Story code: ST-001176
Part 1: The Yellow Mist
Mateo slammed his knees into the loose soil, gagging as the yellow mist drifted back into his face. He clawed at the flimsy paper mask plastered over his nose and mouth, desperate for a breath of clean air, but the chemical tasted like burnt copper in his throat. The heavy plastic tank strapped to his back shifted, driving its unpadded metal frame directly into his spine. He dry-heaved into the dirt. The spray wand slipped from his trembling fingers and hissed continuously, coating the base of the tomato plants in a thick, oily film.
Every breath felt like swallowing fiberglass. He squeezed his watering eyes shut, pressing his forehead against the hot earth, waiting for the burning in his lungs to subside. The paper mask was saturated. It offered no protection against the commercial-grade defoliant Brent had insisted on using for this particular section of the field. Mateo pushed himself up on one elbow, his chest heaving. The midday sun beat down on his neck, baking the chemical residue into his skin.
The crunch of tires on gravel broke the silence of the back forty. Mateo wiped his tearing eyes with the back of a dirty glove and squinted through the haze. A pristine black SUV rolled to a stop at the edge of the access road, its air-conditioning venting a faint stream of condensation onto the dry dust.
The driver’s side door swung open. Brent stepped out. He looked immaculate in a pressed linen shirt and custom leather boots that had never seen a day of actual mud. He checked his reflection in the tinted window, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, before walking toward the rows.
Mateo tried to stand, but his legs felt like lead. He managed to get one foot under him, gripping a wooden stake for support. He expected Brent to rush over, to see the spilled chemicals and the physical state he was in, to tell him to get to the wash station immediately.
Instead, Brent turned back to the SUV and waved his hand. A man with a heavy shoulder-mounted camera stepped out of the passenger side, followed by a woman holding a boom microphone wrapped in a fuzzy windscreen.
Brent beamed, his teeth blindingly white in the harsh sunlight. He gestured expansively at the endless rows of green vines. He began speaking in a loud, projected voice, clearly performing for the lens. He pointed toward the horizon, explaining the farm’s commitment to pristine, untouched agricultural beauty.
Mateo forced himself upright. A violent cough racked his body, echoing across the silent field.
Brent stopped mid-sentence. His flawless smile tightened. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes locking onto Mateo leaning heavily against the wooden stake, coated in dust and yellow residue.
The cameraman lowered his lens. The sound woman tapped her headphones.
Brent held up a finger to the crew and walked down the row. His expensive boots carefully avoided the puddles of toxic runoff. He stopped two feet away from Mateo. The smell of Brent’s high-end cologne violently clashed with the acrid stench of the pesticide.
Mateo pulled the saturated paper mask down to his chin. He forced the words past his raw, bleeding throat. He stated that the mix was wrong today and he could not breathe. He pointed at the leaking wand on the ground, explaining that the pressure valve was busted and spraying back into his face. He said he needed to go wash out his eyes and get the heavy-duty respirator from the shed.
Brent stared at him. The friendly, charismatic farm owner vanished. His face went entirely blank, his jaw setting into a rigid line. He took one step closer, invading Mateo’s space, lowering his voice so the boom microphone could not pick up a single syllable.
Brent informed him that the crew was costing two thousand dollars an hour. He explained that they were shooting the promotional video for the new investor group and that he needed a hardworking employee actively spraying in the deep background to make the shot look authentic.
Mateo shook his head, pressing a hand to his burning chest. He told Brent he was sick. He said his lungs were on fire.
Brent leaned in until his lips were inches from Mateo’s ear. He spoke in a flat, dead monotone.
He told Mateo to pick up the wand. He said that if Mateo ruined this shot, or walked away to the shed, or even coughed loudly enough to ruin the audio track, he would make a phone call. He specified exactly who he would call. He described the white vans with the green lettering. He detailed how quickly they would arrive at the farm gates, and how easily he could report an undocumented worker trespassing on his property.
Mateo froze. The blood drained from his face, leaving him colder than the sweat soaking his shirt.
Brent smiled, a sharp, empty expression that did not reach his eyes. He reached out and snapped the flimsy elastic band of the wet paper mask back over Mateo’s mouth. He patted Mateo firmly on the shoulder, a gesture that looked encouraging to the camera crew fifty feet away.
Brent spun around, his charismatic persona instantly returning as he gave the cameraman a thumbs-up. He shouted for them to start rolling.
Mateo stood locked in the dirt, the chemical burning fresh trails down his throat as Brent raised his voice to praise his loyal, hardworking staff, the heavy plastic tank crushing Mateo’s spine as his hand slowly reached down for the leaking wand.
Mateo slammed his knees into the loose soil, gagging as the yellow mist drifted back into his face. He clawed at the flimsy paper mask plastered over his nose and mouth, desperate for a breath of clean air, but the chemical tasted like burnt copper in his throat. The heavy plastic tank strapped to his back shifted, driving its unpadded metal frame directly into his spine. He dry-heaved into the dirt. The spray wand slipped from his trembling fingers and hissed continuously, coating the base of the tomato plants in a thick, oily film.
Every breath felt like swallowing fiberglass. He squeezed his watering eyes shut, pressing his forehead against the hot earth, waiting for the burning in his lungs to subside. The paper mask was saturated. It offered no protection against the commercial-grade defoliant Brent had insisted on using for this particular section of the field. Mateo pushed himself up on one elbow, his chest heaving. The midday sun beat down on his neck, baking the chemical residue into his skin.
The crunch of tires on gravel broke the silence of the back forty. Mateo wiped his tearing eyes with the back of a dirty glove and squinted through the haze. A pristine black SUV rolled to a stop at the edge of the access road, its air-conditioning venting a faint stream of condensation onto the dry dust.
The driver’s side door swung open. Brent stepped out. He looked immaculate in a pressed linen shirt and custom leather boots that had never seen a day of actual mud. He checked his reflection in the tinted window, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, before walking toward the rows.
Mateo tried to stand, but his legs felt like lead. He managed to get one foot under him, gripping a wooden stake for support. He expected Brent to rush over, to see the spilled chemicals and the physical state he was in, to tell him to get to the wash station immediately.
Instead, Brent turned back to the SUV and waved his hand. A man with a heavy shoulder-mounted camera stepped out of the passenger side, followed by a woman holding a boom microphone wrapped in a fuzzy windscreen.
Brent beamed, his teeth blindingly white in the harsh sunlight. He gestured expansively at the endless rows of green vines. He began speaking in a loud, projected voice, clearly performing for the lens. He pointed toward the horizon, explaining the farm’s commitment to pristine, untouched agricultural beauty.
Mateo forced himself upright. A violent cough racked his body, echoing across the silent field.
Brent stopped mid-sentence. His flawless smile tightened. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes locking onto Mateo leaning heavily against the wooden stake, coated in dust and yellow residue.
The cameraman lowered his lens. The sound woman tapped her headphones.
Brent held up a finger to the crew and walked down the row. His expensive boots carefully avoided the puddles of toxic runoff. He stopped two feet away from Mateo. The smell of Brent’s high-end cologne violently clashed with the acrid stench of the pesticide.
Mateo pulled the saturated paper mask down to his chin. He forced the words past his raw, bleeding throat. He stated that the mix was wrong today and he could not breathe. He pointed at the leaking wand on the ground, explaining that the pressure valve was busted and spraying back into his face. He said he needed to go wash out his eyes and get the heavy-duty respirator from the shed.
Brent stared at him. The friendly, charismatic farm owner vanished. His face went entirely blank, his jaw setting into a rigid line. He took one step closer, invading Mateo’s space, lowering his voice so the boom microphone could not pick up a single syllable.
Brent informed him that the crew was costing two thousand dollars an hour. He explained that they were shooting the promotional video for the new investor group and that he needed a hardworking employee actively spraying in the deep background to make the shot look authentic.
Mateo shook his head, pressing a hand to his burning chest. He told Brent he was sick. He said his lungs were on fire.
Brent leaned in until his lips were inches from Mateo’s ear. He spoke in a flat, dead monotone.
He told Mateo to pick up the wand. He said that if Mateo ruined this shot, or walked away to the shed, or even coughed loudly enough to ruin the audio track, he would make a phone call. He specified exactly who he would call. He described the white vans with the green lettering. He detailed how quickly they would arrive at the farm gates, and how easily he could report an undocumented worker trespassing on his property.
Mateo froze. The blood drained from his face, leaving him colder than the sweat soaking his shirt.
Brent smiled, a sharp, empty expression that did not reach his eyes. He reached out and snapped the flimsy elastic band of the wet paper mask back over Mateo’s mouth. He patted Mateo firmly on the shoulder, a gesture that looked encouraging to the camera crew fifty feet away.
Brent spun around, his charismatic persona instantly returning as he gave the cameraman a thumbs-up. He shouted for them to start rolling.
Mateo stood locked in the dirt, the chemical burning fresh trails down his throat as Brent raised his voice to praise his loyal, hardworking staff, the heavy plastic tank crushing Mateo’s spine as his hand slowly reached down for the leaking wand.