by Jade Allen
“Hey, hey, hey...don’t cry, Love. We’ll be fine; I’ll figure it out.” Malcolm propped up onto an arm and, with his free hand, gently stroked the tears away. “I would never normally say this, but you are just breaking my heart.”
“This is the worst date I have ever been on.” Rayne sniffled, muffling her choked laugh. Malcolm beamed back, and despite the matted blood on his face, he looked more handsome than ever.
“What do we-” Rayne’s voice was cut off by a delicious kiss from Malcolm. He snaked a hand through Rayne’s damp hair and cupped her head ever so gently. The danger and rush of surviving pumped wildly in her veins, Rayne couldn’t help but return the deep kiss.
“So,” Rayne managed breathlessly, “what do we do now?”
****
There was blood everywhere. It coated the walls, the floor--there were even spurts on the ceiling. Rayne held a double-ended canoe paddle in both hands and braced herself; this was not in the brochure.
Rayne stood in the middle of the killing floor, a secret chamber within the airplane hangars where the “resort” managers checked out their guests. Bile threatened to spill out from Rayne’s throat, but she swallowed firmly and started to breathe through her mouth.
A large stainless steel table sat to the side of the room. Installed at regular intervals were several built-in circular power-saws sitting idly, the teeth riddled with shards of bone and strips of tissue. Beside the table stood large dripping containers filled with the putrefying meat of their fellow guests. Rayne could see a tuft of matted magenta hair poking out through one of the mounds.
Rayne crinkled her nose as she walked around the room to see if there were any hidden holding chambers or computers. Earlier, Malcolm had stolen a biohazard suit from a wandering worker and handed it to Rayne; he pocketed a small taser found on the suit’s belt to complete their disguises as captor and captive. Since leaving the shack, they had clambered and slipped down the forest hillside following fresh tire tracks leading back to the airport. It was the only clue they had.
They entered the hangar with the most footprint tracks leading inside, Rayne wearing the yellow biohazard suit and holding the paddle as though she confiscated it from Malcolm. The hangar concealed a suite of industrial-like office rooms and was eerily quiet. With no one to stop them, Rayne followed a small trail of blood to what she would learn was the killing floor, while Malcolm followed footsteps that led further down into the building. He had shown Rayne a flash drive which he hoped to load onto an encrypted website that would alert his friends to send help. Finding a computer was their prime goal. Lost in the horror of the bloody room, Rayne almost missed the hissing voice of Malcolm behind her.
“I think I found the place we need, but we need to make a distraction first. Follow me.”
Rayne stepped out of the blood and wiped her feet on a nearby cloth before running after Malcolm and back to the undergrowth. Malcolm scurried down the forest running parallel to the hangar, coming to a stop at the two-thirds mark.
“You’re not going to like this, but I think there are surviving guests in this part of the hangar—it’s like a hospital wing. I took a quick look and saw a ton of computers, but there are medical staff working on the group. They keep using ear thermometers on them for some reason. For me to get in there, we need to make a distraction.”
Rayne thought back to her memories of the runway; I’ve got it!
“How much do you like your shirt?” she asked.
****
An almighty explosion rocketed the side of the compound, sending sheets of metal and debris soaring through the air. Workers milled out of every building to converge on the explosion, only to be faced with smaller explosions dotted around the hangars. Malcolm, now shirtless and shielded by Rayne in her yellow suit, sprinted to the access door that led to the hospital wing.
They watched several staff run from the room before they barged through the doorway and into a pristine white space filled with gadgets and machinery. All the remaining guests were hooked up to a bevy of monitors and pumps. At the end stood a doctor reading charts.
“Oh, what a surprise--another one! We have just one left out there now: a female. I wonder if she’s the reason behind that kerfuffle outside.” The doctor picked up one of the strange ear thermometers and crammed it into Malcolm’s ear. When it failed to go off, he recalibrated and tried again. This time when it didn’t go off, Malcolm stuck him with the taser and let him spasm to the ground.
Rayne ran back to the entry door and hauled some heavy gas cans into the room before bolting all the doorways.
“It’s too late,” the doctor slurred from his collapsed position. “Doesn’t matter what you do, these hosts will be sent back into circulation tomorrow to beckon the beginning of a new world order.”
“Hosts? Is that what you’re calling these people? What have you done to them?” Malcolm had leapt to a monitor and was feverishly tapping keys.
The doctor was unable to control his limbs and continued to tremble on the floor, “Done? You mean improved. Ha, one by one, the elite will find their lofty heights crumbling to ruin, never realizing it came from within.”
Around the ward were shimmering tanks. At first glance, they looked like decorative screens, but seen up close, the tanks were filled with millions of tiny clear and silvery bits. Rayne held her hand up to the glass of one tank and a cluster of silver converged on the spot, mimicking the shape. She gasped and stood back. “What is this?”
“It’s new nanotechnology--my nano-bites.” The doctor had pulled himself up to sit, slumping against a bedpost. “These critters do amazing things when they’re inside the human brain. They love patterns, you see. You’ve already felt the effects of these nano-bites, but you two were highly resistant.”
Rayne looked up at the doctor. Malcolm paused as he typed frantically. “What do you mean?” he ventured.
“Remember that night with the loud music? You were all fed large amounts of nano-bites in your cocktails. The bass-driven music was chosen to allow the nano-bites to activate your most basic survival needs. We ended up with twenty-nine people having intercourse uncontrollably--all in the name of cross contamination.” He had pulled himself to his knees and was attempting to stand back up, but Rayne grabbed her paddle and smacked him hard against the ribs, sending him back to the floor.
“Are these people still alive? Can these nano-bites be removed?” she snapped.
The doctor sputtered and laughed, “No, they’re as good as gone. The nano-bites will have destroyed enough of the brain during the replication process. They’re on life support until the nano-bites reprogram themselves.”
“And what about us?”
The doctor motioned to the ear thermometers. “Find out for yourselves. They’ll beep if they make contact with nano-bites; your friend over there with the taser doesn’t have them.”
Rayne grabbed a thermometer and crammed it into her ear. There was a painful, long wait and a quiet click. Nothing.
“Rayne, we have to go,” Malcolm said, grabbing his flash drive.
Rayne grabbed a gas can and started to shake its contents out over the floor and the machines. Once the doctor got a whiff of the gasoline, he started to panic and yell. Malcolm slammed a foot into the doctor’s side and hurled an open gas can across the room, smashing it into a tank of nano-bites and sending them splashing onto the ground in a gloppy mess.
“Quick, get out! I have the suit on!” Rayne yelled.
Malcolm threw her the taser and ran to the doorway, pausing at the threshold. Using her paddle, Rayne knocked over the closest remaining tanks and upended her gas can. The doctor gave one final scramble and grabbed for Rayne’s leg. She reacted instinctively, plunging the taser into his back which set his gasoline-soaked lab coat ablaze. Rayne slipped and ran from the room, following Malcolm’s fleeing body across the compound and out into the forest. There were several audible cracks and final a whooshing sound that preceded an almighty explosion which rocked t
he ground and sent Rayne airborne, landing in a hollow.
Taking the opportunity as she lay out of sight, Rayne frantically kicked off the yellow suit and scrambled out of her hiding spot to follow the direction Malcolm had seemed to take. Hardly a few steps into her sprint, she was snatched from the ground by a pair of familiar arms—it was Malcolm.
“To the beach?” he gasped; Rayne nodded and they took off into the growing darkness.
****
It had taken only an hour for army jets to scramble and do their first set of flyovers, and another hour for the military to arrive. With the runway ruined by the explosions, none of the island staff could leave and were forced to surrender to the arriving army. Rayne and Malcolm had lit a fire on the beach and waited for the scouts to come to them.
After the military had arrived, Rayne and Malcolm were stationed back at her huge cabin and given thorough once-overs by army medical personnel. They were both slightly singed from their earlier pyrotechnics at the compound. Rayne explained they had stolen gas cans and poured them around the compound before laying a trail to the large fuel tank, using Malcolm’s shirt as a wick. They were sitting in fresh bathrobes when an official walked into the cabin.
“Rayne Baker? Malcolm Derby? I can’t imagine the things you’ve seen today.” He had taken off his hat and a sadness filled his demeanor. “We found the remains you spoke of, and our team thinks it has found a site for a mass grave. It will be some time before we know for sure.”
“Where are the workers?” asked Rayne. She had insisted that she felt the on-site staff were not directly involved in the malicious activities on the island.
The official sucked on his teeth, “We think there are two groups of people working here: legitimate resort staff and the project operators. The resort staff were found holed up in bunkers beneath us. They have access through the atrium and a private track. They are all being questioned and detained.”
It was Malcolm’s turn to ask a question, he had been very quiet since they’d been picked up. “Do you know what the purpose of this plan was?”
This time the official gave a pointed look at the duo, then he shrugged, “We found documents in other areas of the hangars. It looks like the nanotechnology could be manipulated to create influence within the brain. There were drawings and samples of simple electronic transmitters. I’m not exactly sure of how they worked, but one of our teams thinks they would be inserted under the skin and a control station would send out signals.”
“But that doesn’t explain why they would make them so contagious. You’d end up killing people and enforcing a quarantine.”
“Exactly. We’re discovering content that shows the nanotechnology evolving so it doesn’t attack the medulla oblongata, the part of the brain that regulates respiration and heart rate. They believed that second generation nano-bites would be virtually undetectable and could be controlled through long-range communications--like how a mobile phone picks up a signal.”
“But why invite us?”
“You? You were accidents. You, Malcolm, were supposed to be Ben, a womanizing advertising agent. And you, Rayne, were a complete accident of fate. We saw a chart with lists of people and institutions. It looks like they were planting agents in locations that would help spread the infection or could directly affect outcomes. Imagine if you had the ear of some of the world’s most powerful financiers? Or, could encourage oil magnates to restrict sales by the flick of a switch?”
“But, the resort get-up—why not just capture people?”
“Now that we’re still speculating on. I side strongly with the argument that this resort was another way to spread infection to the ludicrously rich. If they felt unwell, they could blame it on the climate or being bitten by a tropical bug rather than thinking they’ve been infected with an aggressive piece of nanotechnology. It was a smoke-and-mirrors ploy.”
Malcolm and Rayne sat in stunned silence.
The official stood up and wished them a restful night. As he left, a nurse reappeared and said that they should get some rest, enforcing the condition they don’t go on the balcony as specified in their short-term home quarantine. Just as the door closed and locked, Rayne stood up and walked to the bedroom. With one backwards glance, she beckoned Malcolm.
In a rush of kisses, Malcolm scooped up Rayne and held her close. They collapsed onto the king bed and started throwing off their robes.
“Wait,” Rayne pushed Malcolm back, “what if this isn’t real, but a hangover from the other night’s drugging?”
“I don’t know about that; this feels pretty real to me. Does this feel real to you?” he asked, placing Rayne’s hand on his swollen bulge.
Before she could control herself, Rayne had flung off her clothes and was writhing on the bed underneath Malcolm. Malcolm’s touches were gentle, but firm and full of promise. He had unbuckled his jeans and yanked out his engorged member, which was pulsing with anticipation. Rayne let her hands wander over Malcolm’s muscled back, coming to a rest on either one of his pert buttocks. She gave a squeeze and relished the feeling of Malcolm’s cock jolting against her belly. Malcolm fed one of Rayne’s nipples into his mouth and licked hungrily. Despite his earlier injuries, he was adept at moving quickly and let his mouth wander down her body toward her freshly-waxed center. He parted Rayne’s thighs and sunk his mouth to her swelling clit, sending electrical buzzes through her body.
Slurping and swirling his tongue hungrily, Malcolm teased her engorged slit with the tip of his tongue, slipping the tip of his fat pink tongue into the wetness. Rayne muffled her moaning and dragged Malcolm back up, her hands feverishly feeding his thickness into her throbbing core. Malcolm dropped his face, trailing his tongue alongside her neck as he drew his cock in and out of her. Every thrust widened and then tightened Rayne’s slippery hole--Malcolm was a tight fit, and his girthy cock was lapping up the firm squeeze. Grunting with effort and lust, Malcolm increased the pace of his thrusting, and Rayne dug her fingers into his buttocks. The intensity of their lovemaking was magnified by the quiet breaths they passed, until finally, in a rapturous end, the hot splash of Malcolm’s seed sent Rayne spiraling into a rhythm of toe-curling orgasms, each one milking his exhausted length.
“I think I’m going to enjoy house detention,” Rayne gasped.
THE END
Desire On The Run
Story Description
My mother always told me not to talk to strangers...but this time, how could I possibly resist?
“Chelsea Davies, good morning. You are in a great deal of danger. I strongly advise you to call into work sick today. In fact, it would be best if you remained exactly where you are in your apartment for the next thirty minutes.”
Pfft...and you thought your Monday was bad? Imagine waking up to a call like this?
“Someone wants to kill you. They think you know something that they’d rather keep hidden.”
And why should I believe a word you're saying?
"It doesn’t matter at the end of the day whether you know it or not—the person after you thinks that you do, because you have the information.”
Within no time, there's a man at my door here to whisk me away to safety...and he's drop dead gorgeous.
Do I trust him, grab my stuff and run?
Or is he as much of a threat as the people that he claims are after me?
PART ONE
Chelsea had finally managed to sink into the depths of the sleep she craved after spending an entire night tossing and turning, her mind going over the petty details and stresses of her week at work. Finally, as the sky had already begun to lighten, her mind had succumbed to the bone-deep exhaustion of her body, and given up the task of enumerating all the things she needed to do. She was in the midst of a dream—a sweet, uncomplicated, comforting dream—when the siren-slide sound of Hot Hot Heat’s “Future Breeds” reached into her brain, splitting the air and cutting through the threads of her dream state. Chelsea groaned, the sound almost a sob of frustration,
as she reached out and blindly grabbed for her phone where she kept it; not on her bedside table, which she knew from experience would make it easier to turn the alarm off altogether, but on the desk next to her bed. Fumbling, she closed her fingers around the slippery device and by memory thumbed the snooze feature.
Chelsea knew that the nine minutes’ silence would not actually help; it felt as if every joint in her body had been attacked by bat-wielding assailants, as if her eyelids had been replaced with sandpaper. The dull throb at her temples told her readily that nine minutes was simply not a replacement for the hours of sleep she had missed. But for a precious few moments, at least, she could pretend she didn’t have to get up and out of bed, that she didn’t have to go to work. Chelsea let the phone fall onto the blankets, curling in on herself tighter and burying her face against the pillows in denial of the idea that it was already morning.
She began to slip into a doze, her muscles relaxing one by one as the silence stretched out. Maybe—just maybe—she’d get a few minutes of quality sleep. Chelsea’s breathing evened and slowed, and she was on the edge of falling asleep once more when she found herself once more pulled sharply into wakefulness by the sensation of her phone vibrating. Her sleep-fogged brain at first protested that it couldn’t possibly be nine minutes yet; but then, if it had been, she would be hearing her alarm tone—not feeling the buzzing vibration of her phone’s silent “ring.” Someone was calling her.
“It’s like no one in the entire world wants me to sleep today,” Chelsea muttered to herself, opening her eyes and scrubbing at her face in self-pity. Her phone continued to vibrate, and she ruefully gave up on the idea of getting any more sleep. The only people her exhausted mind could think of who would call her at such an early hour were her coworkers; her friends knew better, and the few members of her family still alive and speaking to her did as well. Chelsea yawned as her hand found the phone where it was buried in the blanket. She picked it up and squinted against the light in the room as she tried to force her dry, sleepy eyes to focus on the number flashing on the screen. It wasn’t a number she recognized. For a moment—a flicker of a thought—she considered throwing the phone across the room, curling up once more, and considering the day a complete failure to launch. But Chelsea realized that she was already fully awake; and if it was a telemarketer, she at least could get the lesser comfort of verbally tearing whoever it was into pieces.
