Holding Tanks

Chapter 1

    It's daylight again and the bushes are still red with blood. It was all so beautiful before it was born.
    The town was small, a few hundred residents at most, the majority of them worked at the waste water and treatment plant, the others at several goods and services shops. It was a Wednesday in the middle of summer when the accident happened. Nobody knew how to stop it, nobody that could at least.
   It was a routine day like every other, except there was this strange noise coming from the basement level. The workers ignored it for most of the day, but it grew louder and there was cause for concern.
    The foreman had gone home sick earlier in the day,not mentioning anything about the noise, or even how to access that level of the plant. There was only one way down and that was through a security coded emergency hatch, and he was the only one who knew the code.
   The sound was almost unbareable by the time the plant was closing for the night. A few of the guys were scared the place might blow up, but they had families to get home to and didn't care enough to stick around and find out. At 10 o'clock the last crew member clocked out from his shift and the only one to remain was the janitor. His shift usually ran an extra hour as he checked the locker rooms, offices and restrooms for anyone still inside, as well as all the doors leading outside to make sure the facility was locked up tight.
     Harold was in his late 60's and had been with the company for nearly thirty years. He was the only one besides the foreman who worked for Energenics since they downsized.
    The sound was changing, it wasn't as high pitched as it was in the afternoon, it seemed to be calming down, but there was another sound, faint, but a different tone nonetheless.
    Harold had just finished up his rounds when he heard a deafening screetch come from the lower level. He knew the holding tanks had been down there, at least that's what he was told and that sometimes with their lids closed and all the heat built up, that they make those strange sounds, but this was something different, something not mechanical.
    Harold ran back to the office and called up Travis, the foreman. It was a little after 11 p.m and it took five rings for him to answer. " Travis, Travis! There is something really wrong down in B Level! Why are you still home? Is everything okay? You never checked back with reception all day" Harold said with great concern in his voice. " Harold, calm down, what time is it?" Travis asked very slowly. "Uuhhh it's 11:11 p.m, what does that have to do with any of this, the plant is going to fucking explode, or something, I don't know what to do, I need your help, the town needs your help!" said Travis nervously. "Harold, listen to me carefully...(there was a clicking sound over the phone receiver) you make a wish, and you make it count, okay, OKAY!". There was a loud gun shot. "Travis, Traaavis, no, nooo, what have you done, what's down there, Travis you fool,  you coward..." Harold dropped the phone from his hand, as it dangled against the wall, a dail tone sounded in the room. Harold walked over to Travis's desk and sat down with his hands to his face, crying and cursing loudly to himself. 

Chapter 2

    Travis, you gutless child, what have you done?, Harold thought to himself. He started to frantically search Travis's office for any document that might contain the security hatch code to B level. He tore the room apart and came up with nothing. As he sat there feeling the loss of his friend, he began to think hard as to where that code may be written. Travis was careful not to leave it lying around and would have committed it to memory, but wait, the building blueprints he thought. Maybe they would be in the folder somewhere.
    Harold burst out of the office in a hurry and ran down to the filing room. He fumbled with his set of keys getting the door unlocked. Once he gained access he rushed over to the oldest cabinet there was; the only one that was red, unlike all the other grey ones. It was locked. He checked the secretary's desk; nothing. "Fuck!" he said out loud. Harold ran back out into the hallway towards the fire extinguisher and axe panel. He pulled the emergency lever and the plexiglass casing dropped down. He grabbed the axe and as he hurried back to the filing room, he paused, turning his head over his shoulder. There was a new sound coming from B level. It was getting louder. There was a deep  banging of metal against metal. The hairs on his neck and arms raised. He swallowed hard, and scurried back to the office, locked the windowless door behind him and sat against it with the axe clenched in his hands.
    Harold stood up after a few moments, got himself back to the red filing cabinet and tried prying it open with the pick end of the axe. He pushed the pick in as far as he could get it, and with a little more force it flew open and fell to the floor scattering all of the folders. Harold lost his footing trying to get out of the way and fell to the ground, cutting his thigh with the blade end of the axe close to two inches in length. "Bloody, fucking Hell" he screamed. Before he could look for the blueprint files he had to tend to his wound, so he limped towards the chair at the desk and sat down. He unbuckled his belt, and tore off his left sleeve of his blue work shirt. He wrapped it tightly around his thigh and then did the same with his belt to hold it in place. "God, if you're out there, I could really use a drink right about now" Harold thought.
    He used to be a heavy drinker, had a wife and son, until one day he was driving home after being at the bar all morning, and ran over them both. They were crossing the street back home, he didn't see them in front of him, he barely knew where he was. He heard the loud bumps, but kept on driving. It wasn't until he realized that he passed his own house, and had circled back around the block that he saw them lying there dead in front of the house.
    He plead guilty to all charges, but seeing as the town was so small, and that he wasn't a voilent man, or had any prior convictions, the judge sentenced him to five years without parole on the condition he rehabilitate himself, get treatmemt, and contribute to society upon release. He agreed whole heartedly, and appologized for what he had done to his family and himself. The community was shocked that something like this could happen and they hated him for it.
    He had been sober for nearly thirty years. The thought of having a drink never even crossed his mind until now. "I'm no hero, what am I doing? I'm too old to be a hero. All I've ever done was no good, no good for anyone" he said to himself in a beaten down voice.
    Even if Harold did find the security code, what good would that do him indeed? If there was something down there, he was in no shape to put an end to anything but himself. He sat there thinking, what could he do, what was there left to do? The release valves on the holding tanks! If he went to the control room and released the contents of the tanks then surely whatever was down there would drown in the putrid, unprocessed waste. That was his only shot he thought, he just had to make it across the west wing of the plant to the control room.
    As Harold slowly got up from the chair, he noticed one of the pages from a black folder with a strange looking insignia stamped to the top right corner. It resembled a biohazard label with a tree in the centre of it. He began to read over the document, but it didn't make any sense to him. It gave all of these strange number readings and mentioned a holding tank #13. He was under the impression that there were only a dozen tanks, then it dawned on him. What the fuck did Travis have in tank #13? 

Chapter 3

    Harold picked up the axe, unlocked the door and made his way towards the west wing of the facility. He couldn't stop thinking about what was in that tank. There were heartbeat readings but they were in the hundreds. Weight calculations that reached a stabalizing point,then grew again. It made no sense. Whatever it was, it was alive and it wanted out.
    As Harold neared the control room there was another lound sound of metal banging against metal. Suddendly it stopped, then the flashing red security breach lights came on and Harold began to panic. The emergency alarms sounded and there was ringing in Harold's ears. He threw his hearing-aide to the floor and kept moving to the control room.
   His leg was throbbing with pain, the sound of the alarms hurt his head, and the flashinh red lights were making him dizzy. Finally, he reached the control room, but his hands were shaking so much that he couldn't hold onto his key ring and kept dropping it in front of the door. He was getting frusterated and feelinh helpless, so with all of his strength he swung the axe as hard and he could against the glass pane of the door and it shattered. He carefully reached in and unlocked the doorknob, then pushed the door open, walking gently over the glass on the floor.
    He had been in the room countless times, but never payed much attention to all the controls and what they did. What was he suppose to do now? He didn't have a clue what button, dial, or lever did what. The only thing he could think of was to turn everything to on, or open and pray for the best.
    The alarms started going off now in every section of the plant, the sprinkler system had been engaged and the yellow harazd lights turned on. Harold was scared, he felt a deep, rooted sense of fear in his gut. He knew that this was probably the last chance he had to do something good with his life, as he stood there in his torn shirt, cut, and blood soaked jeans, holding that axe.
    What kind of creature was down in that holding tank, Harold thought. He never really understood the company name Energenics before. It was a waste treatment facility as far as he ever knew, why would their company call themselves something that combined the words energy and genetics together? The puzzle pieces started to fit into place. The downsize, the move to a small, secluded location, the document with the strange symbol and chart readings. They were preparing for minimal casualties in the event this thing ever got loose. Whatever was in B level was some type of lab creation and their treatment facility must be how it got its food source, just like putting compost in a garden to grow plants, or something. The fear he began to feel now was almost too much to comprehend.
   
* Chapter 4 soon to come.

Written by Clint A. Avery, M.B on February 1, 2015.