Does Bleach Kill Mold On Plastic Novels & Stories

It’s violent and my duty is to keep the violence as far from our doorstep as possible. I begin to methodically clean the mess left over from Ramon’s interrogation. Moon has good men working for him. One of them, Rack, is guarding the front part of the warehouse. I take no chances that what happens in this room will be discovered and use the bleach we keep on hand to destroy blood evidence. I wrap Ramon’s body into the plastic I had under him and tape him up. The plastic helps to hide the odor of shit and urine—basically the smell of death. Using a ten to one water and bleach solution, I spray and wipe down the outside of the plastic and all traces of blood in the room. I then use a power spr

"We need s‍up‍pli‌es. Go to the dollar store⁠. Buy⁠ bleach. Lots of bleac​h. Scrubbing‍ brushe​s. An‌d pla‌stic‍ shee​ts." "P⁠la⁠st‍ic​ sheets? Are we killing so⁠meone?" "We are killing the germs,"‍ I said g‌r⁠imly. "If I am going to l​ive in th​is pit, I am g⁠oing to s​crub it unt‍il it⁠ bl⁠eeds." For the next si‍x hours, we wen​t to war​. I stri‍pped d‌own to my un​dershirt.⁠ I⁠ tied a‍ rag around‍ my face like a mask.

I took the bottle of bleach and poured it into the washing machine without a second thought. In the same way, I took the duvet and placed it with the white bedsheet, allowing it to rest for a few minutes. I filled another washing machine halfway with water and detergent, then added the second bedsheet. I observed it absorbing water, growing heavy in my hand. I focused intently, biting my lips to ease the discomfort in my hands and shoulders. It was quite an unpleasant experience, and I was relieved that Yasmin wasn’t here. As if she could read my mind, she opened the door and walked in, holding a bottle of more bleach. “Oh, I forgot to mention something.” Don’s white bedsheet should be clean

Blood smears across the carpet, dark streaks that'll never come out. Good thing this place sees worse things than murder. The bathtub is barely big enough, but I manage to fold him inside. His head lolls at an unnatural angle. I turn away, focusing on the next step. Bleach. Lots of it. The motel's supply closet is a joke—just cleaning rags and half-empty bottles. But there's enough bleach to burn away DNA. I pour it over everything: the carpet, the walls, the doorknobs. The chemical smell makes my eyes water.