Roy Villein's Arc

Chapter 6 of 11

Roy walked into the loading dock at seven-thirty and found the gate already locked. The chain hung through the fence with a new padlock he'd never seen before, thick and industrial. His key didn't match. He rattled the metal, checked the adjacent gates—all sealed. A yellow notice flapped against the chain-link: "Security Upgrade Complete - New Access Codes Required." The skeleton crew wouldn't need the loading dock tonight. They'd been rerouted. His three years of planning, his careful study of schedules and chemicals, his perfect timing—all worthless because of a lock changed two days early. Roy stood in the empty lot, his hand still gripping the cold metal, watching his one chance at justice disappear behind a fence he couldn't cross. He drove away from the plant, hands tight on the wheel. A ChemCorp tanker passed him on the highway, poison placards bright against the white metal. The truck rumbled past carrying the same chemicals that had killed his land, heading somewhere to destroy something else. Roy watched it disappear in his mirror. He'd memorized those hazard symbols, studied what each chemical could do. Now all that knowledge sat useless in his head while the tanker rolled on to the next job. At a red light, Roy saw the mahogany clubhouse three blocks over. A doorman stood at the entrance in a pressed suit, turning away someone without the right credentials. Beyond him, brass planters framed the doorway, purple flowers drooping in the evening air. Roy recognized foxglove from his farming days—pretty to look at, poison in every petal. The executives probably walked past those planters every week and never knew what they were. Just like they'd never known what their runoff would do to his soil. The light turned green. Roy pulled into an empty parking lot and cut the engine. His notes were still in his pocket, the logbook still locked in the glove box. Three years of planning, and he'd been stopped by a padlock changed on the wrong day. He sat in the dark cab and stared at his dead fields beyond the fence line. The executives would drink in their club tomorrow, safe behind their doorman and their brass planters. His one perfect chance was gone, and he had nothing but rage and a key that didn't fit anymore.