Chapter 4
Chapter four
“Shit. No,” Wynn muttered, reaching for him as he collapsed. If he passed out completely, there was no way she could move him on her own. He was too tall, too heavy.
She gripped his shoulder, and he groaned.
“I’m sorry,” she said for the millionth time.
He pushed back, his hands braced against his knees, his head bent. Like his cheeks, the skin on the back of his neck and scalp was blistered, peeling in places.
The inner panel beeped. Wynn lifted her gaze and noted the authorization to proceed. Her hand lifted to disengage her helmet, but she hesitated.
Removing his garments first made more sense when he’d been so saturated. It would have soaked deep into his jacket, his gloves, his boots, and could affect her in harmful ways. And the interior door wouldn’t unlock until the process eradicated all radiation.
“I need to get this off of you,” she said loud enough for her voice to carry through her helmet. “We need to decontaminate your clothes.”
A tortured sound emerged from his throat, one of denial. Her hand hovered above his shoulder.
“I’m sorry.” Her stomach churned with what she had to do.
He twitched, shifted back on his haunches, then reached a shaky hand up to his shoulder.
She stepped to the side and grabbed hold of his collar.
The slick material contracted beneath her glove, startling her.
She’d thought it the same as what a flight-suit would feel like, but it flexed in a softer way.
The man hissed a breath as he shrugged out of his jacket, bringing her back to her task. She guided the garment over his broad shoulders to reveal the black shirt beneath. It hugged his muscular arms.
The weave of it caught her eye as she pulled his jacket all the way off. Almost organic, the fabric was nothing like she’d ever seen before, like webbing but dense. The jacket fell from his body and slapped onto the floor. She opened the wall compartment and shoved it inside.
“Gloves and shirt,” she said, her voice tight with concern. “Everything,” she added. “We can’t go inside with this much radiation.”
She stared at his shoes and swallowed around the lump in her throat. What would his feet look like after walking that far in contaminated mud?
“Boots,” she croaked. “We’ll start there.” She didn’t know if she could get them off without his help.
He twitched, then shifted his weight to stand. Wynn ducked down, lifting his arm so she could slide beneath. A groan vibrated through his chest and into her shoulder.
“Sorry,” she whispered, guiding him to the wall. “That’s it. Just lean here.”
She knelt in front of him and undid the first clasp.
The style of the boots was new too. They weren’t CORE-issue, but something like it, the material having that unusual organic quality.
The clasp wasn’t magnetic, but some sort of self-adhering fastener.
She ran her thumb against the tiny barbs on one side.
They flexed, sticking to the material of her glove.
A soft gasp from above snapped her out of her preoccupation. She unclasped the rest of the fasteners.
Placing one hand on the front of the boot, the other on the back, she looked up at him. “Can you step out?”
Droplets of moisture from the first rounds of decontamination fluid clung to his short hair. Framed by blistered cheeks, the reflection in his glasses shone down at her. Her crouched form, her visor and helmet, everything warped in the way his glasses bent around his face.
He shifted his weight, and she pulled. A squelching sound echoed in the small space, followed by his low, sharp groan.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, pulling it off as quickly as possible, not wanting to prolong his agony.
Her movements paused as she focused on his bare foot. Dark moisture, blood and other bodily fluids, caked bumpy skin.
She swallowed, tasting acid. “Next one.”
Hissing out a long breath, he shifted the other way. She repeated the process with the second boot to reveal a foot in the same condition.
Wynn stood and tossed his boots into the decontamination compartment. Her gloved fingers twitched at her sides. She’d delayed the inevitable as long as she could.
Taking a deep breath, she reached for the hem of his shirt. “Up and over,” she murmured, stretching the material away from his body to reveal more skin ravaged by radiation.
He pushed himself away from the wall with a groan, then helped by lifting his arms. Sculpted muscles and defined ridges took up the planes of his chest and abdominals—a person who did physical labor on the daily.
The thought conjured more questions.
With his help, she pulled his shirt up his back and over his head. A rasping noise bounced off the walls as she lifted it the remainder of the way, his skin sticking to sections of the shirt. He groaned.
She swallowed her apology this time, knowing it didn’t help, and tossed the shirt in the wall compartment on top of his boots. Taking a deep breath, she reached for the top closure of his pants. The white of her glove contrasted with the stretchy black material.
Her hands shook as she unclasped the same type of closure as his boots.
When it was open as far as it would go, revealing a downward trail of hair, she spread the flaps wide, trying not to touch his skin more than necessary.
Gently, she tugged the waistband over his hips, bracing against the sound of his pain.
She tried not to look, but it was impossible with how she needed to crouch to guide the material downward.
A thick cock hung between muscular thighs lightly dusted with hair.
The skin of his legs was as blistered and red as the rest of the body, and she focused on his knees as she tugged down the garment.
“Step,” she said when they pooled around his ankles.
He followed her instructions, shifting his weight one way, then the other. She stood, tossed his pants inside the wall compartment, then faced him. He wore nothing but his glasses. She reached for those too.
His hand shot out. She gasped at the quick motion, at how fast he’d moved after everything. Fingers encircled her wrist like a vise through the material of her UV-suit.
Her heart hammered in her chest. She waited a beat, then two, and when he remained still, she swallowed.
“Okay,” she said. “They can stay on for the process.” Since they were made of a hard material, they could pass. When he didn’t move, she added, “You can let me go.”
After another beat, he released her. She took a step back and reflexively touched her wrist with her free hand. Her skin throbbed with awareness where he’d grabbed her.
Keeping her gaze fixed on his face, she reached upward and flicked her thumb at the edge of her helmet, disengaging it.
The scent of cleansing fluid wafted over her head.
Then came the rest of her suit and attached boots, all the while keeping him in sight.
As soon as she stood in her tank top and shorts, she shoved her outerwear into the wall compartment for sterilization and closed it tight.
Wynn touched the panel beside the last door and initiated the final stage of decontamination.
Wind swirled, and with it, a thick fluid coated them. The man’s entire body shook. He reached a hand to the wall to steady himself. Wynn twitched. The urge to help him clashed with wariness born from the wrist grab and his nudity.
The process went on, cleaning, disinfecting, always scanning to gauge their radiation levels. The man’s chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his teeth clenching against what had to be excruciating pain.
The encompassing wind accelerated—the final stage of the decontamination process. It ruffled her chin-length hair against her cheeks, then died down completely. The panel beeped, the inner door sliding open with a whoosh.
Neither of them moved for a moment, but his labored breaths affected her, a lump hardening in her throat. Straightening her spine, she stepped in close, encircled his wrist as gently as possible, and tucked herself beneath his armpit to take some of his weight.
Damp skin met hot flesh. She gasped. It was like he had an inferno living inside him, and maybe he did because of the radiation infecting his body. But more than that, a sense of familiarity shot through her, one she didn’t understand.
She looked up at him, her pale face and wrinkled brow reflected back at her. She didn’t know this man. Why would touching him bring recognition? Stars, she’d barely been intimate with anyone. Why would it feel familiar? She pushed the foreign sensation aside to concentrate on the next challenge.
“This way,” she murmured, urging him forward.
His first step wobbled, his weight pressing into her shoulder as he regained his balance.
Another hiss passed his lips. Gently, she braced her free hand against his sternum, trying to ignore the way his ravaged skin felt beneath hers.
The lack of their outerwear emphasized their size difference, him more than a head taller than her.
She matched the pace of his shortened steps, leading him into the entryway, the pinching metal floor changing to low-pile carpet. His body shook beneath her hands. They paused together, and the door to the decontamination zone slid closed behind them.
There was only one place to take him. “On the right.”
She nudged him by turning her shoulder toward their quarters. Each shuffled step was like they were climbing a hill. His shortened breaths mixed with hisses of pain. She winced with each one.
They reached Foster’s door, and she pressed the control panel beside the door. It slid open, and she sucked in a quick breath.
She hadn’t been in here since after Foster’s death, but his scent lingered, wafting over the both of them. None of his belongings remained, confiscated the day CORE officials had arrived for their investigation.