The Whitfield Oil Accident

WARNING: The following is a video transcript pertaining to the Whitfield Oil Accident. It contains explicit descriptions that some might find disturbing.

VIDEO TRANSCRIPT

JUNE 28TH, 1993

DEVIN HOWE’S FUNERAL

(Laughter among the mourners)

UKNOWN MALE, OFF CAMERA: …Sorry about that story, Preach, but by God if it

wasn’t just the craziest night Dev and I ever—

JONNY COLLINS: Alright, everybody…you know, don’t freak out. Remain calm.

DOM FIELDS: Jon, what’re you—Jesus H. Christ, is that a gun?

(Panic among the mourners)

JONNY COLLINS: I just fuckin’ said to calm down! Just…just chill, alright? Don’t worry about the gun. I brought so I can speak my mind, that’s all. You assholes wouldn’t have let me without it.

DOM FIELDS: For fuck’s sake, what’re you on about? Just settle down, no need to—

(Gun firing, screaming from the mourners)

JONNY COLLINS: Dammit Dom, sit down! I don’t want to use it, but that doesn’t mean I won’t, you hear me? you all see this, don’t you? They’re already tryin’ to stop me! I swear to Christ, Dom, next time I’ll aim lower. And don’t think I don’t see you back there, Larry, slinkin’ around and shit. You can sit your old ass down, too. I just need to…just need to be heard, that’s all.

LARRY WHITTLE: (Incomprehensible)

JONNY COLLINS: Yeah, that’s right. Now shut up before I put a bullet in your ass. Alright then, everyone good? Good. You all know me, know I ain’t crazy or some shit. All us oilers stick together. Weddings, birthdays with the kiddos…funerals. I know each and every one of you. I’m not gonna hurt anyone, just as long as you let me tell the truth. That’s all I want. My dad taught me right. The truth may not be convenient, but—

DOM FIELDS: Hells bells, get on with it, then! You’re waving that gun around tellin’ your autobiography, just get to it!

JONNY COLLINS: Alright then, I will. You’ve all been lied to. Whitfield Oil, ran by Dom and cowerin’ Larry back there, they’re full of shit. Devin didn’t die in no accident. I was there, saw it all. Could hardly believe it myself. Imagine that, not able to believe your own eyes.

(Jonny reaches into his denim jacket and pulls out a worn, leather-bound journal.)

JONNY COLLINS: And I knew if I couldn’t believe what I’d seen, you all wouldn’t believe what I’m about to say. So I brought Devin’s journal. I’m gonna read it for you all. Fuckin’ crazy, all of it, but I believe it. You all knew Devin, same as me. Hell, he was the best man at half your weddings. He didn’t go around spinnin’ tales. Alright, then. Let me tell you why this casket is closed.

DEVIN HOWE’S JOURNAL

READ ALOUD BY JONNY COLLINS

FIRST ENTRY: APRIL 23RD, 1993

JONNY COLLINS: ’Few of the widows out there will remember that date. Sorry to make you relive it, but it has to be said. Still, some might want to cover their ears here soon.

JOURNAL: I’ve never kept a journal before, not really anyway. I had a Garfield one in the 4th grade. Bought it at the Scholastic book fair in the school’s library. Cheapest thing they had, but you had to buy something. Never touched it.

But after what happened today, I had to write this shit down. Maybe if I get it down on paper I’ll get it out of my head.

Whittles promoted me to foreman last week. Shit, why couldn’t he have waited a little longer? The old bastard ignored me for fifteen years, why now? Anyway, I was in charge at the rig tonight. All the men were tired. So was I. Twenty-seven hours in, by then. Three days on, five days off. Hard to think about getting a normal gig now, though. Five days on the job, shit. After tonight, maybe I should consider it.

The boys were fucking with me about my new gig, just shit and giggles, but I’m a pretty chill manager. It was two in the morning, most of the work was done, so I let them all relax, just sitting around shooting the shit, waiting for the next tanker to get there.

The tankers aren’t Whitfield. They’re outsourced from one of the hundreds of vulture contractors that sprang up when North Dakota oil hit the news. Bastards had the rigs shedding company men left and right. Sure, the contractors might be expensive, but they take all the liability if shit goes down. Whitfield kept the good ol’ boys around, the ones who know their shit, but everyone else was gone.

LARRY WHITTERS: This is ridiculous.

JONNY COLLINS: What the fuck do you know? Last time you were out at the Rig was to cut the ribbon.

DOM FIELDS: Watch it, bub.

JONNY COLLINS: Just keep your trap shut and listen.

JOURNAL: It was around 3 A.M. when I saw the headlights from the tanker coming down the gravel. I told the boys to start gearing up, but they were taking their time. What was I supposed to do, cattle prod them? Shit, maybe. Anyway, after awhile I noticed that this fucking tanker was coming in hot. That son of a bitch must’ve been doing sixty, jostling all over the place.

The men and I didn’t think much of it. Probably just some young shit out from California, pissed that he hadn’t made his fortune like all the news had promised. People thought North Dakota oil was the new gold rush. Not for us company men, and sure as shit not for the contractors. These guys always treat the backroads like they’re in the Daytona 500.

After a while, though, the guy wasn’t slowing down, and he was barreling straight at the rig, so I rushed over to the guard’s station (unmanned, of course) to cuss him out over the loudspeaker. But I was too late. The bastard broke through the guard rails and crashed right into the rig.

JONNY COLLINS: Again, those sensitive folk might want to cover their ears.

JOURNAL: The explosion blew me right through the window, rolling twenty yards or more in the gravel. When I came to, I realized that my beard was singed and my eyebrows were gone. The air was sweltering. At the time, I wasn’t sure if it was sweat or blood that covered my body. Turns out, it was a bit of both. The rig was hard to look at. That bitch was brighter than the sun. When my eyes finally adjusted, I saw that all my men were burning alive.

It was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen or hope to see again. All my senses were overloaded. The rumble of the smoldering remains of the rig, the screams of the men, my own heartbeat, it all seemed to transport me to some other world, where I felt completely foreign and useless.

The men looked like some wicked demons, freshly escaped from hell. They were running mindlessly through the night. I couldn’t tell them apart. Their skin was black from the oil and the burning. Their entire bodies were covered in licking, sticky flames. Their faces bubbled and popped, hardened and cracked. All I could think was, why aren’t these fuckers dying? That sounds mean, but it would’ve been a blessing. I don’t know how long they kept at it, running and rolling and dying, but it felt like half the night.

Sooner or later the fire department showed up, but the men were long since dead, and they weren’t equipped to put out the rig. Just had to let it burn out, they said, keeping the flames controlled. The suits from Whitfield showed up eventually, whispering to each other as we all stood at the accidental funeral pyre of my men. Those guys didn’t ask me one goddamned question, can you imagine that? The only survivor, and they avoided me like the plague. Don’t you think they’d want to know what happened? Or maybe they already knew.

JONNY COLLINS: Look at that. We’re only through one entry and already everyone is staring at you two like you’d killed their grandma. It’s like they forgot who was holdin’ the gun.

DOM FIELDS: It was a tragedy. We all lost friends that day, Jon. We felt it, same as you. Making us all relive it is pointless.

JONNY COLLINS: Oh, it’s not pointless. What, you think I’d hold up Devin’s funeral just to reminisce? There’s more.

LARRY WHITTLES: I’ve had it. I’m not listening to—

(Gunshot)

JONNY COLLINS: You’ll do what I fuckin’ tell you to, you hear me? Now sit down and listen to the man you killed!

(Silence)

SECOND ENTRY: APRIL 24TH, 1993

JOURNAL: The suits came by my trailer around five this morning. I was awake, anyway. They brought a doctor with them, looking like he’d been dragged out of bed. He checked me out, treated me for some minor burns and cuts. The doc asked if I’d had any suicidal thoughts. Who the fuck hasn’t, working the fields? Told him no, of course. Not losing my pension just to get shipped off to some padded room.

The suits wouldn’t even look at me. I want to tell them exactly what I told the doctor: nothing. I’m not gonna talk. I know that something’s up. I’m not an idiot. But I’m not gonna talk.

Why should I? Look, I loved those boys, and some of them were just that, boys, but what’s the point in stirring the pot? I’ve got bills to pay. Dead is dead, why should I lose my job over it?

Maybe I’m an asshole. I don’t know. I really should just forget it ever happened, go about my life. I don’t know.

THIRD ENTRY: APRIL 27TH, 1993

JOURNAL: Damn my curiosity. It’s always gotten me in trouble, why should now be any different? For the life of me, I can’t leave this alone. I try to forget about the fire and my men’s skins blistering and—oh, God. I can’t forget, and I suppose I won’t. So I might as well try to figure out what happened and do some good on this earth, right?

I’m still off the clock. Assumed they’d either fire me or reassign me somewhere else, but the next morning there was a note on my trailer saying to not report, to take a few days. So that’s what I did. I walked around my trailer, trying to get these thoughts out of my head in anyway possible. Drinking, weed, porn. Hell, I even tried reading a book. Nothing worked.

This morning Larry and Dom called me in. They told me about the funeral arrangements for the boys, that everything was being covered by Whitfield, and that they were gonna take care of any medical costs I had. Also, they’re giving me a nice little pay raise. They must feel guilty, I suppose. Fine by me.

LARRY WHITTLES: You see? We felt terrible—

UNKNOWN FEMALE, OFF CAMERA: Will you shut the fuck up and let him finish?

(Silence)

JOURNAL: I couldn’t help but notice a pamphlet on Larry’s desk. Call me nosy, I don’t care, but that pamphlet has me thinking. It was from National Commercial Insurance. Well. I guess I don’t have a choice, then. Better start digging.

DOM FIELDS: Everyone’s got insurance. What, we were supposed to take a loss? How were we supposed to pay for the funeral costs, huh, Deb? How about you, Kara, could you cover Donny’s funeral, or his debt? We paid it all! Is that a crime? Stop pointing that gun at me, dammit!

JONNY COLLINS: Oh, this? This isn’t a gun. It’s a magnet, and it’s attracted to bullshit.

DOM FIELDS: You little—

JONNY COLLINS: Hush, now.

FOURTH ENTRY: MAY 12TH, 1993

JOURNAL: It’s been awhile, I know. I told you I was bad at this shit. Besides, I’ve been busy. It hurts me to say this, but I turned down the raise. Surprising, I know. I could’ve used it. Hell, I deserved it. But I asked for two months off instead. I needed time to get my shit together, I said. Larry was more than happy to agree. Cheaper in the long run. Really, I just needed the time to bury Dom and him.

I’ve done some digging. Do you know how much Whitfield made, just from losing that one rig? Twenty-five million dollars. Here they’re playing sentimental (even got a puff piece in the paper), and they’re rolling in that kind of dough. And I thought my raise was good. Shit.

Also, I found out who was driving the tanker that night: Jake Barta! Jake-fucking-Barta. He’s old oil, been bouncing around the companies for years. I worked with him for four years while he was with Whitfield. He made decent money with the contractors, I found out from his widow. There’s not a chance in hell he’d risk all that by getting drunk behind the wheel or taking a snooze. The man’s a beast. Or was, anyway. I saw him run 72 hours once, I swear to God, so don’t sell me that shit. Barta, man. He was good people.

It’s not much, I know. I’m not a lawyer or anything. I’ve only been on the naughty side of the court room, but I know this isn’t enough. I’ve still got plenty of time, though. But man, does that raise look good right about now.

Also, I saw something today. Just out of the corner of my eye. It looked just like one of my boys, all burnt and shit. Just like my dreams. Maybe I’m going crazy. Makes sense, why shouldn’t I?

DOM FIELDS: He wasn’t well, toward the end. We all know that. I’m sorry to say this here, but the man committed suicide, what do you expect?

(Whispering among the mourners)

JONNY COLLINS: I would’ve thought the same, if I hadn’t been there. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the truth. And I’ve—look, I know what this sounds like. But it’s all true, and you’re all gonna listen to the rest.

DOM FIELDS: You can’t keep us here forever.

JONNY COLLINS: This pistol disagrees.

LARRY WHITTLES: For fuck’s sake, if you think we killed the man then call the cops, but you can’t keep us here! It’s illegal!

JONNY COLLINS: Illegal? Larry, you think I give a shit about that, now? You think I didn’t know this was against the law? Like I give a shit. I’ll be dead soon, same as you.

(The mourners begin to panic)

JONNY COLLINS: Calm down! I’m not gonna shoot you. I don’t need to. They’ll be comin’ for you soon.

DOM FIELDS: What’re you on about?

JONNY COLLINS: I’ll let Dev tell you.

FIFTH ENTRY: JUNE 1ST, 1993

JOURNAL: I have these damn dreams every night. At first it was annoying, or maybe a little spooky. But now, oh my god, I think I’m losing it. Maybe I should talk to that doctor again, say I’m gonna, I don’t know, shoot myself or light myself on fire, die just like my boys did—

LARRY WHITTLES: You see, he admitted it right there!

JONNY COLLINS: I don’t have the best aim in the world, Larry, but I’ll try to shoot that tongue out your mouth if you keep usin’ it.

(Silence)

JOURNAL: …screaming my throat out as my skin crackles like fat on a steak. God, I could throw up right now, if I could eat first. I see them every night. My eyes open, like I’m waking up, but then all my muscles are frozen. I can’t move an inch, except for my darting eyes. Hell, I can’t even breathe. I’ve looked into it. Doctors call it sleep paralysis, but they can’t explain what comes next.

Smoke starts rising around my bed. It smells just like that night had: burning hair and flesh and oil. I try to tell myself it isn’t real, that I’m dreaming, but They don’t seem to care what I think. They come anyway. The corpses of my men melt out of my walls, covered in brilliant flames. They’re hardly more than blackened skeletons, only tiny bits of flesh clinging to their faces, curling and sizzling greasily. They stumble toward my bed, their joints clicking in and out of place, and reach out for me with their blistering fingers, oil pouring from their mouths and covering me in black lava, and soon my world is dark, my mouth filling with the foul stuff. Then I wake up.

It’s gotten to the point where I’ll do anything to stay awake. But we all have to sleep eventually, and they’re always waiting for me. I wish I could tell them that I’m trying my hardest to find out what’s happened, but my mouth just can’t move.

I found out that Whitfield paid Jake’s wife way more than any of the other widows. $40,000. Jesus, ain’t that the shit. That’s enough to pay off all his debts, I’m sure. Jake was a family man, always had been, but he had a hell of a monkey on his back. He was down at the casino every weekend. He couldn’t beat that addiction. Maybe Larry and Dom knew that. Maybe they told him how he could pay off his debts in one fell swoop, and still be able to leave plenty for his family. Maybe.

JONNY COLLINS: So why did Jake’s wife get it so good, huh? Why not any of our guys?

(Silence)

LARRY WHITTLES: Jake was just as much a member of the Whitfield family as anyone else. If you combined his years as a company man with all the time he’d contracted for us, he’d been with us longer than any of them.

UNKNOWN FEMALE, OFF CAMERA: I got bills to pay too, Larry. I got kids to raise.

LARRY WHITTLES: We compensated all of you far more than what was required.

JONNY COLLINS: We’re almost done.

SIXTH ENTRY: JUNE 15TH, 1993

JOURNAL: So much for time off. Dom came over today and told me they needed me out in the field. My guess is he’d heard I’ve been nosing around. They reinstated my raise and placed me as foreman at the Jennison rig, much bigger than my last.

Just because I’m working again doesn’t mean I’m not still digging. One of the workers over here, Jonny Collins, told me some shit. He says that he spoke with Larry and Dom at the Christmas party about offshore rigging, how there’s more oil in the sea than under all this turf. I looked up how much a rig like that costs. Two-hundred million, and that’s on the cheap side. Sure enough, Whitfield has already started building off of Maine. I wonder where they got the money to get that idea off the ground? All the men know that Whitfield’s rigs have been drying up. Larry and Dom are in debt. It’s all adding up now.

I’ll go to…I don’t know, whoever handles this shit soon. I just hope these dreams quit. They’ve started talking to me. I don’t know how. Their jaws are all broken and charred, but I can still hear their voices. I can’t tell you what they’re saying, because I don’t know. It’s all mumbled and raw. But the feeling comes across, deep in my mind. They want blood, and who could blame them? Fuck, man. I’m on break right now at the rig, and I can still hear them. This isn’t a dream, anymore, I can tell you that.

JONNY COLLINS: That’s right. I told you two about those offshore platforms. When I first read the journal, and the party came back to my mind, I shrugged it off. I was sure you’d heard about those before, and you probably had. But I guess what I said made something click in your mind, because I must be guilty of something. I see them too, now, ever since Dev’s death. They’re always there, out of the—sit down, Dom, I swear to Christ—out of the corner of my eyes. They’re here right now, watching.

LARRY WHITTLES: Fuckin’ lunatic.

DOM FIELDS: Jon, you need help. You’ve been through a lot. We can help you.

JONNY COLLINS: No one can help me. Now, I’m gonna read the last entry, here, and you’re all gonna listen. Then I’ll let you go. I swear it, I won’t harm anyone here if they let me finish.

(Silence)

FINAL ENTRY: JUNE 21ST, 1993

JOURNAL: I’m guilty. I could have saved them, if I’d been tougher on the boys, had been quicker to raise the alarm. But I wasn’t, and I failed. Those men died, in part, because of me. I was lazy and stupid and guilty.

I hope They’re reading this. They don’t have eyes, not anymore, but they’re looking over my shoulder right now. I’m sorry about what happened. I have the truth, written down right here. Let me be your voice, even though I was one of the men who took it away from you. Let me speak for you and set things straight. Please…I see your thoughts. Please don’t do this.

JONNY COLLINS: I worked the rig with Dev that night. I can tell you all, right here, right in front of Dev’s coffin, that it wasn’t suicide. I was standing on the outer railing, smoking a cig, and I saw Dev down there, staring out at the hills. He wasn’t moving or nothin’. He was hardly more than an ant from where I was, but he was frozen like a deer in headlights. And then he burst into flame.

DOM FIELDS: He was working the controls!

JONNY COLLINS: I’d never seen a flame burn so bright. I ran down and out to him with the extinguisher, wasn’t even wondering what the hell had happened at the time. I was too late. By the time I got out there, he was smolderin’ dead. I know now, though, that it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d been right next to him with a hose. They’d chosen

him to burn. And now they’ve chosen me.

(Jonny places the gun to his head.)

LARRY WHITTERS: Jonny, there are children here, please think about—

JONNY COLLINS: I know that. I’m sorry, everyone, but they’re comin’ for me now. God…they look just like he described ‘em. It might be selfish, but I’m not burnin’ like that.

UNKNOWN FEMALE, OFF CAMERA: Don’t!

JONNY COLLINS: Listen here, you fuckin’ matches; I’ll be comin’ for you if you don’t take those two fuckers next!

(Gun firing, mourners screaming. Smoke seems to rise from Jonny’s corpse before the camera cuts out.)

EDITOR’S NOTES

While I cannot with a good conscience support with any amount of evidence what Jonny Collins or Devin Howes had personally experienced, I can confirm that the homes of both Larry Whitters and Dom Fields burned down on July 27th, 1993. Both they and their families perished. As I’ve compiled these records, I’ve noticed strange dreams similar to what Devin Howes described, so I’ve asked the publisher to place a warning at the beginning of this article. The Whitfield Oil Accident is still regarded as such; an accident.