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  Mike looked confused.

  “Your ID,” John whispered to Mike.

  Mike pulled out his wallet and fished his ID card out of the slot. He passed it to the driver who then passed it off to the security guard.

  The guard examined each ID carefully with a small UV flashlight. He stopped when he came across Mike’s ID and narrowed his eyes.

  “Mike Terrance?” the guard said as he looked up at Mike. “I don’t recognize the name or the face.”

  “Today’s my first day, sir,” Mike said rather cheerfully.

  The guard studied Mike and grunted as he handed the IDs back to the driver.

  “Good luck with that,” the guard said. He stepped back and motioned the K-9 officer over.

  The K-9 officer walked the Rottweiler around the perimeter of the vehicle, letting the dog sniff it.

  The driver of the van handed everyone back their IDs.

  Satisfied, the K-9 officer stepped back and pulled the Rottweiler away from the van.

  “All clear!” the K-9 officer shouted.

  He twirled his finger in the air towards the guard standing in the shack.

  The gate buzzed and rolled open along its dusty track.

  The driver of the van rolled up the window and took off down the road.

  “Puta,” the driver sneered as he turned the music back up.

  The Hispanics snickered.

  “Is security always this strict?” Mike asked as he put his ID back into his wallet.

  John shrugged.

  “Yeah, but they don’t really do much except posture around the gate,” John explained. “I guess it keeps people from trying to run off with tools.”

  “That was some serious hardware they were packing,” Mike said as he turned and looked out the back window.

  “Well, they haven’t been known to spare any expenses when it comes to protecting their toys.”

  The van pulled into a dirt parking lot and came to a stop next to a fleet of identical vans.

  The doors opened and the Hispanics hurried outside. They adjusted their boiler suits and put on their scuffed hardhats as they talked to each other in Spanish.

  “This is it kid,” John said as he put on his hardhat, opened the door and stepped outside. He squinted as he stared up towards the blinding sun.

  It was already scorching and it wasn’t even close to noon.

  He knew it was going to be another long, hot, humid day.

  Mike crawled out of the van, put on his hardhat, and stared at the rig with awe.

  The rig towered high into the sky and sat on a massive pad. The pad was interconnected with paved roads and surrounded by massive pumps and water trucks. A long warehouse sat at the edge of the pad and was full of pallets, barrels of chemicals, and hoses. Power lines were strung haphazardly all across the compound and there were numerous industrial floodlights pointed up towards the rig. There were three reservoir tanks next to the site and a fourth tank was in the process of being built. People scurried all around the site as they hauled goods and ran hoses.

  At the edge of the parking lot there was a brand-new F-250 pickup truck sitting next to a doublewide trailer adorned with the Triburton logo. The trailer had multiple air conditioners along its roof and an array of satellite dishes and antennas.

  At the top of the rig, three flags were proudly hoisted; one United States of America flag, one Texas flag, and one flag with the Triburton logo on it.

  The air was hazy with diesel fumes and had a strong chemical aroma.

  Mike watched as a steady stream of workers funneled past a time clock that was mounted on a telephone pole. They each punched in their PIN numbers before starting work.

  John slapped Mike on the back as he walked past, startling the kid.

  “Don’t stand there gawking all day,” John said. “Go see the site foreman and get your PIN so you can clock in.” He paused, grinning. “Unless you want to work for free that is.”

  “Where’s he at?” Mike asked, looking around the massive site.

  John pointed at the trailer.

  “In the only place with air conditioning of course,” John said as he walked off. “See you around, kid.”

  Chapter 2

  Tracy Walton was a pasty, portly man with a fat face and a belly that hung over his oversized golden belt buckle. He was balding but tried to keep his poor attempt at a comb over hidden underneath a Stetson cowboy hat. Years of smoking and harsh sun wrinkled his face and made him look like a man nearing sixty rather than forty. He had on a white dress shirt, a simple black tie, black jeans, and pointy cowboy boots.

  He was sitting behind a massive oak desk that was covered with scattered papers and open files. A sleek laptop sat on the corner of his desk next to a phone.

  The rest of the trailer was sparsely decorated with a few company posters and an artificial tree. The tree sat in the corner of the room next to a water cooler, a mini-fridge, and a microwave. Unopened boxes were stacked along the side of the room and were covered with dust.

  Even though he was sitting right next to the air conditioner, he was still sweating.

  The phone rang.

  He tossed the expense reports that he was flipping through aside and picked up the receiver.

  “Walton,” he said curtly as he wiped the sweat off of his brow with a stained handkerchief.

  “Mr. Walton, this is Anderson from the yard. Sir, my men were moving some of the stuff left behind from the wellbore construction team. I noticed that a lot of the steel surface casings are rusted out. At first I didn’t think much of it, but then I noticed the same thing with a bundle of leftover intermediate casings.”

  Tracy rolled his eyes and adjusted his hat.

  “Well why the heck are you bothering me about it now? The riggers are long gone so we can’t exactly fix anything of that nature!”

  There was a pause on the other end.

  “Well if the casings are shot there may be a groundwater contamination issue. I was thinking that you’d like to know before we start pumping today. Another layer of cement might be enough to fix the issue.”

  Tracy’s face reddened.

  “You’re not paid to think, Anderson! You’re paid to supervise the scrapyard workers and make sure none of those little shits take off with anything! If we call back the riggers it will take time. When they pour the cement that means we have to wait for it to cure, taking up even more time. We’re already behind schedule on this job!”

  “Sir, I didn’t mean any disrespect. I simply wanted to inform you,” Anderson quickly replied.

  “Yeah? Well I’m informed. A little seepage never hurt anybody. If you’re so concerned, be like everyone else in this shithole and drink bottled water. Don’t bother me about this again!” Tracy shouted.

  He slammed the receiver down and shook his head.

  “Suddenly everyone’s a damn environmental scientist,” Tracy muttered as he picked up the expense reports and started scrutinizing them again.

  Someone knocked on his trailer door.

  “Come in,” Tracy said without looking up from his papers.

  Mike opened the door, took off his hardhat and walked into the trailer.

  “What do you want?” Tracy asked disinterestedly, eyes glued to the papers.

  “Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m new. I need my PIN number so I can clock in and I was told to come see you.”

  Tracy frowned and glanced up at him.

  “Another new laborer, huh? At least you speak English. What’s your role?” Tracy asked.

  “I’m a forklift operator, sir.”

  Tracy narrowed his eyes and studied him carefully, sitting the expense reports down.

  “You sober?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You do time?”

  “Sir?”

  “Prison. Were you in prison?”

  “No sir.”

  “Good, I don’t want to worry about you trying to steal stuff. Do you smoke pot or anything like t
hat?”

  “No sir.”

  “Good. I don’t need someone hopped up on anything driving one of my forklifts around like they’re in the Indie 500. We do random piss tests, you know. I test my drivers as often as I can.”

  Mike nodded.

  “I understand, sir. I won’t be doing anything I shouldn’t.”

  Tracy pushed his hat up and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest.

  “You best not come to work drunk either, boy,” Tracy said as he opened a desk drawer and pulled out a file folder. “If you come to work drunk, you’re fired. Understand me?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Tracy frowned and opened the folder.

  “What’s your name, son?” Tracy asked.

  “Mike Terrance.”

  “Hold on a second, let me find you.”

  Tracy scanned the latest report from personnel. He ran his fat finger down the list of names, mumbling.

  Mike waited patiently and stared at one of the posters on the wall. The poster showed an image of an oil rig in the middle of a field of sunflowers at sunset. The caption along the bottom of the poster read ‘TRIBURTON: CREATING JOBS, SAFE ENERGY, AND A SUSTAINABLE FUTURE FOR AMERICA’.

  “Your PIN is 1718,” Tracy said as he closed the folder and threw it back in the drawer. He slammed the drawer shut. “Anything else?”

  Mike turned his attention away from the poster and shook his head.

  “No sir, thank you.” Mike turned and started to walk towards the door, but stopped. “Actually, there is. What am I going to be doing today…?”

  Tracy yawned and shrugged. He kicked his shiny cowboy boots up onto the desk and laced his fingers behind his head as he leaned back in his chair.

  “Aw hell I don’t know. I’m too busy for all of that micromanaging bullshit. I have a whole site to run. I imagine that he’ll have you hauling around barrels of chemicals since we’re about to prep the pipe for pumping. Go to the warehouse and ask for Hank. He’s easy enough to spot since he’s the biggest goddamn black guy you’ll ever lay eyes on. He’s your direct supervisor. Go see what he wants you to do.”

  “Yes sir, thank you.”

  Mike exited the trailer and closed the door.

  Tracy chuckled to himself and closed his eyes as he kept his feet on the desk and his chair leaned back.

  “That scrawny little shit won’t last a week,” Tracy mumbled to himself. He pulled his cowboy hat down over his face, covering it.

  It wasn’t long before he started to drift off to sleep, snoring loudly.

  Chapter 3

  It was almost two and John’s boiler uniform was covered in grease and drenched in sweat.

  Away from the eyes of his foreman, John took off his leather gloves and sat on a stack of pallets underneath the shade of a tattered blue tarp to take a break. He pulled an unlit cigarette out of his pocket and tucked it between his lips, closing his eyes. He let out a sigh as he tried to escape the harsh sunlight and unrelenting heat.

  Even though he was in the shade, the humidity still made it miserable.

  He was starting to get a heat-induced headache.

  Another man sauntered up to John, yawning. The man’s boiler uniform was soaked and his boots were coated with sand.

  John glanced over at the man and nodded.

  “Hey Greg.”

  “John,” Greg replied with a nod.

  Gregory Lopez was a tall, middle-aged man with dark skin, brown eyes, and black hair with a few strands of grey. His was fairly fit and had a well-defined jawline. He definitely looked like the sort of person who could hold his own in a brawl. He started as an unskilled laborer, but had been promoted to a water pump operator after the last accident got the old operator fired.

  Like John, he was a local.

  Greg lived on a ranch a few miles outside of a small town called Beeville. He had two kids, a wife, and more cats than John cared to remember.

  He also happened to be the only person on the site John considered a friend.

  “I see that you’re unofficially off the clock again,” Greg said as he took a seat next to John.

  John shrugged.

  “There isn’t much else I can do until they flush the acid from the line. I already got my truck filled and ready. What are you up too?”

  “Oh, you know, living the good life,” Greg said as he gestured towards his sand-covered boots. “You?”

  “Let’s just say that a beer and a nap would be great right about now.”

  Greg laughed.

  “Did they get the pump fixed yet?” John asked.

  Greg shook his head.

  “Nope it’s still moving slow as molasses and isn’t maintaining proper pressure. Something thick is clogging the wellbore and straining the motor. The acid they’re pouring isn’t doing much to expedite the process. The riggers probably poured too much cement and blocked the whole line.”

  John raised an eyebrow.

  “Are they really going to try to flood the line with a weak pump?”

  “I don’t think so,” Greg said. “They’re just using the old pump to run the acid but they’re supposed to be bringing a new pump up from Corpus tonight so we can use it to crack the shale tomorrow morning.”

  “I wonder if we’ll get off early.”

  Greg laughed.

  “Well you know that tight-ass Walton… Overtime is a word he likes to avoid. I can’t see him paying us to set up the new tank. He’ll just let swing shift take care of it.”

  “Anything to save a penny,” John scoffed. “It looks like that beer I want is closer than I thought.”

  “Looks like it,” Greg agreed, laughing.

  John reached up and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  “I can’t wait to be done with this place and Walton. Yard bosses are always a headache, but that guy is a special kind of tool.”

  In the distance, an industrial forklift made its way along the paved road, jerking and weaving. The pallet of four steel drums on the forks tilted and swayed, nearly toppling off of the machine.

  The forklift operator saw the cargo move, panicked, and stopped the machine abruptly.

  The wooden pallet fell off of the forks and the steel drums went rolling across the asphalt in different directions.

  Luckily none of the drums burst open from the impact.

  A group of nearby workers started laughing as they walked by.

  “Speaking of tools, who in the hell is that idiot?” Greg asked.

  John had a sour feeling in his gut and simply stared at the machine, waiting…

  Sure enough, Mike stepped out of the cabin of the forklift looking pale as a ghost. He reached inside and lowered the forks.

  John sighed and tucked his unlit cigarette back behind his ear. He stood up and shook his head.

  “That’s… a new guy in my van,” John said. “His name’s Mike. He’s a good kid, just a shitty driver…”

  Greg laughed.

  “Obviously,” Greg said with amusement.

  Mike, unaware that they were watching him, struggled to drag the wooden pallet across the asphalt. He closed his eyes and grunted as he pulled the pallet back onto the forks.

  In all honesty John felt bad for the kid.

  He knew how hard the first day could be.

  He also knew that some people had it harder than others.

  “I’m going to help this guy out,” John said as he slid his leather work gloves back on and started walking towards the forklift.

  “Okay, have fun. I have to go play in the sand some more, but I’ll be sure to supervise from a distance!” Greg called out with a grin, waving.

  “Yeah, yeah, have fun, jackass!” John shouted with a smirk.

  Mike rolled one of the steel drums towards the pallet and tried to tilt it right-side up. It was full of liquid and weighed more than he imagined. His face turned red and the veins showed in his forehead as he strained loudly, groaning.

  The drum barely moved.

/>   Exhausted, Mike gave a defeated sigh and let the drum fall back onto the ground as he caught his breath and massaged his aching shoulder.

  “The trick is to keep the things on the pallet,” John said as he walked towards Mike.

  Mike, embarrassed, turned towards John.

  “I freaked out and stopped too fast. It was stupid.”

  “I thought you were certified,” John said with a skeptical tone.

  Mike flustered.

  “Well driving an unloaded forklift a few times around an empty hotel parking lot and hauling a load of…” Mike paused and pointed down at the steel drum. “…whatever this stuff is around a busy site are two different things.”

  John chuckled.

  “Trust me, I know. The trick is to go slow and coast to a stop. Don’t give it too much gas and don’t slam on the brakes. I’m not certified but the damn things aren’t exactly rocket science.”

  “I know, I know… It’s just that my foreman, Mr. Wallace, has been riding my ass all morning,” Mike said. “He wants everything done right away and he’s all bent out of shape that I don’t know what goes where!”

  John thought for a moment, trying to recall the name…

  “Who in the hell is Mr. Wallace…?” John asked. Recognition finally struck him. “Wait… do you mean Hank? The guy who runs the chemical yard?”

  “Yeah Hank,” Mike said.

  John burst out laughing and shook his head.

  Mike frowned.

  “What’s so funny?” Mike asked.

  “That you take that buffoon seriously. Don’t pay Hank any mind,” John said as he waved his hand in the air. “How about helping me get these barrels back on your pallet?”

  Mike smiled.

  “Thanks man,” Mike said.

  “Sure, just don’t let anything leak out onto your hands,” John warned.

  “Why’s that?” Mike asked as he crouched down next to John and grabbed the edge of the steel drum.

  The men grunted and tipped the heavy drum right-side up.

  The liquid inside sloshed around.

  John wiped the sweat off of his forehead and popped his back. He slapped the top of the steel drum and looked over at Mike.

  “Well, I reckon that you’d like to leave here with all of your fingers, right kid?”