Sometimes They Stay

By J.Clisham

When an innocent man is framed for the murder of the Bangor Police Chief, he must venture deep into a landfill – through the endless tunnels – to find the evidence to clear his name.  This journey is one of rotting garbage and complete darkness, where mutated rats linger…waiting for their next snack.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.Clisham
• Release date: Nov 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519964830

J.Clisham

Mr. Clisham is a retired truck driver who currently resides in Maine.

Book preview

Sometimes They Stay

Table of Contents

Title Page

Sometimes They Stay

II | SIX MONTHS LATER

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

VIIII

X

SIX MONTHS LATER

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The engine growled.

Pete looked up from the loading dock, past the driveway – to see what looked like the proudest redneck dump truck in existence.  It had the oversized mud flaps (with a kid peeing on the Ford logo) chromed out rims, mirrors – and anything that could accept a shine from a cheap truck stop discount bin. 

And from the way this truck was perched atop what many in the area referred to as PERC’s Peak – it had a daunting, imploring sense of doom that in a strange way, almost signified what was about to happen.  Pete had been around the block long enough, seven years running crane at the PERC plant, a place that literally burned trash to generate electricity.  Some called it a transfer station, some called it a waste energy plant – but that was just cherry coating it, the place was an absolute shit hole.  Mountains of trash, reaching thirty feet in the air – piled across what looked like an oversized warehouse.  The putrid stench found a way to linger and permeate everything in a three-mile radius. 

The truck horn bellowed across the yard.

Pete kicked a few stray pieces of trash out of his way as he walked up the hill.  This was the part he hated.  Being inside, running the crane – it was easy to forget where you were.  But the Hill?  The Peak?  The giant mound in the ground that held all the trash they couldn’t burn?  That wasn’t the best place to be.  The educated idiots, the experts, the engineers - all claimed it was safe.  But things routinely went wrong.  Parts of the road would cave in, the liner that sat at the bottom would leak – and the town’s people would bitch about yellow water that tasted like feces.  Not to mention the crews that were digging tunnels into the sides, so they could install magnets – and fingers crossed – somehow excavate old buried metal.  And then there was the part that scared Pete the most, and that was the exhaust.

The little flame that was permanently lit in the very center of the hill.

It reminded him of the eternal flame at JFK’s grave – but different in that this thing burned off the methane that was generated from the decomposing garbage underneath.

What’s the dang holdup? the truck driver said.

Considering we’re closed, you are, Pete replied with a smile.

Very funny dick wad, let me unload.

Pete approached the gate, punched in a four digit code on the keypad, letting the driver in.  He watched the battered old Peterbilt pull forward, rolling through the gate – large swaths of black, particle laced exhaust billowing out from the truck’s smoke stack.  And then, like time and time before, the hiss of the air brakes would linger, and Lenny would haul ass from the truck, giggling as he ran to the flame.

Damn it Lenny, not again.

Lenny ran to the methane exhaust, positioned his ass directly in front of the flame – and bit down on his lower lip as his face turned beat red.

Come on, it’s not funny, it’s not, Pete said, rushing