Roy Villein's Arc

Chapter 8 of 11

Roy sat at his kitchen table with the logbook open and a new plan forming. The loading dock was sealed, but ChemCorp had other weak points. He'd driven past the executive parking garage yesterday and noticed something—no guards after seven, just a card reader and cameras pointed at the entrance. The executives parked in assigned spots every night, walked the same path to their cars. Roy had watched them enough to know their routines never changed. He pulled out a map and marked three locations: the garage, the service road behind it, and the drainage system that ran underneath. His hands were steady as he drew the lines. One locked gate had stopped him, but Marines didn't quit after the first obstacle. They adapted. He closed the logbook and stood. The executives thought they were safe. They were wrong. The next morning, Roy drove downtown to confirm what the map suggested. He parked two blocks from the executive garage and walked the perimeter on foot. A rusted storm drain grate sat in the street near the service road. He crouched down, pretending to tie his boot, and peered through the metal bars. Orange chemical residue stained the concrete below. The drainage system connected to ChemCorp's runoff pipes—he'd traced those connections months ago during his court research. This was how their poison traveled through town, underground and invisible. Roy stood and kept walking. The drainage system went everywhere the executives did. He spent the afternoon at the historical society building, playing his part. The staff knew him as the old farmer who studied land surveys, trying to prove his contamination case even after bankruptcy. They felt sorry for him. A cart with a glass top sat outside under a fabric sunshade—some kind of setup for examining old documents in daylight. Roy nodded at it as he passed, shuffling inside like a man with nowhere else to go. On the exterior wall, he noticed copper piping and terracotta panels—equipment for protecting their precious archives from humidity. They spent money keeping old papers safe while real farms died. He checked three more surveys he didn't need, then left. The staff would remember he'd been there, doing what broken men do. That evening, Roy updated his logbook with the new route. The drainage system gave him access the parking garage never could. He could trace the chemical flow backward, find where the executives were vulnerable. One padlock had taught him something useful—don't attack where they expect it. Attack where they've already forgotten they're guilty. Roy closed the book and locked it away. The executives would keep their routines, keep walking their safe paths, keep thinking the lawsuits were over. They wouldn't see him coming until their own poison found them.