Chapter IV - The Gilded Cage
Sterilized
My eyes snapped open.
Taking in a sharp breath, I scanned the trunk and noticed the jarring motion of the hatchback had ceased; the car was still. The muffled sound of arguing must have pulled me from my restless sleep. I was still bound. Still in the trunk. How long had the ride been? Hours? A full day? It was impossible to tell, but every muscle in my body screamed, contorted and bruised from the incessant bumping and turning.
I rested my straining neck and peered into the light dimly shining through the tinted trunk window. The “click” echoed in my mind as I remembered my life flashing before my eyes. Call it a cliché, but In that instant it was clear— Mekhi’s chillingly calm order to shoot, was the moment my delusion of control had shattered. It was a luxury I no longer possessed. A practiced entitlement that a single bullet would have erased.
But– I am still breathing.
And that meant there was still purpose.
For now? Listen. Observe. Learn the rules of this new, twisted game. My old escape strategies were useless, a playbook for a different war. My skin needed to be thicker. My patience, quieter and far more enduring.
I let my muscles go limp, forcing a calculated stillness over my body, a deliberate conservation of energy I’d never managed before. Let them think I was broken. Let them underestimate me. Every frantic impulse to fight I instead channeled into a cold, sharp distance.
A time to fight would come– I knew it would. And when it did, there would be no negotiation, no second chances. Only their mistake for having let me live.
“Mekhi, this is nonsense!”
The voice was unfamiliar, laced with an agitation that cut through the stale, metallic air of the trunk. I strained to place the unseen speaker, to decipher the power dynamics playing out just beyond the confining metal of the hatchback's rear. There was a weight to this unfamiliar voice, though. A note of genuine, almost paternal concern that felt jarringly out of place. A protector, arguing with a predator.
Then, a second voice, smoother, closer, slithered into my awareness. That oily calm, the slight drawl I'd come to associate with pure menace.
Mekhi.
“Perhaps, to you it is,” he replied, “but fortunately, it's not up to you.”
“Is it not?” the first voice retorted, the agitation sharpening. “You know that having that girl here puts all of us—this entire operation—in jeopardy. Her face is all over the news… the Dispatch Center. A wanted terrorist, Mekhi. Here! In our house!” He paused, then continued, “Does she know?”
Terrorist– no matter how many times I hear, the blow hits just as hard as the last.
My stomach twisted with a familiar, bitter shame, quickly followed by a surge of righteous anger. Vilified for seeking truth, for demanding justice, for questioning a system that profited from silence. How dare they twist my fight into something so grotesque?
“About bringing the girl?” Mekhi asked, his tone feigning innocence that only amplified my disgust.
“Does she know?!” the unfamiliar voice pressed, louder now, the concern more evident.
“Yes, of course she knows. Doc trusts my judgment, which I wish I could say the same for you,” Mekhi paused, and I could almost picture the convincing compassion like he had with a police officer. “You know all that I’ve sacrificed to be here.”
“What I know is that you’re young. I know you’re emotional. I know the whole country has been trying to track that girl down for months–”
“She’s pregnant,” Mekhi interrupted, the words dropping into the charged silence like stones.
My breath hitched. The words themselves weren't a surprise—I knew Mekhi knew. But the dead, shocked silence that hung in the air afterward was. The other man had no idea.
This… this wasn't a united front.
The other man's eventual question, "How is that possible?", confirmed it.
What do they want with my baby?
My mind raced, a frantic scramble for answers, but the implications were too vast, too horrifying to grasp while bound in the dark, the stale air suddenly feeling suffocating.
The outside world filtered in as a strange medley: the faint, briny scent of the nearby beach, the delicate, almost mocking music of wind chimes crashing against each other, and the occasional, distant bark of a dog. Sounds of a life, a world, continuing on, oblivious. I rested my strained neck, forcing each breath, trying to anchor myself against the rising tide of panic.
“Answer me, how is that possible?” the first man’s voice asked again.
“Well, when two people love each other–” Mekhi began, his tone dry but laced with a pure, biting sarcasm.
“Oh, shut up you imbecile… It’s unfathomable. She’s like a roach, that won’t die.” The unfamiliar voice was rough with contempt now, the earlier concern gone.
“And now, we’ll make sure she doesn’t,” Mekhi said, his voice soft, almost a purr.
“What exactly are you saying?”
“We’re taking her in.”
“For goodness sake, Mekhi,” the man sighed, his frustration and weariness palpable through the thin barrier.
“Thea could use the extra help,” Mekhi reiterated, a note of chilling finality in his voice.
“And she’s the best help you can find, huh? Of all people… if this backfires, it’s all on you.”
“It’s not all on me.” Mekhi’s reply was quiet, confident, and utterly clear, sealing my fate with three simple words. “It’s on her.”
Why am I here? And who is truly responsible for this? The silence from outside the trunk pressed in, amplifying the frantic thrum of the questions in my mind. This didn’t feel like Richard’s meticulous, if often ruthless, planning. There was a cold precision here, a chilling focus that had nothing to do with The Cause’s passionate, often messy, pursuit of the truth. It was clear then, sickeningly so: if it weren't for my baby, for this new life I’m carrying, I wouldn't be valuable. I wouldn’t be wanted by these people. This felt… different. Colder. More orchestrated than any simple hand-off or trade The Cause might have brokered. This was something else entirely.
Suddenly, a wave of nausea washed over me and my body was covered in chills.
No, not right now.
A cold, clammy sweat slicked my forehead and upper lip. I fought to control my breathing, to push down the rising tide of nausea, but my stomach spasmed violently, a direct, physical answer to the terror coiling in my gut– they want my baby.
A cold, clammy sweat slicked my forehead and upper lip. I fought to control my breathing, trying to push down the rising tide of nausea. It had been shockingly manageable for most of the ride, a dull, ignorable ache. But this was different. This was a violent spasm, a direct, physical answer to the terror coiling in my gut– they want my baby.
The acrid, metallic taste of bile flooded my mouth. A new, more potent fear surged through me: the fear of choking on my own sickness, my own terror, in this metal box. Desperate, I kicked out, feet thudding against the back seats, a muffled, gagging screech tearing from my throat against the suffocating tape.
I thrashed my head, grinding my taped mouth against the trunk’s rough, abrasive liner. It was a useless, frantic gesture, but it was all I had: a desperate, chafing friction aimed at shredding the tape, at finding air, at letting out the scream building in my chest. The world narrowed to the churning in my belly, the burning in my throat, the reek of stale cigarettes and my own fear. The inevitable, violent heave wracked my body– and the trunk door flew open.
Mekhi!
He ripped the tape from my mouth with a single, brutal tug. A cry of pain tore from my lips, immediately followed by the wretched, explosive emptying of my stomach. The grotesque, sour offering that splattered across the trunk and, with a certain grim satisfaction, directly onto Mekhi’s pristine shirt.
I studied his shirt as my eyes tracked up to his repugnant face, lined with disbelief.
A smirk tugged at the corner of my lips— I couldn't help it.
For a moment, I felt relieved. His usual mask of cool control was slack with sheer disbelief, a faint tremor in his jaw. Then, his eyes narrowed, the disbelief hardening into a cold fury; a flash that sent my blood running cold.
I looked beyond Mekhi, but I didn’t see anyone else there. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew. “Whoops,” I shrugged; the word was out before I could stop it.
The violent slam of his fist against the car startled a gasp from me. The air crackled with his fury. My own defiance withered. “It was an accident,” I managed, keeping my voice low, even.
He just stared, his face a mask of cold anger in the greyish light of the rising sun, no longer hidden below the horizon. While his eyes bored into me, I tried to subtly widen my field of vision. Were those other figures near the trees, or just deeper shadows in the weak light? What was the layout here? “Mekhi…” I said, pitching my voice to sound placating, buying a precious second to gather more information as the sky began to pale, but he lunged, shoving me back into the trunk. The lid slammed, and his swearing was a faint, furious echo.
Was that the best or worst timing? I guess that depends on how he reacts later. His furious swearing faded as the engine turned over. The car began to move, and the absolute darkness pressed in. The car weaved side to side and in what felt like whipping donuts. The incessant bumps and sharp turns jolted through my already bruised body, causing me to hit all sides of the trunk. After what felt like a sweltering eternity, the car finally jolted to a halt again.
For a while, the only sound was the ticking of an engine cooling, then the trunk lid creaked open. A figure stood silhouetted against a blinding sun. He reached in, and as his arm blocked the light, I recognized him.
John.
I flinched as he silently began working on my restraints. I exhaled in relief of being freed from that suffocating heat. The reek of my own sickness was so immense that the break of fresh air almost made me weep.
He placed my feet on solid ground, and the full wretchedness of my condition hit me. I was filthy from sitting in my own waste and vomit. Although we stopped occasionally throughout the ride here, the last terror was more than I could bear. The culmination of days spent evading capture and the final, agonizing hours in this trunk had taken their toll: my stomach caved within itself from starvation, and my lips cracked from thirst. The brightness of the sun, no longer just a blinding halo but a harsh reality, burned through my dilated eyes, and the fresh air, though welcome, rubbed against my coarse skin. Finally liberated enough to stretch my arms, I reached towards the clear blue sky, but the world swam and my legs gave out. I crumpled onto the prickly grass. My vision cleared to see two men surrounding me... One was John. The other, a stranger.
Silently, I felt the grass beneath my fingertips and I inhaled the crisp air. Salty.
“Rise,” a woman said in the distance. I lifted my head to find Mekhi and an ethereal figure of a woman, standing behind a white railed porch. She wore an ivory lace dress, her long dark hair flowing freely in the gentle breeze, her olive skin seeming to glisten even in the diffuse sunlight. I assumed this is the ‘Doc’ the men were talking about.
“It’s almost time for supper,” she said, her voice calm, melodic, then she turned and walked into the massive house. Mekhi, his shirt miraculously clean again, offered a tight, unreadable smile before following her. One of the men –not John–moved, scooping me from the ground as if I weighed nothing. My head lolled against the back of his shoulder as he carried me toward the house, my feet dangling uselessly against his chest. The world became a dizzying tilt of impressions: harsh sun, then cool, fragrant dimness. The imposing darkness of a doorway. The slow creak of polished wooden floors. And over it all, a pervasive scent of lavender so potent it was almost dizzying; a disorienting whisper of– home?
“Where am I?” I tried to ask, but my voice was a dry rasp, too weak to carry.
I could hear the faint sound of running water as the guard climbed a wide staircase. The sound was soothing, reminiscent of a siren’s call to sleep. I was carried into a bedroom, where the guard placed me on my feet, his hands hovering near my waist, ready for a fall I was too numb to prevent. Once I found a semblance of balance, I realized a different woman stood just beyond the doorway. She was younger than the first, her expression carefully neutral, holding a single, small square of dark chocolate on a silver tray. “Undress,” she stated, her voice flat, devoid of inflection.
I looked over my shoulder. Two guards stood at the doorway. Their faces were impassive. It was clear they weren’t going anywhere. My mind, too weary to process, simply registered the command. With what little strength I had, I began to peel off the ruined layers of my clothes. Each movement was an effort, each layer shed an exposure. I completely bared myself to these strangers, the chill of the room seeping into my skin.
“Follow me, then you may eat,” the woman instructed, her gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder.
She led me to an adjoining bathroom, palatial in its dimensions. The guards remained posted outside the door. I noticed a large, claw-footed tub, steam already rising from it, and a simple wooden chair placed beside it. The woman offered me a glass of water first, then the chocolate, which I accepted numbly. “That’s it for now. Get in.” Her hand gestured towards the tub. “We need to get you ready for supper.” She then began to scrub the waste of my ordeal away, her touch efficient, impersonal, almost rough.
It was a strange relief to be cleaned... But the luxury of it– the endless hot water, the fragrant soaps, this woman attending to me like I was some broken doll. The contrast was a bitter pill, a confusing luxury. A gilded cage.
My mind, though exhausted, reeled. Out there, beyond these opulent walls, people were dying– dying from the unchecked rage of the GFI (Global Fulminant Influenza) and VitaSpire. It was supposed to be their pride and joy– their savior! or succumbing to the insidious Panacea-Induced Immune Collapse Syndrome—PICS—if they dared refuse VitaSpire. Richard’s face swam before my eyes—the two syringes... Was Richard's betrayal, or even a trade by The Cause itself, worth this? Was their salvation worth my gilded prison? My half-formed theory felt less like a theory now and more like a horrifying, unfolding. The truth was, I had no idea what was going on. All I knew for certain was that enjoying this bath, feeling this relief, felt like betrayal.
This lavish care, this perverse kindness… it felt like a fattening before a slaughter, a prelude to some unknown, terrible purpose. In the pit of my stomach, an ominous feeling of doom solidified, cold and heavy. I just sat as she scrubbed, her movements brisk, her face a mask of detached duty. She said nothing more than her monotone orders. “Lift your right leg.” “Place your foot here.” “Stand.”
I didn’t mind the silence; I was too weak to speak, too consumed by the swirling chaos of my thoughts, and too confused to know where to begin.
Beneath it all, I was starving.
After my final rinse, she helped me out of the bath with the same detached efficiency, patting me dry with a plush, soft towel. She then draped a freshly pressed lilac yellow dress– soft, expensive-feeling cotton – over my head and through my arms.
It felt alien against my skin. Ironic, isn’t it? My fingers explored the lacy lining. If my mother could see me now, how proud she’d be.
I brushed away the lone tear as I watched the woman dress me. I was overwhelmed by the need to feel this lady out. She moved like an automaton.
Was she taken too? Was she a prisoner here, like me, just following orders?
“I’m Vincy,” I extended my hand out, a desperate, hopeful gesture.
She paused, her cool eyes finally meeting mine for a fleeting second, unreadable, before flicking away.
“She’s ready,” the woman announced to the empty air, her voice flat. My hand, awkwardly, dropped to my side.
Her expression remained a carefully constructed blank. I couldn’t decipher if it was fear, resentment, or simply ingrained obedience that kept her so closed off. The two guards retrieved me and as we crossed the threshold to the hallway, I looked back for her.
She was just standing there, her back already turned, arranging the towels.
They took me downstairs into the dining room where the exotic woman sat in a regal blue tufted chair, which was sitting tall and stretched slightly above her shoulders like wings. She watched me from the head of the table. A small silver bell was placed in front of her. My eyes scanned the opulent space, instinctively searching for Mekhi.
He’s not here.
For a single, fragile heartbeat, the air in my lungs felt a fraction lighter. But the relief was fleeting; his absence lingered like a phantom, an oppressive weight, with a promise that he could materialize from any shadow.
The room was airy, flooded with natural light from sheer, high-ceilinged curtains. At first glance, everything seemed perfect, meticulously placed. But then my eyes settled on the table, and the illusion of normalcy began to fray.
The table could comfortably seat sixteen chairs, including the lady’s grand throne, at the head of the table. But the table only had fifteen chairs; no chair sat on the opposite end of her. Then I realized the other fourteen chairs were made of clear acrylic.
I almost didn’t see them.
Other than the silver bell, which lay next to the lady, one single place setting lay on the opposite end of the table. In front of one of the clear chairs. It was a midnight blue charger topped with a blue embroidered white plate. Silver cutlery was folded within a crisp paisley linen cloth, which was placed on the white plate. A crystal glass was placed on the upper right.
I didn’t know what to make of any of this. But by the sound of my stomach, I was praying this wasn’t a test.
“Sit,” she said as she gestured to the right side of the table. Her voice was stern, but warm. One guard pulled out the invisible seat, as the other guard guided me into it with a firm grip on my shoulders.
For a moment, we just sat in silence. I could feel her stare, but I kept my head forward.
“Square your shoulders.”
What?
Her gaze, though tender, was simply intimidating. Everything about her was crisp– from the sharp crease in her linen dress to the controlled, rigid alignment of her shoulders, neck, and chin. I readjusted myself in the chair, squared my shoulders, lifted my chin up, and gently placed my hands in my lap.
Just like Mom taught me.
I could hear that she was pleased because she sharply inhaled and exhaled a mousy, “Excellent.” I watched her from the corner of my eye as she observed me. My heart pounded so hard, I was sure she could hear it on her side of the table.
“When was the last time you had a home cooked meal?” she asked.
“It’s been a while.”
“I believe you,” she exhaled. “You’re much too skinny for your condition, but I’m sure you’re aware of the risks.”
She knows.
“We’ve… gotten by so far,” I said, my voice quiet but level.
She paused for a moment before reaching for the bell and ringing it twice. Promptly, two men and the woman from upstairs, pushed through the dining room door with metal carts packed with platters of food. As the men placed the platters on the table, the handmaiden neatly placed the satin napkin on my lap, and then turned to grab a pitcher of water to fill my crystal glass. Swiftly, the two men grabbed the carts and walked back into the kitchen. The handmaiden from upstairs blended in with the wall behind me, following suit like the acrylic chairs.
The fresh aromas of baked chicken, smothered pork chops, sautéed spinach, and buttery mashed potatoes, activated my senses, and as a consequence, caused my mouth to salivate.
My stomach let out an aggressive cry.
“Is this all for me?” I asked nervously. The amount of food on the table could feed multiple communities of sick citizens who were abandoned after the outbreak, yet I was the only person in the house sitting with a plate in front of me. I wanted to pounce onto the table and devour the food, but I hesitated, turning my head to look up at the woman sitting at the head of the table. She offered a single, almost imperceptible nod of approval. She didn’t utter a word, but continued to watch as I began to eat.
After being sold and locked in a trunk, with each bite, my surroundings began to fade away. I sunk my teeth into a juicy chicken thigh. I scooped a fork full of mashed potatoes and melted with each buttery bite of heaven. Gravy dripped down the sides of my mouth, as I continued to devour anything I could get my hands on. I could still feel her eyes burning into the side of my skull, but at this point, did it matter? I’m eating. I’m drinking. I reminded myself that each step towards survival is a moment by moment thing. Right now, I’m alive and this food, at the moment, is what I need.
“Enjoying your meal?” she asked softly.
I looked up and nodded, swallowing a large bite of chicken.
“Speak when spoken to, and wipe your mouth.”
The delicious flavor seemed to turn to ash in my mouth.
I slowly stopped chewing, and then placed my fork against the plate. The clink rang in the air, echoed, slicing through the awkward silence. Her pensive stare gave me flashbacks of my childhood, so I grabbed my napkin from my lap, and patted my mouth clean a few times. As I placed the napkin onto my plate, the handmaid swooped in to my left and took the plate away.
For some reason, I felt I was safer in the trunk than sitting in this stiff invisible chair. The air was becoming stifling and I couldn’t help feeling a bit claustrophobic. My chest struggled to rise and fall with ease, throat tightening. My fidgeting hand reached for the crystal glass as I snuck glances at the woman.
“Now that you’ve gotten some food on your belly, it is my pleasure to welcome you to your new home,” the woman said. “I’m sure you are just as nervous as I am, but I assure you, this transition will be as smooth as you make it. To you, my name is Madam Thea, but you have my permission to call me Ms. Thea. I think Madam can be a bit too… formal.” She took a moment to breathe, and then gracefully smiled.
Permission.
The word hung in the air. She was establishing the rules, making it clear that even kindness was a gift she could grant or withhold. This wasn’t Mekhi’s game; it’s hers.
“Naturally, I assume you have a few questions.” She placed her fingertips together, creating a delicate pyramid. “However, trust is something that has to be built... Do you understand?”
“Yes...” I replied, my voice barely a whisper. I kept my head down, twisting the expensive fabric of the dress between my fingers.
There’s that word again: trust. I’m the one in the dark, but I have to prove myself trustworthy before I get answers. How long would that take? How does she measure?
“At this point, you are what we consider a ‘High Risk Investment’. As I’m sure you know, having you here is against the law. However, I believe we can benefit from one another.”
Investment?
Yet again, I’m left to decipher the real question. Am I the investment– the currency or just the volatile, high-risk vessel holding it?
“And what’s my benefit?” I asked. “Do I have a choice of being here?” No longer succumbed by uncertainty, I looked directly into her eyes.
Thea didn’t respond quickly. In fact, she seemed faintly amused, a slight tilt to her lips that sent a hot, helpless fury surging through me.
“Well, no,” she continued. “I’m sure you’re exhausted.” Her eyes, then her hand, made a small, deliberate gesture towards my belly. My own hand instinctively wanted to rise to shield it, but I kept it clenched in my lap. She was making it clear what 'investment' she was truly concerned with.
“We will continue this discussion another time. Isabella will walk you to your room.”
Isabella, is that the handmai–
Thea reached for the small silver bell, its delicate chime cutting through the tense air. A moment later, Isabella’s familiar, emotionless face appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Please escort Abigail to her living quarters.”
Wait a minute…
“Umm, I’m sorry. Who?” I interjected. A lot has happened in the last few days. I don’t know where I am or who these people are, but I clearly and indisputably wasn't up to speed.
The energy in the room shifted. Isabella stopped mid stride. Suddenly, one of the men from the kitchen pushed through the doors and swiftly walked over to Thea. After whispering something into her ear, just as swiftly as he emerged, he withdrew into the kitchen. Thea’s softness disappeared.
“Ma’am, I’m not sure who you think I am, but you have the wrong girl. There has clearly been some type of mix up. If you let me go, I promise I won’t say a word. I just want to be back with my family.”
Thea paused. I could feel the heat rising from my feet all the way to the tips of my ears. I sat on the edge of my seat anxiously waiting for her response.
Thea rose from her seat and leaned in with both hands on the table. I watched as her chest rose and fell. She stood up straight then began to pace towards me with her hands behind her back.
Fight or flight?
My eyes darted for an escape, any option, and then landed on him–
Mekhi.
He was here, materialized at my side as if from the shadows themselves. He met my gaze, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, shook his head. A warning? A threat? I didn’t understand, couldn't process, because in the next instant, Thea’s hand connected with my face. The sharp crack echoed, leaving a vibrating ring in my ear. A white-hot, explosive pain burst behind my left eye, and my cheek stung as if it were pressed against a hot stove.
I wanted to lunge back at her, but Mekhi pressed a cool barrel to my head.
She then grasped my chin and said, “Look around you. I have taken you out of the mud to give you an opportunity. You deserved to have died in those sticks. The moment my men found you, I could have reported you. But instead, I chose to give you a purpose.”
A purpose?
My cheek throbbed, my vision blurred. No matter how I tried to piece the truth together, none of this was making sense.
Thea continued, “So make no mistake, I know exactly who and what you are.”
“No, you don’t know. My name isn’t Abigail, it’s Valen–”
I suddenly felt a pinch in my arm. “What is that?” I looked to my left... a needle. A cold, heavy languor immediately began to seep through my veins, my eyelids suddenly feeling like they were weighted with lead.
Whoa–
Although I was still seated, I felt like I was falling. My shoulder, heavy, pulled me down like bricks.
No– Fight it…No, no, FIGHT IT!
My struggles were useless against the drug flooding my system, against the hands dragging me away. Through the encroaching haze, I heard Thea’s clipped command: “Take her out of here– He said she would cooperate. Get him on the phone– now!”
He? Who? Richard? Mekhi?
The question snagged, then dissolved as the drug pulled me under, into a swirling darkness. My mind, desperate for an anchor, for a time before this, before the betrayals and the fear, drifted... a different voice, a different 'he' from a lifetime ago... a party, music, and a welcomed smile...
Thank you for reading Chapter IV of Sterilized! I remember when I first wrote this chapter back in 2018. Though it's Chapter IV now, it was one of the very first I ever drafted. Can you tell I love psychological thrillers?
My goal with this chapter was to shift the tone, to bring you out of Vincy's immediate internal struggle from Chapter III and into her strange, new environment. After all the chaos, now she (and you) are left with so many questions… and so hidden answers.
Who are her captors, and why is she really there? As a reader, what have you noticed about this new place and their expectations of her?
If you're enjoying the story, please consider sharing it with a fellow thriller-lover. Your support means the world! The next installment, Chapter V is available now.
For new readers, or to revisit previous installments, you can click here to access the Start Here / Chapter Guide page.
Again, thank you for reading, and see you next Tuesday. — Isis Daniel