Fracked (2 page)

“Huh,” Mike uttered with a relieved smile. “That doesn’t sound so hard.”

John frowned.

“It sounds easier than it is, trust me. The first thing we do is clear the wellbore of cement debris using hydrochloric or muriatic acid. When you’re dealing with that stuff you better be alert. Then, as if that wasn’t dangerous enough, you start pumping thousands of gallons of pressurized shit into a line and pray to God that the people who laid the pipe knew what they were doing. Sure, the people building the rig have a few injuries, a few falls, a few broken bones… but our group? If something goes wrong during our stage, we don’t have injuries. We just have explosions and fatalities.”

John’s gaze wandered as he stared vacantly out the window.

“This will be my sixth site since I started with the company,” he reflected. “Every single site I saw someone get seriously injured. Thankfully God hasn’t called in my tab yet, and I hope to be done with the whole thing before he does...”

John glanced over at Mike and noticed that the boy was looking at him with a pale, slack-jawed expression. He reached over and slapped Mike on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry, don’t listen to me yammer on about doom and gloom,” John said, chuckling. “All I’m saying is to take it slow during your first few days. You’ll be fine if you just take your time and pay attention to what you’re doing.”

Mike nodded sheepishly, still pale.

“So do you have any family down in these parts?” John asked, trying to change the subject and calm the boy’s nerves.

Mike shook his head.

“No, just my folks up near Dallas. I’m single so I figured that I’d come make some green before settling down. Judging by what you just told me, I’m already starting to regret it.”

John laughed.

“You’ll be fine, trust me,” John assured.

“What about you? Do you two have any kids?” Mike asked, relaxing some.

“Naw, not yet,” John said as the van slowed down. “We have a dog and frankly that’s enough responsibility for now.”

John glanced outside and saw that they finally arrived at the guard shack. The entire site was surrounded by barbwire-topped fence and only had one access point. A few miles in the middle of the compound stood the towering oil well. It looked hazy through the harsh sunlight and smog.

A rolling chain-link gate blocked the entrance and had a sign on it that read ‘Private Property – NO TRESSPASSING’.

The van rolled to a stop at the guard shack as the driver turned down the Tejano music and rolled down his window.

A Triburton security officer wearing a black tactical uniform and toting a semi-automatic assault rifle walked up to the driver-side door. He had a thin mustache and a clear, coiled earpiece inside his right ear.

Another security officer stood a few yards away with a Rottweiler on a leather leash.

The Rottweiler was snarling and barking furiously, tugging and pulling against the leash as the security officer struggled to maintain control.

“Come on, you know the deal already,” the security officer with the mustache said as he looked inside the van, motioning with his hand. “Rápido!”

The Hispanic workers inside the van took their weathered Triburton IDs out of their wallets and handed them to the guard.

John sighed, took out his ID, handed it up front to the driver, and then looked at Mike.

Mike looked confused.

“Your ID,” John whispered to Mike.

Mike pulled out his wallet and fished his ID card out of the slot. He passed it to the driver who then passed it off to the security guard.

The guard examined each ID carefully with a small UV flashlight. He stopped when he came across Mike’s ID and narrowed his eyes.

“Mike Terrance?” the guard said as he looked up at Mike. “I don’t recognize the name or the face.”

“Today’s my first day, sir,” Mike said rather cheerfully.

The guard studied Mike and grunted as he handed the IDs back to the driver.

“Good luck with that,” the guard said. He stepped back and motioned the K-9 officer over.

The K-9 officer walked the Rottweiler around the perimeter of the vehicle, letting the dog sniff it.

The driver of the van handed everyone back their IDs.

Satisfied, the K-9 officer stepped back and pulled the Rottweiler away from the van.

“All clear!” the K-9 officer shouted.

He twirled his finger in the air towards the guard standing in the shack.

The gate buzzed and rolled open along its dusty track.

The driver of the van rolled up the window and took off down the road.

“Puta,” the driver sneered as he turned the music back up.

The Hispanics snickered.

“Is security always this strict?” Mike asked as he put his ID back into his wallet.

John shrugged.

“Yeah, but they don’t really do much except posture around the gate,” John explained. “I guess it keeps people from trying to run off with tools.”

“That was some serious hardware they were packing,” Mike said as he turned and looked out the back window.

“Well, they haven’t been known to spare any expenses when it comes to protecting their toys.”

The van pulled into a dirt parking lot and came to a stop next to a fleet of identical vans.

The doors opened and the Hispanics hurried outside. They adjusted their boiler suits and put on their scuffed hardhats as they talked to each other in Spanish.

“This is it kid,” John said as he put on his hardhat, opened the door and stepped outside. He squinted as he stared up towards the blinding sun.

It was already scorching and it wasn’t even close to noon.

He knew it was going to be another long, hot, humid day.

Mike crawled out of the van, put on his hardhat, and stared at the rig with awe.

The rig towered high into the sky and sat on a massive pad. The pad was interconnected with paved roads and surrounded by massive pumps and water trucks. A long warehouse sat at the edge of the pad and was full of pallets, barrels of chemicals, and hoses. Power lines were strung haphazardly all across the compound and there were numerous industrial floodlights pointed up towards the rig. There were three reservoir tanks next to the site and a fourth tank was in the process of being built. People scurried all around the site as they hauled goods and ran hoses.

At the edge of the parking lot there was a brand-new F-250 pickup truck sitting next to a doublewide trailer adorned with the Triburton logo. The trailer had multiple air conditioners along its roof and an array of satellite dishes and antennas.

At the top of the rig, three flags were proudly hoisted; one United States of America flag, one Texas flag, and one flag with the Triburton logo on it.

The air was hazy with diesel fumes and had a strong chemical aroma.

Mike watched as a steady stream of workers funneled past a time clock that was mounted on a telephone pole. They each punched in their PIN numbers before starting work.

John slapped Mike on the back as he walked past, startling the kid.

“Don’t stand there gawking all day,” John said. “Go see the site foreman and get your PIN so you can clock in.” He paused, grinning. “Unless you want to work for free that is.”

“Where’s he at?” Mike asked, looking around the massive site.

John pointed at the trailer.

“In the only place with air conditioning of course,” John said as he walked off. “See you around, kid.”

Tracy Walton was a pasty, portly man with a fat face and a belly that hung over his oversized golden belt buckle. He was balding but tried to keep his poor attempt at a comb over hidden underneath a Stetson cowboy hat. Years of smoking and harsh sun wrinkled his face and made him look like a man nearing sixty rather than forty. He had on a white dress shirt, a simple black tie, black jeans, and pointy cowboy boots.

He was sitting behind a massive oak desk that was covered with scattered papers and open files. A sleek laptop sat on the corner of his desk next to a phone.

The rest of the trailer was sparsely decorated with a few company posters and an artificial tree. The tree sat in the corner of the room next to a water cooler, a mini-fridge, and a microwave. Unopened boxes were stacked along the side of the room and were covered with dust.

Even though he was sitting right next to the air conditioner, he was still sweating.

The phone rang.

He tossed the expense reports that he was flipping through aside and picked up the receiver.

“Walton,” he said curtly as he wiped the sweat off of his brow with a stained handkerchief.

“
Mr. Walton, this is Anderson from the yard. Sir, my men were moving some of the stuff left behind from the wellbore construction team. I noticed that a lot of the steel surface casings are rusted out. At first I didn’t think much of it, but then I noticed the same thing with a bundle of leftover intermediate casings
.”

Tracy rolled his eyes and adjusted his hat.

“Well why the heck are you bothering me about it now? The riggers are long gone so we can’t exactly fix anything of that nature!”

There was a pause on the other end.

“
Well if the casings are shot there may be a groundwater contamination issue. I was thinking that you’d like to know before we start pumping today. Another layer of cement might be enough to fix the issue.
”

Tracy’s face reddened.

“You’re not paid to think, Anderson! You’re paid to supervise the scrapyard workers and make sure none of those little shits take off with anything! If we call back the riggers it will take time. When they pour the cement that means we have to wait for it to cure, taking up even more time. We’re already behind schedule on this job!”

“
Sir, I didn’t mean any disrespect. I simply wanted to inform you
,” Anderson quickly replied.

“Yeah? Well I’m informed. A little seepage never hurt anybody. If you’re so concerned, be like everyone else in this shithole and drink bottled water. Don’t bother me about this again!” Tracy shouted.

He slammed the receiver down and shook his head.

“Suddenly everyone’s a damn environmental scientist,” Tracy muttered as he picked up the expense reports and started scrutinizing them again.

Someone knocked on his trailer door.

“Come in,” Tracy said without looking up from his papers.

Mike opened the door, took off his hardhat and walked into the trailer.

“What do you want?” Tracy asked disinterestedly, eyes glued to the papers.

“Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m new. I need my PIN number so I can clock in and I was told to come see you.”

Tracy frowned and glanced up at him.

“Another new laborer, huh? At least you speak English. What’s your role?” Tracy asked.

“I’m a forklift operator, sir.”

Tracy narrowed his eyes and studied him carefully, sitting the expense reports down.

“You sober?”

“Yes sir.”

“You do time?”

“Sir?”

“Prison. Were you in prison?”

“No sir.”

“Good, I don’t want to worry about you trying to steal stuff. Do you smoke pot or anything like that?”

“No sir.”

“Good. I don’t need someone hopped up on anything driving one of my forklifts around like they’re in the Indie 500. We do random piss tests, you know. I test my drivers as often as I can.”

Mike nodded.

“I understand, sir. I won’t be doing anything I shouldn’t.”

Tracy pushed his hat up and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest.

“You best not come to work drunk either, boy,” Tracy said as he opened a desk drawer and pulled out a file folder. “If you come to work drunk, you’re fired. Understand me?”

“Yes sir.”

Tracy frowned and opened the folder.

“What’s your name, son?” Tracy asked.

“Mike Terrance.”

“Hold on a second, let me find you.”

Tracy scanned the latest report from personnel. He ran his fat finger down the list of names, mumbling.

Mike waited patiently and stared at one of the posters on the wall. The poster showed an image of an oil rig in the middle of a field of sunflowers at sunset. The caption along the bottom of the poster read ‘TRIBURTON: CREATING JOBS, SAFE ENERGY, AND A SUSTAINABLE FUTURE FOR AMERICA’.

“Your PIN is 1718,” Tracy said as he closed the folder and threw it back in the drawer. He slammed the drawer shut. “Anything else?”

Mike turned his attention away from the poster and shook his head.

“No sir, thank you.” Mike turned and started to walk towards the door, but stopped. “Actually, there is. What am I going to be doing today…?”

Tracy yawned and shrugged. He kicked his shiny cowboy boots up onto the desk and laced his fingers behind his head as he leaned back in his chair.

“Aw hell I don’t know. I’m too busy for all of that micromanaging bullshit. I have a whole site to run. I imagine that he’ll have you hauling around barrels of chemicals since we’re about to prep the pipe for pumping. Go to the warehouse and ask for Hank. He’s easy enough to spot since he’s the biggest goddamn black guy you’ll ever lay eyes on. He’s your direct supervisor. Go see what he wants you to do.”

“Yes sir, thank you.”

Mike exited the trailer and closed the door.

Tracy chuckled to himself and closed his eyes as he kept his feet on the desk and his chair leaned back.

“That scrawny little shit won’t last a week,” Tracy mumbled to himself. He pulled his cowboy hat down over his face, covering it.

It wasn’t long before he started to drift off to sleep, snoring loudly.