Roy Villein's Arc

Chapter 5 of 11

Roy checked his watch Thursday at noon—eight hours until the skeleton crew shift started. His truck sat in the diner parking lot, engine off, windows cracked. Inside his pocket, the folded notes felt like a ticking clock. He'd done everything right: studied the chemicals, learned the doses, confirmed the schedule. Tonight he'd finally walk into that loading dock and take what he needed. The executives would get their justice delivered in the same poison they'd used on his land. His hands were steady on the steering wheel. After three years of courts and lawyers and watching other farmers give up, he was hours away from making it right. He walked three blocks to kill time, boots scuffing against concrete. A fountain sat in a small plaza, water flowing over carved stone tiles. Roy stopped at the basin's edge. The tiles showed scenes from the city's past—factories rising, workers building, progress marching forward. He traced one panel with his finger. The city loved its history of industry. They just never carved tiles showing the farms that died for it. He sat on the fountain's edge and watched the water circle and drain. Eight hours felt like nothing now. He'd waited three years already. At four o'clock Roy drove past the business district on his way to scout the route one last time. A mahogany-fronted building stood between a bank and a law office, brass handles gleaming on the double doors. The sign read Members Only. He'd seen the ChemCorp executives go in there twice, laughing as they walked through those doors while farmers declared bankruptcy. Leather chairs and expensive whiskey while his fields turned to poison. Roy drove past without slowing. After tonight, they could drink in their fancy club and wonder which one of them would be next. He parked behind the plant at seven and pulled the old laboratory logbook from under his seat. The yellowed pages showed disposal records in faded ink—proof of every chemical they'd dumped, every regulation they'd ignored. His contact had pulled it from archives that should have been destroyed. Roy flipped through the stained data tables, finding his farm's coordinates listed three times in the contamination zone. The courts had called his case insufficient evidence. This logbook said otherwise. He locked it in the glove box and pocketed his notes. The skeleton crew would arrive in thirty minutes. Roy walked toward the loading dock, his hands steady, his plan perfect. Tonight he'd take what belonged to him—justice measured in the same poison that killed his land.