn’t stupid, he’d see that west was the best option and so I only had to wait.

  The itching along my spine decreased, meaning that the healing was near to complete. So I rolled over onto my stomach, rose, and knelt at the edge of the woods, the Winchester ready at my shoulder. I took a few deep breaths and waited for the Walrus to show himself. I moved the barrel left, then right, scanning the back of the house for any sign of an angry walrus.

  Soon enough he came into view, running as quick as a walrus around the exact corner of the house I had hoped he would. I could see that he was so full of rage that he plodded on without any notion that crippling pain was only a rifle-shot away. I smiled, brought his left kneecap into my sights, breathed out, and slowly squeezed the trigger of the old Winchester.

  At that exact moment, the clouds parted and the sun shown down upon me with such ferocity that I found myself blinded and it caused me to flinch as I fired the rifle.

  The shot rang out its cracking roar that echoed off the hill and trees.

  “You missed!” the Walrus called.

  I never miss. I cursed. Later I’d swear that the sun had actually giggled at my dilemma.

  I squeezed off another shot but I was shooting blind. I couldn’t see crap anymore as the sun continued to blaze.

  “Oklahoma!” the Walrus roared with such vehemence that the casual observer would be forced to seriously rethink musical theater.

  I cursed and squeezed off another shot as the Walrus sprinted toward me. I couldn’t see much but white light, but I could hear the creature’s grunting and the thunderous plod of his mighty feet drawing closer and closer.

  He continued screaming my name in such frenzy that any birds brave enough to still be hanging out following the gunshots were now winging their way to a safer location—like Alaska. I fired a fourth time, and then a fifth, shooting erratically now in hopes that one of the bullets would find its target.

  They didn’t.

  I stopped shooting and tried to calm myself, which wasn’t easy as the Walrus pounded up the hill. I still couldn’t s
ee a thing but sunlight so I closed my eyes. I took three big breaths.

  In through the nose.

  Out through the mouth.

  In and out.

  In and out.

  I cleared my head and took myself out of the world. Nothing mattered anymore. The wind, the sunlight, the music of nature—it didn’t exist. There was just me and the unseen presence of a walrus running through the Kansas grassland.

  I raised the Winchester. The wheeze and puff of the Walrus’s labored breath, the ponderous thud of his massive feet, and the groan of agony coming from the earth were getting louder by the second. He was right on top of me.

  I smiled.

  I fired.

  The rifle cracked followed almost at once by a slight “Ooof!” from the Walrus, and the sound of his considerable body hitting the ground and sliding through the fallen leaves toward me.

  A cloud passed over the Sun and I looked down to find the Walrus just inches from where I knelt. He writhed around in the dead leaves, clutching his left knee with both hands. Blood bubbled through his fingers.

  He looked up at me.

  “You shot me!” he cried.

  “What’d you expect?” I said, pointing the rifle at him.

  The Walrus lumbered to his feet, well—foot. He hopped about for a moment, almost like a cartoon, still clutching his left knee.

  “I’m going to kill you!” He screamed, and hopped toward me.

  I sighed and squeezed the trigger for the last time and blew out his other knee. He passed out on his short journey to the ground. He lay still, almost peaceful, as the shot echoed off into the distance, followed by the silence of a cool autumn day.

  20

  THE TREE RAT’S REVENGE

  THE SILENCE DIDN’T LAST long. It was soon replaced by the sound of sirens in the distance as Eudora’s finest raced to my rescue. I figured it was only a matter of time before Pat and her boys showed up. You can’t make a spectacle in town like the Walrus did without attracting the eyes of the law. I’m sure that in some part of his mind he knew that the police would eventually make their presence known. I had no idea what he had had in mind for the police once that happened. Maybe his rage just wouldn’t allow him to plan for such an eventuality. I don’t know.