Creepy - Shipboard Cuisine & Something's Off at My New Job

Episode Date: September 1, 2022

Shipboard Cuisine***Written by: No One of Consequence and Narrated by: Nate DuFort***Something's Off at My New Job***Written by: No One Of Consequence and Narrated by: Jimmy Ferrer***Find our reward tiers and how to get your bonus magnet at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Welcome to the Bloody Disgusting Network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of books. violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. Shipboard cuisine. Written by no one of consequence and narrated by Nate DuFort. I'm not going to bullshit around and try to make myself sound like the good guy because I'm not. I was a bad person doing some pretty shady things and also. I could amass of fortune. It worked out for a time, but eventually, the law caught up with me. Now I'm on the run with a duffel bag full of cash and a handful of passports.

These aren't just fake papers. They're the best that money can buy. The amount of trouble I'm in isn't small potatoes. Before things caught up with me, I worked for a company that was contracted by the Department of Defense. I sold government secrets to some less than friendly people, the type of people who don't like my country very much. Even with expert documents, it's hard to secure passage out of the country. One of the best ways to flee is to bribe a union official at the docks. They can get you onto a cargo ship headed away from the states, but the downside is I have to work.

I spent a lot of my career behind a desk. The only physical labor I did was in the gym. Working in the janitorial crew, I spend my days cleaning the ship. It's an old cargo freighter that somehow manages to get dirty without the aid of a crew. I'll spend hours scrubbing the hole, only to need to scrub it again after I finish. It's not that I'm not trying. The wall just seems to bleed grime. I've got two million in cash and even more in offshore accounts, but here I am, working my fingers till they bleed.

You'd think for 30 grand I'd have an easier time on the ship, but my money wasn't to buy me comfort. The people are what I expected, though. Admittedly, there are more women than I figured there would be. Most of them speak English, but not as their first language. Members of the senior crew tend to speak with an accent but not what I'm familiar with no matter where they're from

I can tell they talk like people with money like me the laborers are a different breed entirely their accents tend to be more of the Latin persuasion muscles earned with years of hard labor skilled in whatever job they have on the ship

I don't know what most of them do, but they do it well enough to not get yelled at by their supervisors. Unlike me, I can't clean worth of shit, and I get endless grief for it. There is one seriously positive thing I have to say about my voyage. The food is excellent. We may be worked like dogs, but we are fed like prized stock. For the first time in my life, I know what it is to be the backbone of an operation, even if I suck at it. I remember all those meetings we used to have about company morale. The whole, a happy worker is a productive worker spiel they used to tell us.

Turns out, it's true. Our meals might not be found in five-star restaurants, but the quality is at that level. Honestly, have you ever eaten a five-star restaurant? The food is pretentious, overpriced, and the portions are small. Their only redeeming quality is the quality itself. We're getting the quality, but so much more. Wholesome meals that you'd find in any loving home. And the portions are huge.

Seriously, they feed us so much. It's like they want us to gain weight. When my shift is over and I've had dinner, my time, is mine. The laborers like to hang out in the cargo area, listen to music with drinks and dancing. De Hano music has never been my forte, but the bright, happy atmosphere is quite enjoyable. I'm sure some of the laborers hook up in dark corners or bunk rooms for a little quality time, but I pay no attention to that. I'm not interested in a shipboard romance or some quick rumble in the sack. I just want to get to Morocco and enjoy my early retirement.

On occasion, on those days I could really use a drink, I'll join the laborers in those after-dinner gatherings. Most of the time, I stay in my bunkroom and make sure my duffel doesn't get found. Most of the bunk rooms are small with three bunks stacked up on top of each other, two sets to a room. There are a few larger bay rooms with ten stacks, but thankfully, I'm not in one of those. Once 11 o'clock comes, the lights in the sleeping areas go from white to red. This lets us know that curfew is in effect. You don't have to sleep during this time, but it is highly recommended, and movement in the ship is restricted. Also, no loud noises are permitted for obvious reasons.

With the work hard and the hours long, we tend to sleep. Even with all the hard work and a full belly, I have trouble sleeping. I've been on cruises before, but those are at most two weeks, not two months. The ship doesn't rock that badly, but enough that I can feel it, especially when I'm lying down. Then there's six of us in this tiny room. Not since I was a poor orphan If I slept in a room with this many people At least two of them snore

And I have to use a headband With tiny speakers for music to drown them out This brings me to the bedding issue Never mind that the mattress is thin The bed being as hard as the floor And low thread count sheets My pillow is a serious issue But not one I can do anything about

The only way to hide a duffel bag full of cash in a space this small, put a pillowcase over it and use it as a pillow. I swear, when I get off this ship, I'll never spend another night in an uncomfortable bed. Once I get to Morocco, it's going to be nothing but the best money can buy for every aspect of my life. Hell, I may try to steal the cook here, making my personal chef.

So, I've obviously never spent time on a ship like this before. There are certain tasks and procedures that are alien to me, some aspects that seem odd. For instance, the pre-breakfast routine. Before being allowed into the mess hall, we all line up for a nasal swab, urinalysis test, and a blood sample via thumb-prick. On my second day, I asked my roommates about this. Apparently, the laborers that sleep in the large bayrooms are undocumented workers. Their lack of access to regular medical care is a concern to shipwide health.

The daily testing is to catch any sickness that may pop up and prevent it from spreading to the entire crew. This explanation makes sense to me, so I let them swab my nose, collect my blood and urine, then enjoy breakfast. After about three weeks of this routine, I pick up on something I didn't notice before. During the morning specimen collection, I see one of the administrators pull someone to the side. Overhearing what she's saying to the worker is difficult with the ever-present murmur of people, but I pick up on enough words to get an idea. Yesterday's collection and detected something. But getting a swab shoved up my nose distracts me,

and I don't hear what it was. By the time I'm done having my nose violated, the crew member is gone. I didn't see where he went. Maybe pop positive for drugs. They're very serious about that sort of thing. I've been here long enough to learn the crew's hierarchy. Senior staff consists of everyone on the bridge,

administrators, medical personnel, and the kitchen staff. Their living quarters and dining area are on the upper decks, and their interactions with the rest of the crew are minimal. While they're at the highest level of authority on the boat, they don't act superior to the rest of us. Long-term staff are those that work in the ship year-round, intend to have more of a supervisory role in operations. They sleep and eat in the lower decks,

but occupy the smaller bunk rooms. Their pay is higher than average, receive medical coverage, have 401ks, and life insurance provided by the company. Last is the temporary staff. They're the lowest-ranked laborers that sleep in the large bay rooms. They're still treated as well as the rest of the crew,

but they're paid less and don't get the benefits. It sounds unfair, but this is better than they get as day laborers, kind of hard to give someone benefits when they don't have documents. I may classify as temporary staff, but I'm treated more like the long-term staff, minus the benefits and any kind of payment, of course. Maybe if I kicked in another $20,000, I could have been made a senior staff member, but when port authorities inspect a ship, the senior staff are the ones that deal with them. There's a reason it wasn't an option made available to me.

As long as I make it to Morocco, I'll put up with whatever I have to do. In the fifth week of the voyage, I begin to get antsy. We've made port three times, unloaded cargo, loaded on new cargo, and a lot of the staff has taken shore leave. Me, I have to stay on the ship until we make it to Morocco. It's sufficient to say I'm starting to get cabin fever. I'm honestly surprised it hasn't had to be. happened already, but our workloads and after-dinner gatherings have kept me well-occupied.

During our last port, I spent a lot of time in the galley, chatting up the cook. I tried calling her chef, but Stella won't have any of that. According to her, chefs work in professional kitchens and spend their days berating their staff. She's more like a mother, telling her children what to do, and bonging them on the back of the head with a wooden spoon for doing things they know they shouldn't. She even has a wooden spoon hanging from her apron that never touches food. The crew's taken to calling it bonkers, because that's what she threatens to do with it. Stella's very much the mother type. She's a portly woman in her 50s and doesn't take crap from anyone. Word has it, even the captain,

isn't immune from bonkers and will flinch the moment it is raised. Not always a disciplinarian. She's quick with a crude joke when the moment's right. I enjoy chatting with her, but the accent is getting to me. I can't place it at all. But all she'll say is she comes from a very hot place, very far away that's hard to pronounce, and even harder to live in. After finishing my mopping duties in the galley, I return to my bunk when the lights go red. I must have been chatting with Stella longer than I thought if it's Artie. I must have been chatting with Stella longer than I thought if it's lights out already. In order to get to my room, I have to pass the bay rooms,

since there are so many people in there and it can get awfully stuffy to keep the bay doors open. As I walk past, having to glance inside, and suddenly stop. There are a lot of unoccupied bunks in this bay, and a look in the other shows the same thing. Now that I think of it, the lines for meals have been shorter than they were on day one. Used to be that I practically had to fight for space at a table in the mess hall,

but these days I have extra elbow room. My roommates don't like it when I ask questions. To them, they have a good thing going here, and don't want to rock the boat. I figured that had to do with smuggling people like me out of the States, but this is different. Sure, sometimes crew go off ships at ports and don't come back, but that's not what this is. A mass exodus of more than 30 people, I would have noticed something like that right away. Whatever this is has been gradual, so gradual that I didn't pick up on it until now.

With all the time I've spent chatting with Stella over the last few weeks, talking to her may be my best chance to get answers. Sneaking my way back to the galley I managed to get there without encountering anyone. The door is open, and as I approach, I hear voices coming from inside. Recognizing Stella's voice, I glance through the bulkhead door to see who she's speaking to and freeze. This isn't a good day for me to look through doorways Because what I see has my blood running cold

The voice in uniform belonged to Stella The body shape and size is consistent But that's where it stops Instead of the pale pink skin I'm accustomed to seeing The thing in the galley Has reptilian green skin There's no hair on her head and her face looks just like those garden lizards

I used to catch in the bushes outside the orphanage long pointed faces, the end and a snout but I don't remember ever seeing teeth in those mouths while Stella's talking to an even taller lizard person I see teeth that make me think of a velociraptor I don't know how but those mouths are still speaking English However, the accents make more sense. Everything they said was heavy on the S sound.

Thankfully, I go completely unnoticed. You'd think I would have gasped at seeing two human-sized lizard people in the galley, but apparently when I get shocked, I go completely silent. Their conversation goes on and I realize they're discussing tomorrow's menu. After a few minutes, I realized Stella is talking to Stephen, the senior staff steward. His job is to bring the food prepared to the senior staff in their mess hall and clean up when the meal is over.

Stephen says if the captain really enjoyed the long pig all orange and request something brazed instead of roasted for tomorrow's dinner. This thoroughly confuses me. We had a rather delicious chicken-fried steak for dinner, not pork. It was served with the creamiest gravy I've ever tasted, fluffy mashed potatoes and roasted corn. The corn was so good, I went back for more. Still able to vividly recall the glorious taste of corn,

I realized what he called the dish. Long pig isn't pork. It's what cannibals call human meat. Very slowly, I ease backwards and go to my room. Things are finally making sense around here. The long-term crude, just liking my questions, their comments about not wanting to rock the boat. They may not know the full details, but they know enough to keep their heads down.

No one can spend that much time on a ship with the same people and not accidentally stumble upon a lizard person. Shit, I've only been on this ship for six weeks, and I've already discovered the truth. Since Sella and Stephen were still in their uniforms, I'm willing to bet their chameleons. If they were wearing skin suits, their clothes wouldn't still be on. The empty bunks in the large bay rooms. Those people didn't get off at the ports we stopped at.

Our daily testing wasn't to prevent sickness from spreading. They were using it to figure out which crew member to kill and serve to the senior staff. Large meals and the opportunity to go for a second helping. We were being fattened up. No wonder they're so strict about drug use. It has nothing to do with international customs or foreign authorities. They wanted to keep their food stocks healthy and prevent food poisoning from narcotics. As I walk in my days of realization, I'm overcome with the brilliance of it.

Not only are they using undocumented laborers as their source for meat. It's an ingenious scam worthy of a crime drama. Get yourself a disposable workforce. Promise them a big paycheck after two-month tour at sea. Have them do the work they were hired for, and at the end, there's no one left to pay. All you'd need is a skeleton crew for the last few days to run the ship, which is what the long-term crew is for.

The rest of my trip is ruined, to say the least. I don't eat near as much as I did before, but I work twice as hard. especially in the galley. I no longer want to spend more time there than I have to. At least now I know why Stella didn't want me to go in the walk-in freezer. Gotta keep the long pig somewhere. I don't work harder just because there are fewer laborers around, but because I don't want the senior staff to consider me a possible entree. Sure, I may have paid a lot of money to be here, but what's to stop them from eating me?

I paid in full because when I tried to do the whole half up front half in completion bit, I was outright refused. Maybe if they pull me to the side during the morning testing, I can bribe my way out of being eaten. They don't know anything about the cash I have with me. One thing is for sure. I'm not going to try to steal Stella away to be my personal chef in Morocco if I ever make it there. Besides, I may have just become a vegetarian.

Creepy presents. Something's off at my new job, written by known of consequence, and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. I've worked a lot of shit jobs in my time. More than I care to remember. I've been a stalker at a retail store, usher and concession worker at the movie theater. overnight stalker for a grocery store, very briefly an electrician's assistant, a car wash worker, just to name a few. It goes on from there, but you get the idea. For seven months I searched for a job,

but to make ends meet, I did a lot of under-the-table stuff. Nothing illegal, just minor home repairs for family and friends, helped a buddy of mine with his lawn care service, and occasionally built things out of wood. Things got so bad, I moved back into my dad's house, a place I swore I'd never go back to. As it was, I could barely make my car payments, so having no rent to pay really helped. Recently, I just got hired on at an international paper company, starting at $20 an hour. In the interview, they said, once my 90-day probation is up, I'll get a $5 race, 12-hour shifts, and overtime pay. It's the best paying job I've ever had. That's not so. to be confused with their overall best job I've had.

Work conditions are pretty fucking severe. The factory itself is fucking massive. A space big enough to hold an entire school campus, including the parking lot. The noise level is so high that in order to step onto the factory floor, you are required to wear hearing protection. Not all earplugs are made the same. The ones they gave me are heavy duty. I could be standing next to a damn jet engine with these things and not

here more than a hum. Between my work area and the wall on the left side of the factory are stacks of paper rolls. One of these rolls is eight feet tall and approximately six feet thick. They're stacked four tall and can only be moved with a specialized forklift. The area I work in is where most of the noise comes from, a series of connected machines, the length of a football field, unified for the sole purpose of making cardboard that eventually gets turned into boxes. I don't mean thin cardboard used for 12 packs of soda, more like the boxes they use for Amazon deliveries. For the last three days, I've been learning the process of making cardboard. I never knew how much went into it. At the halfway point in the machines is a soundproof

control room off to the side with all the computers that monitor the process. Above this room is an LED board, displaying a series of numbers that meant absolutely nothing to me a few days ago. Now I know these are identification numbers for specific rolls of paper that need to be loaded into the machines. There are four different stations where paper rolls are loaded, but the majority of the time, only three are in use at once. Four station is for when an order of cardboard is needed to be thicker than normal, adding in an additional layer. If you go into your recycling bin and pull out a discarded box, upon close inspection of the edge, you'll find three parts. First is the flat outer piece where logos and packaging stickers are placed. Next is a crinkled layer that gives the box its thickness and strength.

After that, there's an interior flat piece, usually left blank. These three different layers are created by three roll stations that I primarily work at. Process of running these stations require loading and unloading, new or different roles, splicing ends together, and good timing for material changeovers. Each station requires one or two people to maintain regular operations. While working the rollers is my primary job, it's not my only responsibility. Due to a high turnover rate with employees, there's usually a small shortage of workers. During the first three days, I've been pulled from the rollers a number of times to help with the end of the machines, where the finished cardboard is.

By this point, the paper has been assembled, run through the starch slurry that acts as a binding agent, heating together to bind it, and finally cut to the designated size requirements. The cut boards are slid onto a series of floor-level conveyor belts, which we can actively walk on and organize them. We stack them to about five feet tall, mark them with chalk, and move them further down the conveyor where members of the next team can take them. This is also where we look for inconsistent and screwed-up pieces. Now, because this is a large metal building, with nothing but open space,

air conditioning doesn't work here. There are fans all over the dam place at full blast creating a wind tunnel. This doesn't really cool us off. The temperature is consistently over 100 degrees. Thanks to the starch slurry and needing to superheat the cardboard to bind it together, the humidity level is constantly 100%. I've lived in Texas my whole life. So I've dealt with heat and high humidity.

But not even that has prepared me for a hundred, plus degrees with 100% humidity. It's hitting me so hard that I'm soaking wet with sweat, constantly drinking water, and the thought of food makes me nauseous. I quit smoking about two years ago. However, this job has broken that. Have you ever been hungry, but too nauseous to eat? It sucks, and it's hard to deal with.

In order to cool down from the extreme atmospheric conditions of the factory, A lot of us sit outside at the smoking tables. My first day I was dying by lunchtime. I was allowed to break for lunch. And I ended up bumming a few smokes. On my way home, I bought a pack, and now I'm opening my third one. The air and the breeze outside is heaven compared to the inside. And cigarettes helped curb my hunger.

Breakfast was half an egg sandwich, but I still nearly threw it up. Dinner seems to be the only meal that I can eat, but I can only stomach half the portion I used to. As I'm enjoying the cool air and accurate smoke, I see my supervisor having a screaming match with one of the guys on my team in the break room. I haven't met the guy before, but he's always got a sour expression on his face, as if he'd like to drop a match on the scrap bin inside. This inevitably would set the whole warehouse on fire because the place is practically a giant tinderbox. I watch as my supervisor points at me, yells one final thing and walks away.

Angry guy comes outside and drops his hand radio on the table in front of me, and then he hands me his safety glasses. He says to always keep a good set of safety glasses on standby, emphasizing the word good. One look at the logo on the frame tells me I'd have worked an entire shift just to afford them. I thank him, but he's already gone. Adrian is the guy who's been training me. When he goes on break, I go with him, so he's sitting next to me when this happens.

Naturally, I asked him what that was all about. According to Adrian, the angry guy got fed up with seven-day workweeks, and found it unacceptable that his first day off wouldn't be until Labor Day. Hearing this has me wanting to shit into my hand and slap the woman in HR Hugh interviewed me with it. At no point, was I told I'd be required to work seven goddamn days a week. She said there'd be a lot of overtime, but I thought that meant 12-hour shifts six days a week. They'd expect me to work 84 hours a week under these conditions? That's some insane shit.

No wonder turnover rate is so deep. damn high here. Adrian helps me with my new radio, replacing the plastic earbud fasteners with fresh ones. Before now, I was using earplugs because they were only enough radios for the established employees. In order to communicate while on the floor, we wear these earbuds connected the hand radios between the microphone clip to my shirt collar and the radio is a relay switch. This way, when I need to talk, I flipped a switch and speak.

It prevents us from hot-miking the radio and with background noise. It's the same technology military ground forces use when in combat situations. Returning to the factory floor, I go back to switching out the standby rule for an upcoming switchover. Each roll station has two sides to it, the active role and the standby. I'm putting on the same kind of role as the active one, but it's running low, and the order we process is just big enough to require several roles. Just as I finish up, I hear the supervisor requesting my presence back at the finish side. One of the guys that primarily works the station is off to lunch, so I get to help Junior stack and organize.

Junior has been here for six months and is itching to move to a different section. Symboling cardboard is not the most crucial job in the entire place, but it is also the shittiest position to have. We get paid the least, work the hardest, and take the most shit when things go run. He tells me this as we count out our stacks of 20 cardboard planks. Create a new stack, pile them up into about 15 stacks, label them and repeat the process. It's critical that we do not crease the planks while we move them. It ruins the integrity of the cardboard. Twenty planks of cardboard is heavier than you'd think, not to mention scalding hot from

the cooking process. Plus, the number of paper cuts I've received in the last three years. days on the inside of my arms makes me look like a fucking cutter. I may be depressed, but I'm not that much, damn it. While we are stacking, Roger, the factory manager comes over to us. My back was to him and I didn't see him coming, but I jumped when he suddenly yelled at junior. Even though the sound-resistant earbuds, I could hear everything Roger was yelling.

He wasn't using the radio, and it's obvious why. Never, in my life, had I witnessed a superior berate an employee like this. That asshole's just picking it, Jr., calling him an incompetent loser and capable of stacking planks without creasing them. I find this incredibly off-putting, not to mention inaccurate. There were no creases in the planks who were stacking. I'm getting the feeling that there's more to this because Roger's moving past me, getting in junior's personal space, poking him in the chest as he continues to yell.

I have had enough of this shit, and I won't stand by as this ass hat continues to verbally assault a colleague right in front of me. I'd take a step forward, but things don't go according to plan. Fun fact about the conveyor belt said our feet. They use proximity sensors to activate when a stack of planks gets too close to a new section. My foot activated a sensor just as I stepped onto the belt and causes me to face plan into the metal floor. On the upside, my fall distracts Roger from continuing his barrage, and he yells an insult at me before stuttering off. The fall hurt, but I'm okay. And Junior helps me up.

My safety glasses took the worse of the damage. A cheap piece of shit cracked. Thankfully, angry guy gave me his before leaving, so I go to my locker room to get them. I take a moment in the locker room, trying to come to terms with my new job. work seven days a week with a manager that treats employees like garbage and get paid well, or go back to unemployment and yard work. Slipping on the expensive safety glasses, I decided to stick it out for as long as I can. If Roger tries to pull that crap on me, especially with a witness,

I'll be going to HR so fast his head will be spinning. Walking back to the factory floor, I passed the windows to the break room. It doesn't register at first. My eyes catch sight of something, but my brain is having trouble understanding. I take the glasses off and clean an imaginary smudge off with my t-shirt to have a clear look. My supervisor and Roger are sitting at a table with the woman from HR that interviewed me. They don't pay me any mind, probably not even noticing I'm in the hall. Putting these glasses back on, I no longer see the three faces I recognize.

Instead, these are horribly disfigured faces. with hollow eye sockets, gaping maws with no teeth, and slithering hair. Somehow, I managed not to lose my shit and go back to the factory floor. As I make my way back to Junior, I look at all the people I pass. All of them look just like they'd before, except for Adrian. His face is halfway between normal and the disfigured faces like the three in the break room. His mouth is wider with blackened teeth. His eyes are solid black and sunken inside the sockets.

He sees me looking and gives me a thumbs up. Not knowing what else to do and not wanting to bring attention to myself, I return the gesture, go back to work. Then I glance at the control room. And the two guys in there also have messed up faces like Adrian. It's not as bad as management, but on their way. Thankfully, Junior doesn't have a face like this. and I recall that the angry guy used to work down here with him, as nonchalantly as I can, I asked Junior about him.

Angry guy's real name is Chad, and he worked here for about four weeks. He started off at the rollers like I did, but was moved to the finished end to fill a void brought on by another guy quitting. Chad hated this place as much as anyone, but he has a pregnant wife at home, and he held out as long as he could. About two weeks ago, they took a smoke break together, and Chad found a pair of designer safety glasses left on one of the tables. Since no one was around to claim them, Chad kept them. This was only significant to Junior, because he noticed a change in Chad after that.

He stopped joking around as much and kept his focus on the work. Hardly said more than two words to their supervisor. When they were alone at the smoking tables, he started bitching about the broken systems. that they were working in. Only people a part of the in-crowd were promoted. The monsters that ran this company were corrupt, money-grubbing shit stains. Members of a horrid race that needed to be euthanized. Chad had been surrounded by the drastic change in Chad's demeanor.

But after dealing with the bullshit for six months, he certainly couldn't blame the guy. Junior starts giving me the skinny on how this place really works. Certain people we work with are team players, but to an unhealthy extreme, it would make sense that anyone in authority role would act this way, but three workers closer to our level are more like company as ellets. Adrian and the two guys in the control room will alert our supervisor to anyone slacking off, taking too many breaks or even working a little slower than the others.

It's almost like working in a police state. Those pricks are members of the secret police. The more junior talks, the more everything makes sense. Everyone in a higher position have the messed up faces. And those who have been here more than a year are changing. This place is turning people into monsters. And I don't know what to do. I think about it all day.

And I can't get it out of my head. Because even as I pass out in my bed, quitting isn't enough. Factory will continue to turn people. Something must be done. Few hours into my next shift, I find myself working solo at the next rolling station. Adrian is the next station, keeping an eye on me to make sure we're getting things right. While setting up a roll for the next splice in, I slip a waterproof match into the tape. When given the signal over the radio, I hit the switch, and the splice takes.

Not two minutes later, the fire alarms start blaring. Our supervisors order an immediate evacuation. Most of us don't get very far. I wake up in the hospital a few days later. Fire spread disturbingly quickly, causing an explosion in the gas lines. There was a leak so small that no one had detected it, largely due to the overwhelming odor of the starch slurry. My injuries aren't so bad, but I did take a hard hit to the head.

Dad got me a lawyer. He's telling me that with all the lawsuits being filed over this incident, company's going to have to pay out large settlements to the survivors. Even more to the families of the few who died. I learned the four people who died were Adrian, Roger, one of the control room guys and my supervisor. Only monsters died, and foul play is not suspected. I couldn't have planned it better.

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