Certain Death One

The Horror-1

The HorrorCaptain 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 s**t' 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.