Secrets Room

by Kim Faulks

  “There's no way out? I don’t understand. How is there no way out?” Glib’s rising voice was drawing the attention of everyone else in the room. She could feel their gazes piercing her.

  “What do you mean by that?” The question came from a man, somewhere in the back of the crowd. She caught the sheen of sweat on his balding head as the speaker moved. He began stretching his long legs, moving around those who climbed to their feet, working his way in her direction. His snotty expression and beady eyes stared down at her. People like him were always quick to judge. Her stomach hardened. She could feel the itch again, deep down inside, scratching at her insides, wearing away at her resolve. She knew what they saw, a dead-beat junkie. Morgan wiped the spot under her nose. The after-effects of the habit were hard to break.

  “Well... what do you mean?”

  Her gut felt raw and she tasted blood in her mouth as she answered. “There's no door....”

  She wiped her nose again—scratch, scratch, scratch—and broke his gaze, finding the peeling toes of her fake-leather boots.

  “No. That’s a lie. There’s got to be a way out.”

  Morgan could feel the fighter inside rear her head, urging her to extend her middle finger in response. Instead, she shrugged and motioned around the room. “Find a way out and I'm right behind you.”

  The attention in the room shifted from her to the stuck-up motherfucker and Morgan took this opportunity to ease a step back. The energy in the room buzzed like a live wire, crackling and hissing with each cry of frustration as they banged on the walls. She glanced at the empty doorway. Traces of the fear she’d felt still lingered. She watched the others closely, waiting for someone else to react the same way.

  One by one, they stepped passed her and into the smaller room. Morgan’s breathing slowed as she waited for the screams to come. Each heartbeat felt like an eternity. Her gut warned her that something was wrong and she knew better than to ignore the warning. A woman’s cry sounded through the doorway. Morgan took a tentative step toward the opening and was knocked backwards as one of the women shot past. The other woman covered her mouth, her brown eyes stretched wide, pulling her wrinkles taut. She shook her head and her dangling earrings danced as she glanced behind her.

  “Don’t go in there. There are cockroaches as big as rats.”

  The older woman looked like she was stuck in her mid-life, new-age hippie crisis. Her short grey hair and lack of makeup screamed tree-hugger, a tree-hugger who hated insects. Morgan knew the cockroaches were the least of her problems. She wasn’t worried about the bottom-feeders. She’d met a few humans who put them to shame. She swallowed hard—like herself, for instance. Yeah, she was a real piece of work.

  They searched every section of the wall, pushing and prodding. Some tried to dig at the wooden planks while shielding their eyes from the glare. Their cries turned to snarls as Morgan watched them beat against the walls. After a while, the sound became strangely hypnotic. One after another, they screamed, cried, fell into a heap, or held each other, all but a few men who stood separate from the others. It felt like days had passed since she’d first opened her eyes, or it could have been only minutes, Morgan didn't know. There was no marking of the clock, no fading of the endless sun to announce the passing of the day—only the enduring heat and stench.

  “She's right,” said the man who was so quick to dismiss her. “There's no door out of here. We’re trapped.”

  A young punk with a black Mohawk mumbled something Morgan couldn’t catch, but a few stopped tearing at the walls to stare at her.

  The hippie who barged passed Morgan earlier turned around slowly in the center of the room. Morgan could see she was unraveling from the inside. Her frantic gaze and fluttering hands said one word, unstable.

  “No. Wait. How do we know anything at all? I don’t know you. I don’t know any of you and you don’t know me. Maybe you think I caused this too, is that what you all think?”

  “It’s alright. No one thinks that about you. We all know you had nothing to do with this.” Another woman stepped up to the new-age grandma, grabbing her by the shoulders. Morgan hadn’t really noticed this woman before, though she didn’t understand why. Everything about her reeked of money and power, from her ramrod posture and turned-up nose, to her immaculate caramel slacks and brown pumps. “Look at me. That’s right, just breathe. We’ll get through this, okay?”

  The pompous, balding prick yelled, cutting through the air like a piece of jagged glass. “How can we get through this, when we don’t even know what this is? Where are we? Who put us here? If you have any answers, please share, because I just want to get out of here. I want to go home. I want to go home!”

  Suddenly, the air around Morgan changed. The room’s fragile balance took on an air of dangerous desperation, peaking with full-bloodied screams for help, accompanied by the drum roll of fists as the stuck-up bastard beat the walls and others followed suit.

  Morgan stood back, her breaths coming hard and fast, matching the speed of her heart.

  “Don't get carried away,” Morgan murmured. She pressed her back against the wall, taking comfort in the hardness and the protection of her back. She’d been on this roller coaster many times before and the end had always been the same. Self-destruction was some hard shit to clean up. The need was the same either way you saw it. Need to get home, need to leave this shit-hole behind, need another fix. Staying calm and controlled was the only way out of here; the only way she’d survive.

  Morgan searched the panicked faces, looking for an anchor in this turbulent sea. One man’s deep brown eyes caught her attention. She clung to his gaze like a raft, while the screams continued. He towered over everyone else in the room. His body leaned forward, like he was ready for a fight, like he was ready for danger. His shaggy blonde hair was longer on top and he dragged his fingers through the thick strands, pushing them back. His leather jacket looked soft and worn. The dark areas on the front were in the shape of a patch, one that had been removed. He moved and his jacket parted, showing her his thick chest and hard stomach. She swallowed as her eyes travelled lower. The pounding on the wall reverberated through her body, or the vibration could have been her heartbeat. Morgan shivered and glanced away. She had bigger things to worry about—bigger things than him—like surviving this fucking nightmare.

  Glib stood closest to her. She had to try to find a way out on her own, so she aimed her question at him. “So, what's the last thing you remember?”

  “What?” He jumped and yanked his head toward her. There was no life left in his eyes, only a haunting desperation. Morgan couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

  Her jaw clenched and she breathed deep before trying again. “I said, what's the last thing you remember?” And, please, for fucks sake, don't say me sucking your dick....

  Glib took on that far-away stare as he searched for the last moment in his memory. Morgan took this moment to glance back at the biker. He was staring at her and she felt like prey, stunned by his brown eyes. He wasn't her type. Dangerous and exciting was just another drug to avoid. Yeah, he was definitely not her type.

  “The last thing I remember was walking through Vic Park on my way to the soup kitchen.”

  Glib’s words tore Morgan away from that runaway train, and the tingle deep inside her died in its tracks. She breathed a sigh of relief, “You homeless, Glib?”

  “No... only for a bit, till I get back on my feet.”

  She nodded. She'd heard the same lie before. He was already on the slippery slide of failure, already squeezed his ass between the metal ridges of that slide and was on his way down, down, down... the poor bastard just refused to admit it.

  Caught up in another sad, sorry tale, she missed the turn of the tide when the others in the room stopped pounding on the walls and instead started firing questions, hoping for a direct hit, hoping to make someone bleed.

  “I don’t understand this! Why’re we here?” One of the men screamed and slammed the wall with his
foot. The sound reverberated inside the room. He turned on the others, jabbing the air with his finger. “There has to be someone here who knows something!”

  “Hey. It’s not me.” Someone answered defensively. “I woke up after you, remember?”

  “What about her?” The punk with the Mohawk pointed to Morgan. “How else would she have known there was no door?”

  Morgan's world narrowed, like the pinning of opiate-induced pupils, as the room turned on her once again.

  “How did you know there was no door?” The hippie turned on Morgan. “You seem to know a lot more than anyone else here. Who are you and why are we here?”

  She swore to herself if she got out of this alive, the bitch was getting sucker-punched in the gut. The older woman’s outburst seemed to whip the others into frenzy. Her hopes of surviving took a steep dive.

  The punk started first, pointing at Morgan. “How did she know there was no way out before we all did? How come she seemed to be awake before everyone else? You want to find out why we’re here and how to get out? Then start with her!”

  Jesus, no. Morgan licked her cracked lips and shook her head. She could see the panic building. Silence filled the room. When they stopped pounding on the walls, she knew there was only a matter of time before they started pounding on each other. Their darkened, hostile stares found her. Her stomach tightened and she knew they would start with her.

  The others surged in her direction. Their questions fired from all directions. “How did you know… when did you wake up…why are we here, what do you want from us... who the fuck are you working for?”

  “I don’t know anything. I don’t fucking know anything!” She screamed and swallowed as she edged sideways toward the empty frame. No way was she stepping through that door, no fucking way. The crowd surged forward, quickly turning into a mob.

  They closed in around her. She held up her hands in defense because they were shooting questions like weapons, none of which she could answer. There was nothing she could say, or do to stop what was about to happen. She scanned the faces, desperately searching for an ally, someone—anyone to help her, and caught the glazed eyes of a young girl.

  She couldn't help Morgan. She wouldn't even know what the hell was happening. Morgan tried to reach out to her, tried to push her away from the others, in case they turned on her and she was blindsided by a blow to the face. Her head snapped sideways, her footing slipped and she stumbled. Morgan tried to hold on, tried to keep from falling, but her head… her head roared with pain. The blinding room darkened, at first fading to grey and then swallowed by black as she was pulled under.

  SLADE WAS ALREADY MOVING BEFORE the first punch slammed the young woman into the wall, already reaching for the gutless prick who blindsided her. But he didn’t have to. She found her attacker first.

  He watched her fall, only to see her rise a second later, stagger and launch herself at the punk. Slade grabbed hold of the nearest guy and ripped him back from the crowd. A few hours locked in a room together and these people turned fucking insane.

  “Get off me!” The guy spun with fists clenched, ready to strike.

  “Do it and I’ll break every bone in that fucking fist.” Slade growled, stepping in to close the distance.

  The guy’s eyes widened and he held up his hands, palms forward, and backed away. “Sorry man, I don’t want any trouble.”

  Slade was used to this reaction, sometimes he even searched for it. His size wasn’t an opponent’s only deterrent. Slade had an ability to go to a place where others wouldn't—a place where the killer inside of him knew no bounds—a place where he felt right at home.

  A petite fist shot out, finding the mark between the punk's nose and his mouth. His head snapped back, the hardened spikes of his hair reached down his back as blood shot into the air to spray her in the face. His screams quietened the rest of them. He dropped to the ground, a cowering mess.

  Slade couldn't stop the smile. Damn she could fight. She was deceiving, this one—deceiving as hell. At first glance she looked pretty, too pretty for her tattered clothes and beaten-down expression. Her intense brown eyes found him, and in a flash, they were gone again. Her long, brown hair whipped around her face as she swung her fists wide. She looked fierce, untamable. Slade was intrigued, hell he was more than intrigued—he was downright smitten. She wiped the blood from her face, and spat on the ground.

  “Anyone else wanna take a shot?” She yelled, her voice sounded raw. “Come on, you fucking pieces of shit!”

  No one else volunteered.

  The others were silent. The only sounds were their panting breaths, the only movement their heaving chests. She cocked her fist, ready to strike again.

  “Maybe we should just all calm the hell down,” Slade growled. “Let's think this through, and then ask the lady your questions instead of jumping to the wrong conclusions.”

  Wild Thing laughed. “That’s a first for me, being called a lady. But I’ll take it, kind sir. Now you better step back, don’t wanna get blood on all that pretty leather now, do we?”

  Her throaty growl woke dead things inside of him. This one was a dangerous desire. Slade clenched his jaw and willed the longings back to slumber. It’d been a long time since he'd had any woman of significance. People around him either ended up murdered, or just up and fucking left. Unfortunately, the tally was growing on the former.

  “And for the fucking record, I woke up not long before you all did! The reason I knew there was no fucking door was because I was trying to get the hell outta here. I don’t know what happened here and I don’t want to know, but you better stay out of my fucking way and the next prick that comes at me will fucking limp back.” She glared at the others and one by one, they stepped away. She had some balls about her, that was for sure.

  Slade shrugged and swallowed the desert inside his mouth. “Makes sense to me. I mean any of us could’ve woken first and I don’t know about you, but I know there is no way in hell this woman could drag my ass in here.”

  “She could’ve had help,” someone argued.

  He searched for the speaker, but no one stepped forward. “Yeah she could’ve, but that means that one of you are probably just as guilty as she is, and until we have some concrete facts, we’re no better than a fucking lynch mob.”

  He watched the realization hit home in their eyes, followed by the horror of what they’d done.

  “Jesus.” One woman stepped backward, her hand rose to her mouth as she croaked. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Wait a minute!” the punk cried. “She broke my fucking nose.”

  Her reaction was too quick for Slade to stop, even if he wanted to, which he didn't. Wild Thing strode forward, wrenched back her foot and booted him hard in the stomach. The gutless punk cried out as he rolled around on the ground.

  She sniffed and rubbed at her nose, just like a junkie. Her eyes were bright and full of life, nothing like the dead-inside addicts he knew. She snapped her head up to catch Slade staring. “What are you looking at?”

  He couldn’t help but smile as he answered. “You. I’m looking at you.” He stepped forward and held out his hand. “I'm Slade.”

  She left his outstretched hand hanging while she glared at him with a wariness he’d come to expect. Until she clasped his hand with her own and answered. “Morgan.”

  He glanced around the room, squinting. The sunlight cut through the cracks like a sword. “You have any idea where we are?”

  “No, and why the hell are you asking me?”

  He turned back towards her. “Because you're probably one of the smartest people in this room and I don't usually talk to idiots who can't think for themselves.”

  “Fuck you.” The punk moaned.

  “What's in there?” Slade motioned to an empty doorway. He’d caught her reaction a second before the others descended with their fists and ignorance. There seemed to be something about that room that freaked her out. He’d be lying if he didn’t say he was intrigued as hell
as to what that was.

  “Nothing as far as I can see. But if you want to check it out for yourself, be my guest.” She stepped aside, allowing him to pass. His feet seemed to have a mind of their own, faltering as the toes of his boots met the doorway. An ache formed at the back of his throat. He swallowed, feeling his heart leap inside his chest like a frightened animal, desperate to get out. Jesus, his hand shook until he gripped the wooden frame and peered into the dingy room.

  The far corner of the room was blackened and blistered, as though someone had set a fire. The rest of the room was the same as the one he stood in, no windows, no doors, and no way out. He rubbed the back of his neck, sliding through the sweat to grip the tense muscles underneath. Someone wanted them locked in here for a reason. The small hair on the back of Slade’s neck stood at attention. Did his MC President, Corey, have a hand in this? Had that bastard thrown him in with a few innocent people to teach him a lesson?

  Slade shrugged off his jacket, dropped the leather on the floor, and sat down. Morgan hovered next to him. He kept his gaze on the others, but his mind was on her. He waited for her to sit. He didn’t have to wait long. She stepped around his outstretched legs and took a seat. He said nothing at first. In his line of work, he read people, picking out the wannabes who hid in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to gun him down and take the cash, or drugs. None had made it so far. So he knew without a doubt, she’d run if he threatened her, but as much as he hated to do this, he had to know… he had to stay alive. He passed the time watching a few of the men claw at the walls like cornered rats.

  He waited until he thought she was relaxed before he spoke. “I'm only gonna ask you once, Morgan, and I want the truth ‘cause you don't wanna know what I'll do if I find out you lied to me…” He let his words sink in and settle all the way down to her stomach, to where both truth and lies hid. “Did Corey set this up? Are you part of his new crew?”

  Sifting the truth from the lies was all about timing. He could hear the ticking of a clock inside his head, waiting for her to answer, for the truth to surface like a week-old body. Yeah truth and lies were all about timing, just like the agonizing minutes between the breaking of one finger to the next... one and two and three and four....