Ed Villein's Arc

Chapter 1 of 12

Ed slides the copied documents back into the filing cabinet and checks his watch. Three minutes until the security guard finishes his smoke break and starts his rounds on this floor. He needs a hiding spot for the evidence he's gathering, somewhere close enough to access but far enough from his janitor's closet that they won't find it when they finally catch on. He slips down the back stairwell to the loading dock. The utility box sits against the building's east wall, rusted hinges barely holding the dented door. He tried the lock last week with a screwdriver. Inside is nothing but old circuit diagrams and a dead wasp nest. He tucks the documents between the diagrams and closes the door. The metal groans but holds. Tomorrow he'll copy more files, and the day after that, until he has everything he needs to make those executives drink what they fed his land. But tonight the memo on top catches his eye before he shuts the box. ChemCorp letterhead, executive initials crawling across the bottom like a confession. Black bars cover most of the text, but not the chemical formula. Not the county names. He traces one blacked-out section with his finger and feels the raised ink underneath. Someone tried to hide what they knew. He closes the box and tests the door twice. The lock holds. The executives who poisoned his farm walk past him every morning like he's furniture. Now he has their signatures on paper, and a place they'll never think to look. But the box won't work long term. Too exposed, too close to the loading zone where drivers pull in at dawn. Ed walks the perimeter of the lot, staying in the shadows between the floodlights. Past the dumpsters, beyond the employee parking, he spots the old maintenance shed. Paint peels off in strips. The window is thick with grime. He tries the door and finds it unlocked. Inside smells like motor oil and rust. Empty shelves line one wall. A workbench sags in the corner. No one has been here in months, maybe years. He walks back to the utility box and retrieves the documents. In the shed, he slides them behind a stack of empty chemical drums. The space is perfect. Forgotten. He has his archive now, and the executives have no idea their own property will be the place that buries them.