Fracked (3 page)

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?”

A black Audi slowly rolled down the middle of Tres Rios’ main thoroughfare. It was clean, polished, and had all of its windows darkly tinted. It looked remarkably out of place amongst all of the big rigs and worn-out cars.

Needless to say, it turned quite a few heads and captured quite a bit of attention.

As it passed in front of the Dairy Queen, it happened to capture the attention of one of Tres Rios’ finest.

The police cruiser, a late model Charger that your average small Texas town just couldn’t afford, turned on its array of flashing blue LED lights as it pulled out of the Dairy Queen parking lot and chased after the Audi.

Since the Audi was only going around thirty, the Charger caught up to it in no time.

The Audi turned on its hazard lights and pulled to the side of the road with the Charger right on its tail.

The Charger’s door opened and a heavyset police officer stepped out.

The officer was white, had cropped hair, and wore a dark blue uniform with mirrored sunglasses. He had a thin mustache, a fat neck, and a face full of wrinkles. His utility belt was glossy leather and his brass nametag read C. Wilbur.

Wilbur hiked his pants up around his gargantuan stomach and pushed his sunglasses up his oily nose as he sauntered towards the driver-side door with one hand resting on his holstered pistol.

He tapped on the driver’s window with his knuckle.

The driver pressed a button and the window rolled down. He was wearing a black suit, a red tie, and Ray Ban sunglasses.

“Is there a problem, officer?” the driver politely asked, making sure to keep both hands on the wheel.

Wilbur leaned against the door and peered inside, staring at the driver.

“Yep, you were speeding. The speed limit is thirty-five. Lemme see your license and registration,” Wilbur said as he held his hand out, waiting.

The driver kept his hands on the wheel and simply looked at the officer.

“Officer, I don’t understand… I wasn’t even going thirty. I know for a fact that I wasn’t speeding,” the driver carefully explained.

Wilbur scowled and leaned his sweaty face closer.

“Boy, I don’t know who you think you’re talking to, but you better adjust your attitude and show me some respect! You aint gonna sit here and tell me what I did or didn’t see. I clocked you on my radar,” Wilbur said with a sneer.

The driver nodded, considering it.

“Okay then, can I see the radar?” the driver asked.

Wilbur’s face reddened.

“You’re about to see the back of my patrol car if you don’t give me the dang paperwork I asked for!” Wilbur exclaimed as he pointed at his Charger.

Before the driver could respond, the man sitting in the backseat of the Audi spoke up.

“Just give the officer what he asked for so we can be on our way,” the man said.

Startled by the voice, Wilbur stuck his head through the open window and peered at the man in the backseat.

The man in the back was wearing a fancy Italian suit, a golden Rolex, and had a diamond stud earring in his right ear. His complexion was fair and his meticulously groomed hair was dirty blonde. He had a thin smile on his face as he stared at the officer.

Wilbur frowned.

“Who the hell are you?” Wilbur asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Walter Hahn, chief public relations officer for Triburton,” he replied without losing his smile. “I apologize for the behavior of my driver. We don’t want to impede you in your duties.”

He pulled a business card out of his suit pocket and handed it to the officer.

Wilbur took the card and studied it, squinting. His angry expression softened a little as he nodded and handed the card back to the man.

“Triburton, huh? What brings you down to Tres Rios, Mr. Hahn?” Wilbur asked.

“Actually, I’m meeting with your mayor,” Hahn casually replied, chuckling. “We’re running a tad late. Traffic in San Antonio was… eh, how do you say, less than desirable. If we were speeding, we’ll gladly take the citation and apologize for taking up your time.”

The driver reached for his wallet.

Wilbur held up his hand and shook his head.

“There’s no need for all that,” Wilbur said. “Just slow it down now, would ya?”

Hahn smiled and nodded.

“Of course, officer,” he replied. “Thank you for your kindness.”

Wilbur nodded, wiping the sweat off of his round face with a handkerchief.

“Y’all have a good day now, Mr. Hahn, and be safe. Give the mayor my regards,” Wilbur said as he stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. He hiked his pants up and walked back to his cruiser.

As soon as the officer was out of sight, Hahn lost his smile and relaxed back into his seat.

“Drive,” Hahn said coldly as he crossed his arms.

The driver rolled up the window and turned the vehicle back onto the road.

As the Audi crawled through downtown, sandwiched in-between two semi-trucks, Hahn stared out the window at the dilapidated storefronts and newly constructed buildings. The newer buildings were mostly bars, oily fast-food joints, and specialty tool and uniform shops that catered to the oilfield workers. The mishmash of buildings made the town look sloppy and disorganized.

Like so many other oil towns in Texas, it lacked any semblance of character that it once had.

“I wasn’t speeding, sir,” the driver said.

Hahn sighed and shook his head.

“I know you weren’t,” Hahn said. “It’s hard for these country bumpkins to break their way of thinking. They’re used to the old way of making money in this sorry excuse of a town in the middle of nowhere, but given time they’ll learn how to capitalize off of what we’ve given them.”

They drove past a single-story motel room. It was the type of motel that had cheesy wallpaper, stained carpet, smelled like stale cigarette smoke, and had dirty linens on their uncomfortable beds. The dive wasn’t anything special, but the sign showed that rooms were going for nearly two-hundred a night and the parking lot was full.

It was something that would’ve been impossible before the boom.

Hahn looked at the sign with a smug grin.

“See? Given time, they’ll all come around,” Hahn said.

The Audi turned off from the main thoroughfare and veered right onto TX-72. It was a narrow state highway that was in disrepair due to the heavy truck traffic.

The Audi drove along the desolate highway for miles, passing countless oil wells and dry stretches of land.

There was nothing but desert shrubbery on both sides of the road.

Hahn kept glancing down at his smartphone, watching as the signal grew weaker and weaker.

In the distance, he noticed a massive lake surrounded by mesquite trees.

It was a welcomed change of scenery.

A sign read ‘Luke Canyon State Park – 2 MI’.

The Audi turned off of the highway and drove on the dirt road that led to one of the park’s entrances.

At the lakeside parking area, an older man wearing a button-down shirt, black tie, black jeans, brown boots, and a cowboy hat sat on the tailgate of his pick-up truck. His white hair was receding and his wrinkly, sunburnt face looked concerned as he kept glancing down at his expensive watch.

The Audi pulled into the parking lot and rolled to a stop a few yards away from the pickup.

Hahn opened the door and stepped out of the backseat into the unrelenting heat, squinting.

His driver stayed behind with the engine running.

“You know, most of the time when I get called out to a meeting with a local official such as yourself, I expect to meet in an office with air conditioning,” Hahn said as he put on his Gucci sunglasses and walked towards the old man. He extended his hand. “How are you doing, Earl?”

“Not so great,” Earl said with a frown as he begrudgingly shook the man’s hand.

“I figured as much,” Hahn said as he looked around the barren parking lot. The picnic tables along the lake were empty and the water level had fallen so drastically that the fishing piers were useless. “We got your message and it left us a little concerned…”

“Not that concerned evidently,” Earl snapped as he hopped off of the tailgate and glared at Hahn. “I left about twenty messages and nobody got back to me!”

Hahn held his arms out at his side and smiled innocently.

“I’m sorry about that,” Hahn said. “Things are a little crazy with these new North Carolina contracts. Your message got, well, lost in the pile.” He held up his hands. “I know that it’s no excuse, but I’m here now, right?”

Earl grumbled and shook his head.

“Well you wasted a trip,” Earl said, looking away. “I don’t know why you insisted on meeting. I meant what I said on the phone. I want out and I want your company out of my town.”

Hahn frowned and tilted his head to the side, looking at the man.

“Yes, I gathered that much, but what I don’t understand is why,” Hahn said.

“That’s why you’re meeting me here,” Earl said. “Follow me… Just be careful that you don’t get your fancy little loafers dirty.”

Earl hobbled off of the parking lot and carefully treaded down the lake’s muddy embankment towards the receding shoreline.

Hahn glanced down at his Italian dress shoes, frowned, and slowly followed the mayor down the embankment. He nearly slipped as he tried to navigate the slick terrain. The smell of rotting fish became noxious and overpowering. The sound of flies was nearly deafening.

“Earl, what is all of this about?” Hahn asked as he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and covered his nose, gagging. He kept his eyes on the ground, careful to mind his footing.

Earl stopped just short of the water.

“This is what it’s about,” Earl said as he pointed along the shore.

Hahn reached the bottom and stopped. He looked at the recessed shoreline and stared at it in disbelief, sickened.

Hundreds of dead fish and water fowl littered the coast. Their rotting corpses were putrid and covered with flies. A dead alligator was floating on its back in the murky water near the coast.

“Ecological problems aren’t our concern,” Hahn said, keeping his nose covered with the handkerchief. “I know what you’re implying, but there are numerous other reasons for something like this to happen.”

Hahn turned his back on the man and started to climb back up the embankment towards the parking lot.

Earl furrowed his brows and glowered at the man.

“Really?” Earl asked in a sarcastic tone as he followed him back up the embankment. “Name one.”

Hahn reached the parking lot and shrugged, adjusting his tie.

“How about I give you three? Extreme temperature changes, some type of waterborne parasite, or even something one of those eco-terrorists purposefully did in order to discredit our safe drilling operations,” Hahn said with a smile.

Earl shook his head as he hobbled onto the asphalt and placed his hands on his boney hips.

“You forgot high levels of toluene, benzene and arsenic,” Earl said. “Your damn pipes are leaking and you know it. It’s in our lake and even in our drinking water.”

Hahn lost his smile.

“I even sent some samples out to Houston for testing just to make sure,” Earl added. “I have all of the reports in my truck if you want me to fetch them for you.”

Hahn sighed.

“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point,” Hahn said disinterestedly. “What do you want?”

“I already told you,” Earl said. “I want your operation shut down and your company to get out of my town!”

Hahn stared into Earl’s eyes.

“No you don’t,” Hahn said with a smirk.

“Excuse me?” Earl asked, befuddled.

“If you wanted us shut down, I wouldn’t be standing here. You’d call the EPA and start a long, tedious court process that you’d end up losing,” Hahn said. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Earl. Money is what it’s always about. Every time you call me it comes down to the same thing, doesn’t it? How much do you need this time to look the other way?”

Earl closed his eyes and shook his head adamantly.

“No! I’m not doing this again,” Earl said. “This has gone too far! If it takes me calling the government, I’ll do it!”

Earl opened his eyes and glared at Hahn defiantly.

Hahn looked at him with pity.

“Please… just stop,” Hahn said. “This isn’t in your nature and, frankly, comes off as pretty pathetic. If you want to exchange vague threats, I could always threaten to call the feds and have them poke around your town ledgers. I imagine that not too many small town mayors have multimillion dollar mansions.”

Earl looked down, ashamed.

“Honestly Earl, who do you think has more weight with the federal government?” Hahn asked. “Do you think a mayor of a town that nobody even cares about has more litigation power than us?”

Earl didn’t say a word.

“I won’t call anybody though because I’m a nice guy,” Hahn said as he pulled his company checkbook out of his coat pocket. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’ll write you a check for your lake and I’ll make sure that the amount has enough zeroes in it to ease your troubled mind. After I’m done, you’ll go back to your beautiful home, embrace your lovely wife, and drink that nice filtered water. Sound fair?”