Groundswell: Chapter Eighteen

“I don’t remember. This shit’s all over the conspiracy sites and it’s more or less what I’m telling you now. Why the hell haven’t you already looked into all that shit?”

A deafening silence hovered above the conference table for nearly a full minute after one of the six men seated around it turned off the recording.

A stone-faced man leaned slightly forward into the light. “Who’s going to clean this up?”

“Has it come to that?” asked another.

“Yes, I think so, given the considerable risk we take by watching and waiting. Why the hell wasn’t I told about these murders ’til now?”

“We don’t monitor that situation very closely anymore,” said another man. “We… missed it, sir.”

The stone-faced man folded his hands on the table and sighed. “How could there be exposure? Those tanks don’t deteriorate.”

“We speculate increased seismic activity in the area may have cracked one of them open, allowing it to seep into the water supply,” said a new voice. “Perhaps some of the local game animals have ingested it and been consumed. In any case, I think zone three should handle it. It’s their territory and they know it best.”

The stone-faced man steepled his fingers and thought about this for a good long while.

“Do it. Get the ball rolling on this tonight. Drag people out of bed if they don’t answer the phone. I want feet on the street by tomorrow afternoon.”

They each took turns acknowledging the order as they rose to leave.

“If anyone catches on to what you’re doing,” he began, watching them freeze in place as if suspended by invisible puppet strings, “you know what to do.”

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