Certain Death One

By Richard Van Doren

An ecological horror of unknown composition is eating through a rail tank car in the heart of New Jersey, preparing to vomit a cloud of gas so lethal it could destroy all life within fifty miles. Officials, each with their own story to tell, must transport and dispose of this monster in the face of a Category 4 hurricane and a small band of religious terrorists who have set out to destroy the train.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Van Doren
• Release date: Nov 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781736163900

Richard Van Doren

Richard Van Doren is an ordained minister in a mainline Protestant denomination. He has always been fascinated by the fringe element in American culture and the extreme events that test faith. All of his novels and short stories deal with the collision of spirituality and earthly crises, or the ongoing conflict between the forces of good and evil. He moonlights as a college composition instructor, and every semester he teaches his students the two most important rules of writing: 1) write on a subject about which you know something, and 2) write on a subject about which you feel strongly. Over the years he has read and heard about countless instances of dark invasions into every day, innocent living. Anyone who has ever experienced something very strange, or who believes that we live in a reality that extends far beyond this world of the five senses will find his novels and stories much to their liking. All of these works contain instances that Van Doren has either experienced in his career or was told about by friends, students, parishioners and family.

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Table of Contents

The Sentinel

The Horror

The Race

The Spill

Aftermath

It only took a single breath to know the stuff was certain death.

"We all knew catastrophe was imminent, but we never believed it would happen this way." (Unidentified EPA Official)

Certain Death One

The Sentinel

On a secluded clearing near Washington Rock he waits. Each day he scans the horizon, looking for signs.

This day he is more troubled than usual. His dogs sense it. When he closes his eyes and turns from his machine, they know what is to come. And they mourn with high pitched whines. He cannot continue. The past has seized him, and the tears soon flow. For agonizing minutes he is wracked by sobs, but as quickly as they come they pass.

He turns back to his machine - resolute, as if to say there is no more time for sorrow. He has but one charge in life: to be ready.

As evening falls, he bows his head, then lights a fire and takes his book. He whispers words that the dogs know are not for them, words they've heard before but invite no response: Therefore, keep awake - for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly. And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.

The Horror

Captain James Clinger of Continental Flight 326 from West Palm Beach cursed the air traffic controller. With in-bound flights backed up over a hundred miles, 326 could remain airborne for another hour at least, and his 727 currently circled third in line. Now, he would surely miss his daughter's wedding rehearsal. A quick glance at the highway far below, that enormous extension of runway lights called the New Jersey Turnpike, clearly told him a multitude shared his annoyance. Tonight, he detected no brilliant yellow beams, only thousands of bright crimson tail lights, meaning they had closed the turnpike in the vicinity of the fire.

On the horizon, an angry orange glow like a monstrous, faceless pumpkin painted the night sky, reminding him of the disaster decades before when an Exxon gasoline storage tank exploded in the vicinity. Only this time another facility, perhaps a refinery, burned out of control.

Still, it did not seem ominous enough to justify re-routing.

Tower, this is Continental 326. That itty-bitty bonfire down there shouldn't pose much of a problem to us. Request direct landing.

That's a negative, 326. It's not the fire that's got us worried. It's the fumes.

Worry could not begin to describe the feeling on the ground.

Jeffrey Katz, roving reporter for ABC's Eyewitness News, stationed himself as close to the blaze as wide-eyed officials would allow. Silhouetted against the roaring, crimson flames, with soot-covered firefighters scurrying behind him, the shaken reporter shouted his story before a live camera:

Bill, as you can see, the blaze at the Carteret Chemical Company continues to burn out of control as it has for over four hours now. With the arrival of what officials call an experimental suffocant called Plasti-Seal, we have been assured that the flames will soon be brought under control. The speaker mopped his brow with a trembling hand.

The possibility of chemical fumes escaping into the nearby heavily populated areas of Elizabeth and Carteret poses a very serious threat, but one that has not yet materialized. Officials assure us there is no immediate danger, but refuse to add anything further when confronted with the predicted landfall of Category Four Hurricane Jill about this time tomorrow night.

A small explosion and shower of sparks shook the camera, and the wide-eyed reporter ducked.

The New Jersey State Police has ordered the Turnpike closed in both directions within five miles of the fire, including the entire Exit 14 extension, until further notice, leading to speculation that there is something wrong here, something terribly wrong. While we do not believe there is any cause for panic, nearby residents should be prepared to evacuate on a moment's notice.

A lone figure, slumping in a leather-bound swivel chair, pressed a button on his remote and sent the image on his TV screen into oblivion. Immediately, darkness bathed this plush suite in an exclusive Manhattan skyscraper. Only a faint orange glow intruded from the west. Slowly, the figure raised a bottle on his desk and filled the glass next to it. Then, he lifted the telephone receiver and punched in a number.

It's me, he muttered to the distant partner.

What do you think I'm thinking?

Right.

'Deep shit' is the understatement of history.

Exactly. Dead is more like it.

We can't give up, not if there's a chance.

What do you mean you're flying out tonight? You're leaving this all up to me?

Forget it. I can't do that. It's our problem. We have to deal with it.

That's great. That's just great.

What about our bogeyman?

It's not over 'til it's over.

Dear God, it can't be over.

The First Hour

Dawn brought a sight that New Jersey had not seen for decades, an abandoned five exit stretch of the Turnpike. All of the news agencies advised commuters to stay home on this Friday in late August, due not only to the inevitable traffic snarls involving vacationers, but also to the approaching hurricane. Millions heeded the suggestion, but millions of others did not. Had traffic been allowed to flow as usual, scores of motorists would have twisted in their seats to take a second look at the blackened monstrosity beside the turnpike, the one with the texture of a gigantic hornets' nest.

What was formerly known as the Carteret Chemical Plant in Elizabeth, New Jersey, stood as a burned-out shell, now encased in a newly developed sealant that cost over a thousand dollars a gallon.

No one calculated the financial loss represented in the scene on this morning, however. Those in the know focused instead on the time bomb that ticked inside the nest.

A silent, cover-alled technician guided a flat-bed semi carrying a high-powered jet fan to a hastily constructed, air tight tunnel of Plasti-Seal. He and the driver watched mutely as four anonymous officials in bright orange space suits entered the tunnel moments before the fan roared to life. The ferocious wind nearly whipped them off their feet.

The lead man made a three-foot slice on the inner wall with a razor sharp hunting knife and stepped gingerly into a morass of oil, water and unknown poisons. After brief hesitation, the others followed. With a portable applicator, the last one sealed the rift behind them.

The shimmering beam from a high-powered flashlight illuminated an alien landscape of melted, twisted, dripping pipes, collapsed and emptied vats and dangling wires, each posing its own threat of agonizing death.

The leader turned and addressed the others, breathing heavily. They say it's in the back. Watch your step.

A piercing, metallic groan froze them as the steel feet beneath a huge cracked ceramic container buckled, and the giant bowl crashed to the floor, shattering and spilling its milky white contents in a flood.

All the king's horses and all the king's men . . . one joked feebly. But no one laughed.

The leader urged them on with a wave.

The airtight canopy cast an eerie glow through many breaches in the plant's ceiling, exposing dozens of booby traps, each one poised to spring. As the inspectors neared the perimeter of the industrial floor, their pace slowed until they found themselves staring at the darkened entrance to the loading docks.

The leader played his flashlight over a row of rail car tankers, which had sustained various degrees of damage. One man to the rear lifted a sophisticated digital instrument from his leather shoulder bag and extended a probe that looked like a hand-held microphone. He glanced down at the reading and gave the leader a thumbs up. The leader nodded and they continued through the main terminal to a steel door bordered by soot and emblazoned with black and gold triangles, the international signal that announced: Warning, Dangerous Contaminants. This door led to a high security containment chamber designed specifically for hazardous waste.

The leader paused again before the thick steel lever, completely alone with his anger, fear and sadness.

Maybe the hull had not cracked, he prayed.

He reached for a lever that had been forged to withstand temperatures in excess of three thousand degrees. A split second before touching the handle he asked himself, What if it's still hot? Had he considered this moments earlier, he might have tested it with something other than his gloved hand. Unfortunately, the thought came too late as he wrapped his palm and fingers around the metal shaft.

Instantly, he emitted a piercing scream and smoke rose from the fire-resistant material. The other three rushed forward to yank his hand free, leaving shreds of his suit, but fortunately no skin. As the leader doubled over in mind-numbing agony, the others raced through their options in excited conversation.

We've got to get out of here!

We can't leave now!

If it's too hot to open, what can we do?

At least we have to get Earl out of here.

Forget it, Earl Morrison said, standing now, but wincing in pain. I'll live.

Listen, Earl, we're not getting paid to commit suicide.

You listen to me, Earl growled, If we die here and now, we may be the lucky ones. If we leave, where do we go? Someone else will have to finish the job.

It's too goddamn hot, Earl. It's like a blast furnace in there. What happens if we open the door and there's an explosion?

What happens if we wait for it to cool down and the stuff eats through in the meantime? Earl reasoned. We don't have any choice.

I say, if it hasn't broken through by now, we should wait. Cooling down might make it less dangerous.

And the heat might have made it more so.

The four men fell silent.

Earl lifted a two-way radio from his belt and reported the situation to his superior waiting outside. After a brief discussion, she elected to join them.

Carla Melendez donned an identical air tight suit and followed the path of her team, lugging a bulky metallic device. Minutes later, she pressed her back against the blackened wall, three feet from the foreboding door jam, while a machine jack inched the handle upward. The others huddled behind heavy wreckage on the industrial floor.

Suddenly, the door burst open with an ear-ringing Whoomp followed by a gigantic tongue of orange flame that vanished instantly. With a sigh of relief, Melendez beckoned the others, and they stepped into an airtight loading dock that had served as a high-pressure super-oven for the past twelve hours. Flashlight beams revealed two tanker cars, the closer one crumpled like a deflated balloon, the far one appearing sound - for the moment at least.

That's it, Melendez whispered as if in church, pointing to the surviving car. Thank God, she added.

The man with the probe announced the temperature, Two hundred and twenty-five degrees and dropping fast, perhaps too fast. Throughout their exploration he had been studying temperature and toxicity levels on alternating digital screens. Now, he flicked hold and kept the toximeter up.

Till now, the screen had flickered between the green safe reading and the orange unacceptable, which surprised all of them, given the proximity and number of potential pollutants. Not once had the unit flashed red and beeped to warn them of dangerous levels of toxicity, the last step before that terrifying whistle and an angry yellow beacon signaled lethal.

Melendez sighed audibly. Well, she said, We have to know. Any volunteers?

Earl stepped forward, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. Hold it, Arnie Jacobsen said, Look at your glove. It's too risky.

Earl Morrison turned to Jacobsen and nodded reluctantly. The other four watched nervously as the shortest technician advanced warily. He looked like a hunter stalking a man-eating beast that could sense his presence any second, leap and devour him. Learning his lesson from Earl, Jacobsen leaned from the loading platform and touched the tank with the tip of his left finger. Nothing. The hull felt relatively cool. When his palm confirmed tolerable heat, he stepped onto the back of the car, lost his balance and fell against it. The others gasped and imagined him falling through the hull into a pool of lava.

But the wall held.

Suddenly, Arnie needed to wipe his brow, scratch his ass and take a leak, all at the same time. Instead, he proceeded with his instructions and twisted the circular handle on the tank car's top in a counterclockwise direction. A loud click announced that the cover could now be lifted. He looked over at his compatriots who stood rigidly, watching him with thundering hearts.

With a deep breath, Arnie lifted the lid.

In less than a second, the whistle sounded on the toximeter and the yellow warning light glared, freezing them all in horror. Fighting panic, Arnie Jacobsen played his flashlight into the interior of the car to see an ugly, olive green liquid covering the bottom.

The others screamed for him to seal the tank - NOW! Pulling back, he lost his grip on the flashlight, and in the last moment before slamming down the lid he saw it disappear into the substance without creating so much as a ripple on its surface, as if it had fallen into another dimension.

But Arnie Jacobsen knew otherwise, as would the others. The flashlight had dissolved at the speed of gravity.

Jacobsen spun the handle and yanked it tight with a grunt. He jumped from the back of the car.

All five scrambled from the room and pushed the door closed behind them, hoping to contain the erupting lethal gas. Lindsay Becker, who held the toximeter, hurried from the loading area, expecting the reading to fall back into the danger zone as space dissipated the cloud. But the whistle screeched Lethal all the way back through the industrial area, passed their point of entrance, passed the toppled container, to the farthest corners of the plant. The gas poured into every crack and crevice as if probing for an avenue of escape.

In a narrow, foot-long tear in the untested canopy, it found one.

The Second Hour

Marcel Evaneau's digital watch beeped for a full minute before anyone stirred. Then, all awoke simultaneously - Jeanne, his wife, Claudia and Marc, his daughter and son. Marcel emitted a hearty yawn, briskly massaged his scalp and announced breakfast. His wife, sitting beside him in their rented four by four, spoke to him in French.

Do I have to go in looking like this? she pleaded.

Come, Love, he answered. Disney World beckons, and we're only half way there. At the sound of those beloved words, the two children sprang upright in their seats and coaxed their mother to move. Reluctantly, she slipped from the vehicle, stretched languidly and grimaced at the stinging acrid smell. She heard rumors about the fabled aromas of the New Jersey Turnpike, but until this moment had believed them to be exaggeration. No more, she thought. It is every bit as bad as her friends had said.

Marcel read his spouse's thoughts. Her vigilance concerning potential pollutants bordered on fanaticism. She even advised detouring through Pennsylvania, adding hundreds of miles to their trip, in order to avoid this particular stretch of the most heavily traveled highway in the world - a region known far and wide as Cancer Alley.

Do you know, my dear, she reported a week prior to departure, That a combination of automobile exhaust and industrial fumes in that area has resulted in a cancer rate fifty percent higher than the rest of the country? Why look here! She pointed to a magazine article. They even have experts from the Center for Disease Control coming up from Atlanta to investigate why black people moving there from the south seem to be developing cancer at an incredible rate. And look here!

She lifted another magazine. There's a hazardous waste storage site with over forty thousand drums less than a mile from our route, and at least ten thousand of those drums sit in the same room with an open incinerator. They found over a hundred pounds of high explosive in that same facility, which is located less than a thousand feet from one of those huge gas storage tanks!

Marcel frowned and took the magazine from his wife. After sifting through the pages, he smiled. Jeanne, he said, This was reported in 1984.

Maybe so, but are you certain they've cleaned it up?

Only after hours of debate did Marcel assure her that their brief exposure to carcinogens would not result in a life-threatening illness. The benefit of saving four hours driving time far outweighed the potential hazards.

Sniffing the air on this morning, however, gave him reason to pause.

Hand in hand, the four of them strolled to the restaurant at the Vince Lombardi rest stop, ten miles north of the Garden State Parkway intersection. Despite his early morning daze, Marcel found it peculiar that the parking lot held no cars. The gas station seemed deserted, as did the highway beyond. He knew the last two weeks in August were the most popular vacation months in the United States, as they were in his native Montreal, but he had not anticipated that everyone would vacate at the same time.

Marcel worried that all had gone to Disney World and envisioned hours-long waits in sun-drenched lines.

Ah, well, it's the fulfillment of a lifelong dream for the children, he reasoned. For the children!?

Marcel stifled a laugh, so he would not have to explain his thoughts.

They agreed on their first stop: the rest rooms. Then they would meet at the restaurant entrance. Marcel advised them not to linger. They still had a thousand miles to go and would not reach their destination until after midnight. Fortunately, it appeared they would slip by this hurricane that had earlier threatened to dash their plans.

Little Marc gave his father a mock salute, eliciting laughter and insincere obeisance from the women. Marcel laughed, too. For the first time since they left Montreal he was beginning to relax and truly enjoy the company of his beloved family.

This was going to be a wonderful trip.

Like a demon with an independent mind, the angel of death seeped through the tiny slit in the Plasti-Seal canopy, and received its baptism for destruction in the open air outside. Slowly, it gathered its body into a concentrated bubble until Arnie Jacobsen discovered the tear five minutes later, and sealed it shut. Now dismembered from the core, the invisible cloud broke free and drifted over the rugged ground, past oblivious policemen and dark suited professionals, some of whom stood only feet away. A light west wind pushed the bubble over the terrain toward the turnpike and a rendezvous with tragedy.

The Evaneau family stopped in their tracks, stunned to find all of the facilities tightly closed. Fighting anger, Marcel deduced that they had missed an announcement when they pulled off the turnpike last night after a ninety-minute traffic delay, even though everything had been open when they got here. Obviously, in pulling behind a row of pine trees to escape the caustic fumes of eighteen wheelers, they had missed the closing of this facility. Marcel took careful stock of the situation, remembered with some relief that he still had a quarter tank of gas, and recommended to all that they find a private spot somewhere to relieve themselves, women included.

Little Marc laughed at the girls as if to say, I came prepared and you didn't

Soon, they climbed back into the camper intending to stop at the next rest area for some much-needed refreshment. This was only a minor setback, Marcel declared. They had lost no time and should not let this little inconvenience affect their day together.

The two women smiled at their patriarch, because it seemed he needed more convincing than they did. Jeanne gave him a kiss on the cheek and Claudia squeezed his shoulder. Marc had slumped back into his seat, and was already giving signs that he had more sleep in him. With good-humored resolve, Marcel turned the key, gunned the engine and started down the ramp toward the southbound truck lane of the New Jersey Turnpike, one mile north of the Carteret Chemical Company.

Slightly heavier than the air around it, the cloud rolled languidly toward the most heavily traveled stretch of road on earth, a road so popular that even the most intense security could not detour every last vehicle from using it on that fateful morning. One might have thought the cloud possessed a mind and intended to hail the Toyota 4-Runner carrying the Evaneau family. But it was sheer, dumb, tragic luck which brought them together - and no more.

Had Jeanne Evaneau decided to turn on the air conditioning rather than roll down her window to catch a few breaths