Filthy Secret

NOXIOUS

His lids flutter and close, causing me to panic.

I try to shake him awake, but it does no good. The rise and fall of his chest is no longer evident, nor is the quiet thump of his pulse

when I place my fingers to his neck. This isn’t how our lives are supposed to end. We’re supposed to have a family and grow old together. In fact, “Spend the rest of your life with me,” was the first thing he’d said when he proposed six months ago.

He held silk flowers in one hand and a child’s plastic ring he’d bought from a newsstand at Terminal C in the other, as he dropped to one knee. “Victoria, spend the rest of your life with me. Being stranded at the Denver airport isn’t how I’d planned to do this. We should be on a beach in Hawaii as you soak up the sun and sip fancy drinks with decorative umbrellas, but I guess that isn’t what the big man above had in mind. While we wait for him to reveal our purpose here, I want you to know you’re the love of my life and no matter where we are, I want to spend the rest of mine with you. Will you marry me?”

The scene was as romantic as it could’ve been, considering at the time we’d already been holed up for one hundred and seventy days with no end in sight. In that moment my heart was full, and Hawaii no longer mattered because my ocean swirled in those pleading blue eyes as he waited for my answer. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Eventually my new fiance and I accepted the fact that the rest of our lives meant spending it in this godforsaken building where the bodies of those confident enough to venture outside-only to meet their maker days later-lie motionless on the floor.

Glancing down the long terminal, I realize how few of the stranded are left. There couldn’t be more than a thousand or so and even that number continues to dwindle, almost monthly, from those who are overcome with the effects of isolation. Eventually, taking their own lives.

It doesn’t help that the news continues to deliver vague information about what is happening and how long we’ll be confined. All we do know is, a new man-made fuel, designed to power household furnaces and other fuel-based mechanics, and was intentionally created to be less harmful on the atmosphere, is instead, emitting toxic elements.

Widely used all over the country, the fuel has polluted the air causing death tolls to continue to rise. The totals are posted daily, sometimes even hourly, depending on how great the number. Everyone has been instructed to remain inside. I’d warned Elijah not to try to save any of them, but he’d had no intentions of standing by and watching anyone suffer.

Taking a deep breath of the stale airport air, he layered shirts over his face, leaving only his eyes exposed, then headed straight through the double sliding glass doors, braving the chemical contaminated wind. Heroically dragging people-one by one-back inside. Now they’re all dead, and any hope we had of surviving this mess floats away on the devil’s breath howling just outside.

Knowing he’s gone is like a vise gripping my chest, squeezing until my heart cracks and eventually breaking into a million pieces. It forces a waterfall of tears to erupt and sends them streaking down my cheeks. I could scream for help-soldiers have taken up residence at each gate of Terminal C-but I know Elijah wouldn’t want that. Even if they could get his heart beating again, there’s no guarantee he’d come back as the man he once was. I pull him close, rocking him in my arms until my sobs drown out the world around me.

I don’t hear the thud of their boots until it’s too late. In an instant something is slipped over my head, enveloping me in darkness before strong arms reach beneath mine and someone tries to separate me from my fiance. But I can’t let go. My knuckles ache from my grip on his shirt. Unfortunately, whoever it is, has ten times the strength of mine and I can’t hold on any longer. I cry out as the last piece of material slips through my fingers.

“Set her down over there,” a man says, and paper crunches beneath my ass as I’m shoved onto a hard surface by heavy hands. When the cloth is stripped from my head, I blink a few times to adjust to the light before looking around.

The room is small, furnished with two metal chairs next to the door on one wall and a row of cabinets with a sink on the other. The scent of stale disinfectant permeates the air, reminding me of a doctor’s office, but the two men dressed in desert camo don’t appear to be doctors.

I glance down at where I’m seated and find an examination table. Fear settles in, immobilizing me. “Where are we? And what have you done with my fiance?” I ask, knowing we haven’t gone far from the terminal.

Neither of the men answer. The one with his back to me moves as if he’s on autopilot, removing his button-down shirt and placing it neatly on a nearby chair, before washing his hands. He’s not bare chested, but he might as well be because the thin white tank does little to hide his heavily muscled arms and chest. I get so lost in my perusal of how his muscles move beneath his skin and how I’d be no match for him if I tried to escape, that when he does speak, I practically jump out of my skin.

“By manhandling your fiance, you’ve most likely been exposed to the toxicity from outside. You’ll need to be cleansed of any chemicals, otherwise you’ll die or possibly become sterile,” he says, not bothering to turn around.

The other soldier positions himself next to where I’m seated. His feet are shoulder width apart, his arms crossed at his chest, and his hard stare focused on a spot on the opposite wall. Unlike the other man, he doesn’t say a word.

These are just two of the many soldiers sent here on a rescue mission- at least that’s what we’d been told-many months ago. But if that were true, I’d be planning my wedding instead of sitting in this medical room, waiting to be cleansed of the toxicity I might have been exposed to.

“So how does this work? The cleansing, I mean. Do I, like, shower in bleach or something?” I ask, jokingly, trying to make light of what could very well mean my life or death. When I’m met with only silence, it doesn’t take long before my mind drifts to images of bleach burning my skin and the thought sends a chill up my spine. I jump from the table and head for the door. “Uh-uh. No way. I’ll take my chances.”

The man standing guard anticipates my move and is quick to react. Placing a palm over my mouth and twisting my arm behind my back, he shoves me against the wall. Warm breath caresses my ear as he leans into me. “I knew it wouldn’t be long before Elijah would do something stupid. His loss is my gain. It’s only a matter of time, sweetheart.”

“Let me go, you’re hurting me!” I shout but my voice is muffled against his large hand. Pinned between his army-built frame and the concrete wall it’s as if I’m stuck in a vise but I’m not giving in, not without a fight. Putting all my weight into my shoulder, I try and push him off balance, but it does no good. In fact, my fighting has an effect I hadn’t intended.

Twisting my arm harder against my back, he leans in, pressing his erection against my ass he growls against my ear, “I love a woman with spirit.”C0ntent © 2024 (N/ô)velDrama.Org.

“Goddammit, Travis, can’t you go five minutes without trying to get in someone’s pants?” the other soldier asks.

“And give up the smorgasbord of pussy here? I don’t think so,” he says, licking the shell of my ear before biting the lobe.

“There’ll be plenty of time for that. Until then, you know the routine,” the other soldier grumbles. I crane my head to the side just in time to see the man across the room rolling out a leather tool caddy on the counter before turning around. “Go get her cleaned up, by the time you’re back I’ll be ready,” he says.

The air against my body cools instantly when the man-who I now know as Travis-steps back, lifts me off the ground, and carries me from the room. Getting me cleaned up can only mean one thing, and it’s not something I want any part of. Releasing a scream that pierces my own ears, I twist in his arms and beat my fists against his chest. When his grip tightens, and my strength begins to dwindle, more tears spill from my eyes. “You don’t need to do this, Travis. Please, just let me go. If I’m meant to die by means of whatever it is outside this prison, then so be it. You can quarantine me away from the others. Just don’t do this.”

He doesn’t say a word as we duck inside a door that says employees only. On the other side is a room with rows of lockers against the back wall and a small table with chairs in the center. We make a sudden right, moving through the room where he stops and lowers me to my feet. My gasp echoes throughout the tiled space.

It’s a shower. But not like a shower at someone’s home, this is big enough for a small army. There are exposed shower heads along one wall and open stalls against another, my heart rate increases with each second, I’m in the cold space. Especially with a man who unabashedly was rubbing against me only minutes ago.

“Everything off, including your bra and panties. The soap’s in the gallon jug with a brush next to it. You must scrub every inch of your skin, including your pussy and ass. If you don’t, or you miss anything I’ll do it for you.” He takes a step toward me. “My dick is fucking hard as steel just thinking about it.”

I take several steps back, putting some space between us while eyeing the door behind him. He takes a quick glance over his shoulder and a deep laugh erupts from his chest. “Try it and I’ll hold you down while the sarge makes sure you’re squeaky clean before you take one step out of this room.” He shrugs. “If he lets you live that is.”