Story code: ST-000696
Part 2: The Camera and the Chute
Hector flinched, slamming his hand over his mouth again. The metal door bowed inward under a second heavy strike.
“This one’s locked!” a deep voice barked, the sound muffled by the steel.
“Kick it or skip it!” another voice yelled from further down the catwalk. “We’ve got runners in the packing bays!”
The handle rattled violently. Hector held his breath, pressing his back so hard against the cinderblocks it bruised his spine. His burned leg screamed with the tension, the raw, blistering flesh tearing further as his muscles locked tight. The boot steps retreated, heavy and fast, rushing toward the chaotic sounds of shouting and shattering pallets below.
Hector exhaled a shaky, ragged breath. He was leaving bloody sweat marks on the wall. He brought the phone back up, his thumbs slipping on the slick glass.
*How did you know?* he typed, sending the message into the dark. *Where are you?*
The three gray dots appeared almost instantly. Mateo was waiting on the other end.
*Doesn’t matter,* the reply came. *Are you still on the north catwalk?*
Hector stared at the screen, the blue light reflecting in his wide, terrified eyes. He hadn’t told Mateo where he was. When the acid line blew, he had just run. The mop closet was an impulsive, desperate choice.
*Yes. Closet near vat 4.*
*They are bringing K-9 units through the side doors in two minutes. The dogs will smell the solvent and your blood. You cannot stay there.*
Panic flared, hot and suffocating, overriding the chemical burn. If they brought dogs, the locked door wouldn’t matter. They would smell him through the ventilation slats. He was trapped in a dead-end box with no windows and a single exit leading directly onto the exposed catwalk.
*I can’t walk,* Hector typed. *My leg is cooked.*
*You have to walk. Or you get deported with half your thigh missing. Get to the old waste chute at the end of the line. I will get you out.*
Hector squeezed his eyes shut. Moving meant stepping out into the open, putting weight on a leg that felt dipped in molten slag. He looked down at the injury. The denim was entirely eaten away, the synthetic fibers melted directly into his ruined skin. The flesh beneath was an angry, weeping mix of charred black and raw red. Every throb of his heart pumped fresh agony through his nerve endings.
*How are you doing this?* Hector sent. *Mateo, what is happening?*
The dots appeared, vanished, and appeared again.
*I am watching the floor cameras. Just move.*
A forklift driver from the loading dock did not have access to the internal security feeds. Those feeds were locked in the supervisor’s office, guarded by heavy corporate encryption and the ruthless floor managers. Hector’s chest tightened. Who the hell was he talking to? Was it even Mateo? But the text had come from his number, sitting exactly at the bottom of an ongoing thread about their weekend plans.
A distant, sharp bark echoed from the ground floor. The dogs were already inside.
Hector shoved the phone into his pocket. He didn’t have a choice. He grabbed the handle of a mop bucket to pull himself up. His right leg screamed as he straightened, a blinding flash of white-hot pain buckling his knee. He bit through the dirty rag, tasting fresh copper as he caught himself against the shelving. He stood there for ten seconds, panting heavily, waiting for his vision to clear.
He pressed his ear to the cold metal door. The catwalk sounded empty, though the roar of the raid continued below. He turned the deadbolt. It clicked with a loud snap.
Hector pushed the door open an inch. The harsh fluorescent lights of the factory floor stung his dilated eyes. He slipped through the gap, immediately dropping low against the metal railing. He dragged his ruined leg behind him, keeping his weight entirely on his left side.
Looking over the edge of the grating, he saw the nightmare unfolding on the canning floor. Tactical agents in dark vests were herding dozens of workers toward the central loading bays. Zip-ties flashed in the harsh overhead light. At the far end of the facility, the glass walls of the medical station were clearly visible. Mateo had been right. It was a complete trap. Two agents stood at the clinic doors, dragging out anyone who had fled there, including an older woman with a bleeding arm. If Hector had followed his safety training, he would be chained to that stretcher right now.
Another dog barked, this one much closer. The sharp click of claws on metal grating echoed from the stairwell behind him.
Hector scrambled forward, pulling himself along the railing hand over hand. The pain in his leg morphed into a heavy, agonizing numbness. He was leaving a trail of bloody, chemical-soaked footprints on the steel floor, but he couldn’t stop. He navigated the shadows behind the massive mixing vats, his lungs burning with exertion.
He reached the end of the catwalk. The old waste chute sat recessed in a concrete alcove, sealed by a heavy steel door designed to handle hazardous material disposal. It hadn’t been used in years, deemed too inefficient by the new corporate owners.
Hector collapsed against the wall next to the chute, gasping for air. He pulled out his phone.
*I’m here,* he typed.
Above him, a soft mechanical whirring sound broke the silence. Hector looked up. The security camera mounted in the corner of the alcove, previously dormant and coated in a thick layer of industrial dust, suddenly rotated. Its red recording light blinked on, focusing the lens dead center on Hector’s face.
His phone vibrated in his palm.
*I see you,* Mateo’s message read. *Open the chute.*
Hector reached for the heavy iron handle of the door. He threw his weight backward, expecting the familiar resistance of the rusted latch. The handle didn’t budge. He looked closer. Bolted directly into the steel frame, right above the old latch, was a sleek, modern biometric scanner. Its LED ring glowed a steady, locked red. It was a managerial override lock. Hector, a basic line worker, wasn’t even in the system.
*It’s locked by a scanner,* Hector typed rapidly, his fingers leaving bloody smears on the screen. *I don’t have clearance.*
The sound of a dog sniffing aggressively at the mop closet down the catwalk carried through the echoing factory. They had found his hiding spot. They were following his trail.
His phone buzzed.
*Use your thumb,* the text from Mateo read.