Chapter 105: Chapter 105 - A Commodity
Iyisha’s heart lurched as the truck slowed, then stopped.
She had no sense of time anymore. Night had stretched and folded in on itself until it felt endless. The engine cut, and the sudden quiet was shattered by voices outside, loud and pleased, the kind of sound people made when work had gone exactly as planned.
The doors swung open.
Light flooded in, harsh and disorienting. Men leaned over the edge of the truck bed, grinning, calling to each other as they started pulling the crates free. Metal screeched against metal. Someone laughed outright, proud, like they’d landed a haul worth bragging about.
Iyisha set her jaw, bracing herself to see what everyone whispered about.
The Route.
But when she looked up, her brow creased in confusion.
This wasn’t it.
There was no sprawl of shacks or barricades. No maze of structures stacked on top of each other. Instead, a large house stood a short distance away, solid and intact, lights glowing warm behind curtained windows.
Outbuildings sat off to the side. Vehicles were parked neatly, like this was a place people came home to.
Her stomach tightened.
This was wrong.
The Route, from every story she’d heard, was supposed to feel like a broken city, dense and lawless, crowded with desperation and noise. This felt controlled. Private.
She looked at Waldo as they dragged his crate down beside hers. His face mirrored her confusion, eyes flicking from the house to the men and back again, clearly trying to reconcile what he was seeing.
That was when she knew for certain.
This wasn’t the Route.
"Where are you taking us?" Iyisha asked.
Her voice carried. She knew it did.
No one answered.
They didn’t even glance her way. It was as if the question hadn’t been asked, as if she wasn’t someone worth responding to. The men kept working, joking, slapping the sides of the crates as they secured them, focused on unloading like this was routine.
Iyisha swallowed, unease settling deeper in her chest.
Whatever this place was, it wasn’t the nightmare she had expected.
And that made it far more dangerous.
They shoved the crate forward until it scraped against tile.
The room was smaller. Brighter. A bathroom.
Iyisha recoiled instinctively when she saw where they were taking her, her body pressing back against the bars as if distance might help. It didn’t. A man stepped in front of her, filling her view, holding a thick hose fitted with a pressure nozzle. Water dripped steadily from the end, splashing against the floor.
"Take off your clothes," he said.
She shook her head before she even thought about it.
"Take it off," he repeated, voice flat, lifting the nozzle slightly, "or I will."
Her hands were already shaking. Hard enough that it took effort just to move them. Slowly, mechanically, she did what he said. Jacket. Shirt. Pants. Each piece felt heavier than the last, her fingers clumsy, numb, her breath coming too fast. The house was warm, overheated almost, but fear had stripped any comfort from it. She trembled head to toe, teeth chattering now for reasons that had nothing to do with cold.
She was left standing there, exposed, trapped behind wire.
The man didn’t say anything else.
He turned the valve.
The water hit her like a blow.
It wasn’t a spray. It was a solid, hammering force that slammed into her chest and shoulders, driving the air straight out of her lungs. Iyisha cried out but the sound was ripped away immediately, replaced by a sharp gasp as she tried to breathe and couldn’t.
The pressure burned.
It felt like being struck over and over, skin stinging, muscles locking as the water punched into her ribs, her neck, her face. She turned her head instinctively and the stream caught her jaw, her mouth, forcing water in faster than she could spit it out.
She coughed. Choked.
Her breath went ragged, shallow, panic spiking hard as her lungs fought for air that wouldn’t come. The crate amplified everything, the water ricocheting off metal and tile, noise crashing around her, making it impossible to orient, impossible to escape the sensation.
She tried to curl inward but there was nowhere to go.
The stream drove her back against the bars, water slicking the floor beneath her feet, her knees slipping on the dog crate. Her chest burned, each inhale turning into a desperate, wet gasp that only pulled in more water.
She was hyperventilating now, breaths too fast, too shallow, panic stacking on panic as her body screamed that she was drowning even though she was WASN’T.
Her vision blurred at the edges.
Her hands clawed uselessly at the wire, fingers slipping, her body shaking uncontrollably as the water kept coming, relentless, impersonal, meant to strip and break and leave nothing untouched.
She couldn’t hear anything over the roar.
Couldn’t think.
Couldn’t breathe.
There was only the pressure, the pain, and the terrifying certainty that they were not washing her to clean her.
The water cut off without warning.
Iyisha sagged forward, lungs burning, coughing hard as air finally forced its way back in. Her whole body shook, muscles trembling uncontrollably, skin screaming where the pressure had struck again and again. She barely had time to register the pause before hands reached in.
Soap followed.
Thick and cold, slapped against her skin and smeared roughly over her shoulders, her arms, her hair. It stung where the water had already left her raw. She flinched, tried to turn away, but the crate gave her nowhere to go.
Then the water came back.
Not as long. Not as brutal. Just enough to strip everything away.
By the time it stopped for good, her legs finally gave out.
The water stopped abruptly.
Iyisha gasped, lungs burning as she dragged air back in, coughing so hard it bent her forward. Her legs tried to fold but there wasn’t room. The crate was too small. She couldn’t sit. Couldn’t stretch. She ended up half collapsed, spine curved, one shoulder jammed against the wire, knees pulled tight to her chest because there was nowhere else for them to go.
A towel was shoved through the bars.
It fell against her arm.
She grabbed it instantly, fingers clawing into the fabric, dragging it around herself as best she could. There wasn’t space to wrap it properly, so she pressed it tight against her chest and stomach, curling over it, using her own body to hold it in place.
She rocked slightly, as much as the crate would allow, trying to slow her breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Each breath scraped. Her teeth chattered softly, shock settling deep and heavy, making everything feel unreal and too sharp at the same time.
Alive, she told herself.
Alive.
She focused on that word and nothing else, holding it close while she waited for her shaking to ease, for her breathing to steady, for whatever came next to arrive.
