Chapter 8 - The Secret in the Soil
We ran deep into the forest, leaving Steven groaning in the dirt behind the barn.
The glow of the burning farmhouse faded as we pushed through the thick, thorny underbrush.
After a mile of agonizing running, we collapsed near the edge of the old county highway.
We were completely exhausted, covered in soot, and gasping for breath.
“We need to flag down a car,” I said, looking at the empty stretch of road.
“No,” Julia said, leaning against a large oak tree.
“Vanguard will have men patrolling this road.”
“We need to get to the local news station in the next town.”
I looked at her, confused by the sudden change in plan.
“Why the news station?” I asked.
“Because calling the corrupt police won’t work,” Julia explained.
“We need to expose the toxic waste scandal publicly before Marcus can cover it up.”
“If we broadcast the coordinates of the burial site on live television, the federal government will have to investigate.”
It was a brilliant and dangerous plan.
We walked along the tree line for hours, avoiding the headlights of passing cars.
Eventually, the sky began to lighten, signaling the start of a new, terrifying day.
We reached the outskirts of the neighboring town just as the sun crested the horizon.
A small diner was opening for breakfast, its neon sign buzzing loudly.
“Wait here,” I told Mom and Julia.
I walked to the back of the diner and found a rusted old pickup truck with the keys left in the ignition.
It belonged to the cook, who was busy flipping pancakes inside.
I felt a pang of guilt, but survival was more important than morality at this moment.
I started the engine and drove around to the edge of the woods.
Julia and Mom climbed into the back seat, keeping their heads down.
“Next stop, Channel 7 News,” I muttered, merging onto the main road.
The drive took thirty minutes, but it felt like thirty years.
Every time I saw a police cruiser or a black SUV, my heart nearly stopped.
We finally pulled into the parking lot of the local television station.
It was a small, brick building with a large satellite dish on the roof.
I parked the stolen truck in the back alley and helped my mother out.
We walked through the front doors, looking like absolute disaster victims.
The receptionist, a young woman with a headset, looked at us in sheer horror.
“Can I help you?” she asked, reaching for her phone.
“I need to speak to your investigative reporter, right now,” I demanded.
“It’s about Vanguard Development, and I have proof of massive environmental crimes.”
The receptionist hesitated, then pressed a button on her desk.
“Mr. Davis, you might want to come out to the lobby.”
A tall man with glasses walked out, looking annoyed until he saw our soot-covered faces.
May you like
“I’m Clara,” I told him.
“And I am ready to burn an empire to the ground.”
