Story code: ST-000993
Part 2: The Hunt
The heavy paper sack of industrial fertilizer blocked out the morning sun as it hurtled toward Mateo’s face. Instinct, sharp and panicked, flared in his chest. A normal man would have thrown both hands up to catch the dead weight. Mateo knew if he brought his left hand out of his jacket pocket, the impact of fifty pounds of granular chemicals would shatter the remaining bones into dust and wring a scream out of him that the whole yard would hear.
He threw his weight backward, dropping his right shoulder and twisting his torso. He took the brunt of the flying sack squarely on his right collarbone. The impact knocked the wind out of his lungs in a violent rush. He stumbled back, boots sliding on the loose gravel, and wrapped his right arm tight around the thick paper, pinning the sack against his ribs and his thigh. His left arm remained rigidly buried in his pocket. The shockwave of the collision still radiated down his left side, setting off a symphony of white-hot agony across his crushed knuckles.
Mateo didn’t drop the bag. He stood there, panting, a cloud of gray dust pluming off the paper sack and filling his nostrils with the sharp, acidic stench of ammonia and dried bone meal.
Vance hadn’t moved. The boss stood with his hands resting on his hips, his head tilted slightly to the side. He wasn’t smiling anymore. His eyes tracked the awkward, one-armed way Mateo had absorbed the blow.
“You’re moving like a rusted-out tractor, Mateo,” Vance said, his voice flat, cutting through the ambient rumble of the yard. “I throw you a bag, you catch it. You don’t try to dance with it.”
“Slipped,” Mateo managed to croak, fighting to keep his voice steady as he swallowed a lungful of dust. “Gravel is loose.”
Vance stared at him for three agonizing seconds. Then, the cold smile returned. “Right. The gravel. Load the flatbed, you and Hector. All two hundred sacks. I want it done before the sun clears the main silo.”
Vance didn’t walk away to his air-conditioned office. Instead, he pulled a silver thermos from his pickup, leaned back against the hood of the truck, and crossed his ankles. He was going to watch.
Mateo dragged the sack toward the waiting flatbed, his right arm trembling under the unevenly distributed weight. Hector was already at the pallet, hoisting bags with a steady, two-handed rhythm, tossing them onto the truck bed with dull thuds.
The next hour became a blurred nightmare of survival. Every fifty-pound bag was a mountain Mateo had to move with half his body. He developed a desperate, punishing rhythm: grab the thick seam of the paper sack with his right hand, yank it off the stack, thrust his right hip under it, and heave the weight upward using his legs and torso. His left arm remained firmly jammed into his heavy canvas jacket pocket. The thick fabric of the coat acted as a crude shield, but it also trapped the brutal heat of the Texas morning against his skin. Sweat poured down his forehead, stinging his eyes and matting his dark hair to his skull.
“What the hell is wrong with you today?” Hector muttered under his breath, pausing to wipe his brow with a greasy forearm. “You’re lifting like a drunk. You’re making me do all the stacking.”
“Pulled a muscle in my back,” Mateo lied, his breathing ragged. He grabbed another sack, his fingers cramping. “Just give me a minute.”
“Vance is staring a hole right through you, man,” Hector warned, keeping his eyes on the pallet. “He’s looking for a reason today. Don’t give him one.”
Mateo hauled the sack onto the flatbed and risked a glance over his shoulder. Vance was indeed watching, but not just him. Across the yard, old man Elias was sweeping near the loading bays. Vance suddenly shouted Elias’s name, and as the older man turned, Vance kicked a heavy steel chock block directly at Elias’s feet. Elias jumped back nimbly, cursing under his breath. Vance just chuckled, took a sip from his thermos, and resumed scanning the crew.
The realization hit Mateo like a second sack of fertilizer to the chest. Vance wasn’t doing random safety checks. Vance was hunting.
The morning speech about brotherhood and safety had been a trap, just like Mateo suspected, but it was a trap set for a specific rat. Mateo remembered the dark hours of the early shift, the sickening crunch of the sorting belt. He had wrapped his mangled hand in an oily rag, but he hadn’t had time to clean the steel guard rail. He hadn’t cleaned the floor. Vance must have found the blood. The boss knew someone on the crew had a severe, unreported injury. He knew that if the injured man made it to the end of the shift, the company might be liable for a massive worker’s compensation claim. Vance was testing their reflexes, throwing weights, kicking hazards, flushing out the wounded animal so he could fire them on the spot for a safety violation before any paperwork could be filed.
Mateo gritted his teeth, grabbing another sack. He couldn’t fail. He just had to make it to the lunch bell.
But as he hoisted the bag against his hip, the rough paper scraped violently against the front of his canvas jacket. The pressure ground directly into his shattered fingers. Mateo bit through the inside of his cheek to stop the scream, tasting hot copper. Inside his pocket, the sudden, sharp movement proved too much for the makeshift bandage. He felt the tight bands of black electrical tape snap. The wad of coarse brown paper towels shifted, sliding off the open wounds.
A fresh wave of blood rushed from the split skin. He could feel it, warm and rapid, pooling in the bottom of his pocket. It was only a matter of minutes before the dark crimson soaked completely through the heavy tan canvas for everyone to see.
“Hey,” a voice barked.
Mateo froze. The bag slipped from his right hand, hitting the dirt with a heavy thud.
Vance was walking toward him, the thermos abandoned on the truck hood. The boss closed the distance in long, purposeful strides, his eyes locked dead on Mateo’s heavy winter coat.
“It’s ninety-five degrees out here, Mateo,” Vance said, stopping just two feet away. He reached out and tapped the thick collar of Mateo’s jacket. “You’re sweating like a pig. Take the coat off.”