In Danger

The airport was noisy. Every chair, at every departing gate, was full and standing room was limited. Carry-on luggage was the only thing that separated one individual from the next. Children cried and older couples tried to rest. Teenagers were texting. Young couples rubbed noses, only having eyes for their partner. I alone felt out of place. Leaned against the window frame, tears burned my eyes and cheeks as planes taxied down various runways. The only things I owned, I carried on my person—the clothes on my back, my plane ticket to Salt Lake, a nearly useless debit card, and a USB drive.

When I arrived in Salt Lake, I would be left with even less. The USB drive in my pocket was my life. Everything that I was conscious about, regarding my life, was on that drive. Every text and song that had helped me through some hard times, stories I had written, and my journal. How good any of my manuscripts were, I didn't know. I had sent snippets to editors and publishers, but had heard nothing from any of them. As for my family, they were no longer a part of my life. I had lost contact with them years ago.

A half hour passed and the Delta airplane that would take me to Salt Lake docked at the terminal. I would be one of the last to board, but I didn't mind. It just meant I would probably have to slide passed the two people in my row to get to my window seat. Slowly, the chairs began to empty and the wall of human bodies began to break. Finally, I joined the line. A few tears still sliding down my face. The ticket was scanned and I boarded the plane. No one was sitting in the row I was assigned and I sat next to the window. I buckled my seat belt and focused on the world outside.

My seat moved slightly as the passengers that shared my row sat down. I didn't turn. The captain's voice came on and soon the plane began its departure from the gate. Outside my window, I could see the man with the orange cones as he directed the plane away from the dock. The flight to the Salt Lake airport would take almost two hours.

"Patientia Picea," I heard a man say, as the plane made its final turn onto the runway. (Patience Pine)

I turned from the window. Two men in suits and sunglasses sat next to me. Both were facing forward, or so I assumed. The plane picked up speed and my focus returned out the window. The numbers and various colored lines on the runway sped passed until the plane lifted off the ground and I felt my stomach flip. Every take off left me feeling slightly nauseated, and it always took a moment for me to feel okay. Once the plane was off the ground, everything seemed to slow down. Small shifts were made as the plane followed its course to Salt Lake.

"Patientia Picea," I heard again. (Patience Pine)

"Quod habesne?" I asked, not turning from the window. (What do you want?)

"In pericula es," the man replied. (You are in danger)

"Solam periculam mortis." (Only in danger of death)

"Non solam mortis, sed etiam cruciatus." (Not only death, but also of torture)

"Cruciatusne? Me ridere non fac." (Torture? Don't make me laugh)

"Vero in pericula es," a second man said. (Truly you are in danger)

I turned from the window. The man next to me had turned his head towards me.

"In periculo quis?" (In danger of whom?)

"Nesciamus, sed sci." (We don't know, but be aware)

"Who are you?" I asked.

The man sitting next to me turned to look forward again.

"Hey, don't..."

The man's hand came up with a cloth on it, covering my mouth and nose. There was chloroform on it. I reached up to pull it away, but blacked out.

When I woke again, I found myself lying on a bunk in a military building. My head was pounding and the room was spinning. Where am I? How did I get here? My eyes closed as I felt nauseated. Then the door opened with a reverberating clack.

"Patientia Picea, suscitasne?" (Patience Pine, Are you awake?) It was the voice of the man who had sat next to me on the plane.

"Suscito." (I'm awake)

"Quid sensus es?" (How are you feeling?)

"Doleo." (I'm in pain)

"Hoc cape." (Take this)

"Cur?" I asked, not looking at him. (Why?)

"Adiuvabit." (It will help)

Slowly, I turned towards this man and opened my eyes. The room still moved and his face distorted a little as well.

"Cur te credo?" (Why should I believe you?)

"Patientia Picea, te adiuvare conarimus." (Patience Pine, we are trying to help you)

"Heh. Chloroform on the plane is helping me?"

"In pericula es," he said, as if he understood. (You are in danger)

"Quid est?" I asked, slowly sitting up. (What is it?)

"Non quid. Quis." (Not what. Who) He held out the pain killer to me, but I still refused to take it.

"Sum nemo. Nihil habeo. Cur in pericula sum?" (I am no one. I have nothing. Why am I in danger?)

"Indicium ferres." (You carry information)

"Solum indicium de me." (Only information about myself)

"Te cupit." (He wants you)

"Quis est?" (Who is it?)

"Ignotus est." (He is unknown)

"Dum cur hic sum?!" (Then why am I here?!)

"Tutelae." (For protection) He offered the pain killer to me and I took it. "Esurisne?" (Are you hungry?)

My stomach growled

A small smile raised his lips. "Veni," he said, opening the door with a deafening clack. (Come)

I felt like I had fallen into someone's story—an unknown writer with nothing but danger from an unknown hand. Slowly I got to my feet. The room was still spinning and sounds seemed louder now that I wasn't lying down. Even my steps were halting, since I tried not to lean too far to one side. The hallway was worse than the room. Several people were chatting in different languages—Czech, German, French, Russian, etc. Among all the voices, there was no English. Made me glad I had been able to study Latin in college before I ended up with nothing. Everyone dressed in suits and wore sunglasses, save myself. I was still dressed in my black gaucho pants, and ¾ sleeved, V-neck, teal shirt.

The halls were large and could fit six men side by side comfortably. The ceiling lights shone much brighter than the one in the room had. The man who had come to me led me down several different hallways before he opened the door to a large cafeteria. From the size of it, there had to be at least two kitchens. Tables and chairs filled up the space of a football field.

"Quid edere vis?" he asked. (What do you wish to eat?)

"Fructus." (Fruit)

"Aliquid aliter?" (Anything else?)

"Solum fructus," I replied then asked. "Cur nemo English dicit?" (Only fruit. Why does no one speak English?)

"Nemo diutius dicit." (No one speaks it any longer)

"What do you mean no one speaks English anymore?! I do!"

The man turned to me, his mouth turning downwards slightly. "Quid nugas dicisses?" (What nonsense did you speak?)

"English. I am speaking English."

"English lingua mors est. Latinam dic!" (English is a dead tongue. Speak Latin!) Then he turned from me and walked to the fruit bar across the room.

A dead language? Then why were all those at the airport speaking English?

I found a chair near the doors we had entered and sat down. Nothing made sense anymore. I finally find myself devoid of even the basic needs, flying to Salt Lake just to be told I am in danger of being tortured then drugged and brought to this place for protection from an unknown threat. I was one girl out of billions. I had nothing save my debit card and USB drive. I pinched my arm just to be sure I wasn't dreaming. I found the nerve alright and part of my arm went numb for several seconds.

Feeling my pockets, I found the card and the USB drive still on my person. I pulled out the USB drive and held it in my left hand. I thought about what was on it—my journal, stories, music, articles. I thought about my journal. It would be nice to update it. A book icon appeared in my right eye. I put my USB drive into my right hand. The man returned and set several bowls of fruit in front of me. He sat beside me. His left hand resting over my right when I made no move to eat. I was still trying to figure out what the book was.

"Aliquid falsus est?" he asked. (Is something wrong?)

"Non nesci," I replied. (I don't know.) If he could read and understand the information I had on my USB drive, maybe he could tell me what about it puts me in danger.

The man shook his head and furrowed his brow in confusion. "Mea vita?" (My life?)

"Meum falbulas est. Fabulas mea vita es." (It is my stories. My stories are my life.)

"Quis fieri potes?" (How is this possible?)

"Nescio." (I don't know.)

"Aperi," he said. "Operi…. Cur?" (Open. Close. Why?)

"Cur fabulas pericula?" (Why are stories dangerous?)

He nodded. "Edesne?" he asked. (Will you eat?)

I nodded "Gratias ago tibi." (Thank you)

He kissed my cheek then moved his hand off of mine.