- Working at KSC
- NASA Old Headquarters building on KSC destroyed.
- Flintknapping points
- On going writing projects
- Vampires of Kennedy Space Center and the O&C
- Demons of Kennedy Space Center
- Demons of Kennedy Space Center, corpus callosotomy
- Ghosts of Kennedy Space Center, End of Spiders
- Dreams of Kennedy Space Center, lovers and pyramids.
- Witches of Kennedy Space Center
- Cave Bears of Kennedy Space Center
- Aliens of Kennedy Space Center, uninvited guests
- Remembering Kennedy Space Center
Lake 33 Killing Relic
Chapter 10.85
The Trucking Company
Another FIRST draft, including typos and poorly thought out ideas. The Chapter number, well, well, as a discovery writer, I keep adding or modifying chapters causing me to work out creative chapter numbers to be fixed later or never.
The Trucking Company? How did the radioactive waste get from Coldwater Creek to West Lake Landfill or the Weldon Springs quarries?
FYI, this story is fiction, but the waste did get moved by someone?
Chapter 10.85
Trucking company redux
My phone buzzed, and I saw a text from my brother Mike.
“Bro, where are my mushrooms? Here is the information about the 1967 license plate.
This plate was reported stolen or lost, and the owners requested a new plate.
The plate belonged to a trucking company in St. Louis.
It looks like a family-owned business, and they still exist.”
“Is there an address?” I texted back.
“Stand by.”
“Venom Trucking,”
“New headquarters in St. Charles by the Lewis and Clarke boathouse.”
Mike sent a screenshot of their business card, which shows a pit viper coiled on the side of a moving truck.
“They have a four-star rating out of five stars. Move furniture mostly and a few customer complaints about scratches. Also, it looks like they used to do a lot of business with Uncle Sam, but those details are blocked.”
“Thank you, man. I will work on the morel mushrooms. The season is almost upon us.
Mike responded, “I will give you some Venison sausage, spicy like you like it if you can handle it after prison food.”
I looked up Venom Trucking in St. Charles and hit the direction button on my phone. Suddenly, I felt guilty that we had not included Mike when getting the family arm tattoos.
They are too close to the Missouri River come flood time, I thought, looking at the new building with the sign on the door, “Venom Trucking.”
I stepped into the office to see the walls covered in framed photographs of 1950s trucks and a proud black family in each photo. The pictures progressed from the 1960s to the new century, and one photo showed a new model truck parked outside the building.
The man inside got up from a computer screen and said, “How can I be of service? Do you need your housing goods moved? It seems like everyone is fleeing St. Louis these days.”
I noticed the family resemblance between the man behind the counter and the people in the framed photographs.
“I have a favor. I’m here for a favor,” I said. “I am writing a book about the history of our farm out in Dardenne and we found this license plate in a cave on my mom’s farm.”
I showed him the screenshot of the 1967 license plate.
He gave me a polite yet confused smile, his customer service smile.
“I know you are wondering why am I here? Our research indicated the license plate belonged to your company, Venom Trucking.”
The perfected customer service smile never wavered, “That would be almost impossible, Mister. 1967?”
“I know, crazy, but look at this. I held my phone up to a truck on the wall. “Look, they are the same numbers.”
“Shit, that is impressive detective work. 1967, that was Pop’s business. He was hauling shit for the government around then.”
“Can I talk with him about 1967?” I asked.
“My father is not around anymore. Lung cancer, Lucky stripes unfiltered was his passion. It’s the same old cancer story.
Yeah, it’s a shit that my old man smoked because he was too young to pass away.
“Could you find any records of what your father was hauling to my mom’s farm?” I asked.
“1967 and a shooting war going on in Asia? Pre computer records? No sir, not a chance.”
“Can I be honest, Mr. McAdams? I wasn’t exactly truthful. I am a journalist investigating the transportation of uranium waste from Coldwater Creek to the West Lake landfill and the Weldon Spring quarries. Your company’s license plate was found in a cave with drums of radioactive material.”
“You need to leave, Mister,” said McAdams. Our company had nothing to do with that transportation.”
I had been bluffing; however, the reaction from McAdams indicated I had hit a nerve.
“I would like to make a deal,” I said. “My promise not to tell anyone your company was involved in moving radioactive waste, and you tell me what you know about the transport. I will even give you the license plate to hang on the wall and a promise of silence. Otherwise, I have no choice but to talk to the media and explain about your involvement. Maybe find a driver who will talk to me.”
There was silence, McAdam’s smile gone.
“A promise of silence?”
“My word,” I said.
“I don’t know much, Mister. No one ever told us we were moving radioactive material. I suspect my father was breathing the dust; some drums were leaking. I even went on some of the deliveries. We did not call the pick-up spot Coldwater Creek back then, but yes Coldwater has been on the news. We transported material to two quarries and some smaller sites, way out in the county. Weldon Springs? Later, we moved most of the drums to the landfill in North County.
“How about deliveries to caves in Busch Wildlife Area? That is where the plate was found.”
“Dont know what Busch is, Mister. However, we did make runs to some scary caves down old crappy roads, trees slapping the truck. I remember I was worried about bats as we unloaded the drums. They paid my father good money for the work.
Over the years, I figured we might’ve been moving some of Uncle Sam’s dirty laundry. That is all I can tell you, all I recall.”
“I thank you for your help. Your company will never be mentioned. My word,” I said.
“I hope you find what you’ve been looking for. Have you considered Jesus?” asked McAdams.
“Days, there are days when I wish I had found Jesus. It might be too late now. How much can Jesus forgive?” I asked and walked out the door.
Return HOME from Lake 33 Killing Relic Chapter 10.85 the Trucking company
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