by LeVar Burton
Knowing that Sinclair’s men would recognize the car, she decided to abandon the vehicle and start walking. Rene had gone only a mile or so down the road when she heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Turning around, she saw a blue and white cargo truck coming down the road. The truck was a government transport, probably hauling goods and supplies from one city to the next. She couldn’t imagine what it was doing out in the middle of farm country. Maybe the driver was taking a shortcut.
Danger!
The warning shot through her mind like a rocket. She spun around expecting to see someone sneaking up on her, but no one was there. The fields beyond the road were also empty. It was just her and the—
The truck! She turned back around. The cargo truck was less than a quarter mile away, bearing down on her.
Danger … danger … danger.
The warning echoed through her head like a jackhammer. She took a step backward. The truck began to slow.
Why was it stopping? Government drivers didn’t pick up hitchhikers. It wasn’t safe. Too many robbers used women and children as a ploy to get a driver to stop. Even Rene knew that. So why was the driver stopping?
Danger. Danger. Danger.
Rene stepped off the road and down into the ditch. The truck slowed to a stop, bringing with it a wave of black terror so strong it was almost a physical blow. The feeling engulfed her, turned her legs to jelly and froze her bowels.
She stood, transfixed, staring at the vehicle’s dirt-smeared windshield. Inside the truck’s cab sat three Caucasian men; dirty, rough-looking men. They were not soldiers, wore no uniforms of any kind, so they couldn’t be government drivers. The truck must have been stolen, or else it had been painted to look like a government transport. The three men stared at her, their eyes keen with interest.
DANGER!
The wind suddenly shifted, blowing from the direction of the truck, carrying with it a foul, sickly-sweet odor. The stench of something dead.
Rene coughed. For a brief instant she wondered if the driver of the truck had hit an animal on the road—a dog, or maybe a cow—but then she heard a moan of agony so terrifying it caused the tiny hairs on the back of her neck to stand straight up. It was not the cry of an animal. Neither dog, cat nor wounded beast could produce such an unholy wail. The cry was human, and it came from inside the trailer.
“Dear God,” she gasped, horrified by the sound she heard, realizing that the smell of death that clung to the truck also came from the trailer. She had just made the connection when the driver of the truck favored her with an evil smile, and pointed the barrel of a rifle in her direction.
DANGER … DANGER … DANGER … RUN!
Rene turned and fled, scrambling up the ditch and into the field beyond. She expected to hear a gunshot, knew the driver was going to shoot her, but didn’t care. Better to be shot in the back than face the nameless horror lurking within the darkness of the trailer. But instead of a gunshot, she heard the sound of a door opening. Throwing a glance behind her, she saw two men scramble out of the truck’s cab and run across the road after her.
No. No. Please, not again.
She raced across the empty field, her footsteps kicking up dirt and crunching the stubs of last year’s corn stalks. Elbows pumping, Rene ran like a frightened rabbit escaping the jaws of a hungry hound. Had there been someplace to hide she would have done so, but the field was flat and empty like much of the countryside in Illinois. She could only run and hope that the two men who chased her would soon tire.
She would also tire, but not before the men. Fear gave her the energy to sprint across the field at heart-bursting speed. She was smaller, faster, could easily outrun them. If she did not trip, stumble or fall, she would get away.
Her hope of escape was dashed, however, by the crack of a gunshot. A small puff of dirt sprang from the ground in front of her. Two more shots, two more puffs of dirt. Rene again glanced behind her. Neither of the men chasing her carried guns; it was obviously the driver who was doing the shooting.
Another shot rang out. Rene veered to the right, and then back to the left, trying to present a difficult target to hit. Left, right, then left again, never straight, always changing directions. Two more bullets struck the field ahead of her and kicked up dirt, but none hit her.
Running in a serpentine pattern was costing Rene her lead. If she continued to weave back and forth the two men would overtake her. But she had no choice. If she ran in a straight line she risked being shot. Or did she? A thought crossed her mind.
She had been running straight when the driver first shot at her, yet he missed. The field was wide open; there were no trees in the way. She should have been an easy target. Come to think of it, all the shots had landed in front of her.
Oh, God. No.
She had been so stupid. The driver wasn’t trying to hit her; he had missed on purpose. He was only trying to slow her down. They wanted to take her alive.
But why? Who were these men? What did they want with her? There could be only one answer: they were Randall Sinclair’s men. Their orders must be to find her and bring her back, unharmed if possible.
But what about the moan she had heard, and the smell of death that clung to the truck? These couldn’t be Sinclair’s men. They had to be something far more sinister than the doctor’s hired thugs. And far more dangerous.
Rene’s troubled thoughts spurred her to even greater speed. No longer worried about being shot, she ran in a straight line again, desperately trying to regain the lead she had lost. But the extra running had sapped her energy. She was tired; her legs felt like lead. A painful stitch had also developed in her side, making each step sheer agony. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry to form saliva.
At the far end of the field stood a small grove of oak trees. If she could reach the trees, she might find someplace to hide. Hope surged through her, for she was almost there. But that hope flickered and died moments later when she spotted the dark scar of a fence stretching across the field.
An old three-strand barbed-wire fence separated the field from the woods. The fence had probably been put up by a farmer to keep cattle from wandering out of the pasture, or to keep deer and other wild animals out of the crops. That same fence now prevented Rene from reaching the safety of the trees.
There would be no time to crawl under the fence or climb over it. In the few seconds it took to do either the two men would catch up with her. So instead of trying to get through the fence, Rene suddenly turned right and ran parallel to it, desperately seeking an opening or break in the wire.
The men who chased her must have anticipated such a move, for one of them turned before she did in an attempt to cut her off. Rene could not outrun the man, nor could she stop or change directions since his partner was still behind her. That left only one avenue of escape still open.
She ran straight for a few more feet then turned left, racing toward the fence. Rene dove at the fence, attempting to crawl beneath the bottom strand of barbed wire. She was halfway under the fence when she heard crashing footsteps and someone grabbed her legs.
Rene kicked and struggled, dug her fingers into the dirt and tried to crawl beneath the strands of barbed wire. She slipped free, only to be grabbed again and pulled back beneath the fence. She cried out in pain as a barb on the bottom strand of wire tore her shirt and ripped a bloody furrow down the center of her back.
She came up swinging, striking one of her attackers in the face. Jumping to her feet, Rene tried to pull the stun gun from her belt but was tackled to the ground.
“What have I done? Let me go! Leave me alone!” Her cries fell on deaf ears. The men pushed her face into the dirt and forced her arms behind her back, fastening them in place with a thick plastic tie.
Rene lay on the ground, gasping for breath. She wanted to close her eyes and make the world go away, but the men wouldn’t let her. They grabbed Rene by the arms and dragged her to her feet, marching her back across the field in the direction of the t
ruck.
She moved in a white-hot haze of pain. Overheated from running, her body felt like a blazing furnace. Sweat poured down her face and rolled into her eyes, blinding her, ran salty and stinging into the cut on her back. The muscles in her legs quivered with fatigue, her feet stumbling as she was dragged along.
Rene turned her head and looked at the men who held her, wondering what evil they had in store for her. The men were dressed alike, each wearing combat boots and white coveralls that were splattered with what looked like dried blood. Heavy leather belts encircled their waists, from which hung large, curved hunting knives. The handles of the knives, as well as their sheaths, were also stained with crimson splotches.
They arrived back at the truck, the driver waiting with rifle in hand. Rene voiced a plea for water, but her request was ignored. Instead the driver trained his rifle on her as the other two men searched her, confiscating the stun gun and pocket-knife. She was then dragged around to the back of the truck and forced to kneel while one of the men opened up the trailer’s double doors.
Shaken from the ordeal, and about to pass out from heat exhaustion, she was staring at the ground when the trailer’s doors were unlocked and opened. Her thoughts as unfocused as her gaze, Rene didn’t look up until she heard a moan of pain similar to the one heard before. She looked up—and screamed.
Inside the narrow trailer were at least sixty men, women and children—all African-American—packed together so tightly there was barely enough room to sit down, let alone move around. There was no air-conditioning in the trailer, no windows or vents of any kind. The air that spilled out when the doors were opened was stifling hot and reeked with the odors of urine, vomit and death.
Rene screamed again as the two men hauled her to her feet. She tried to fight back, but she no longer had the strength to resist and could only groan in despair as she was bodily lifted aboard the trailer and forced to sit with her back against a large wooden crate. An iron manacle was clamped around her left ankle. A length of chain fastened the manacle to an iron ring on the trailer’s wall. She turned her head and saw other rings, other chains, hundreds of them.
Rene stared in disbelief at the manacle fastened around her ankle. She was a prisoner again, and this time there would be no escaping. She wanted to scream, wanted to attack the men who stole her freedom, but she was unable to gather the strength needed to mount such an assault. Her body, weak from physical exertion and fright, refused to obey even her simplest commands. She could only sit there and watch as the ring of iron snapped in place, feeling a numbing cold seep slowly into her back.
Cold? It was definitely not cold in the trailer. Rivulets of sweat poured down her face as testimony to the stifling heat. Not only was there no air-conditioning, but there were no fans, not even a window.
But Rene still felt a chill. It came from the wooden crate her back rested against, a crate that was refreshingly cool in the unbearable heat of the trailer. Curious, she turned her head and looked into the crate, seeking the source of the coldness. What she saw chilled her, all right—chilled her to the bone.
Inside the crate were steaming blocks of sterile ice and layer upon layer of human skin, black and bloody, carefully peeled from the body of some poor victim. Resting on top of the skin was a small plastic container filled with blood. Floating in the blood were two human livers and a kidney.
Rene stared at the contents of the crate and then at the bloody clothing and knives of the two white men, her mind reeling with horror as she realized what they were.
Skinners! Dear God, they’re Skinners!
Climbing down out of the trailer, the Skinners stepped back and slammed the doors closed, casting Dr. Rene Reynolds into the darkness of hell.
Chapter 27
He could find no joy in the beauty of the summer afternoon. The blue sky and fields of wildflowers did little to comfort him. Earlier in the day, Leon Cane had discovered the murdered bodies of a man and woman—murdered and skinned. Since then an uneasiness had settled deep in the pit of his stomach, steadily growing until it gnawed at him like a hungry rat. It was almost as if a feeling of dread was carried upon the wind. A feeling thick enough to taste.
Amy must have felt something too. She stuck close by his side as they walked down the center of the road, practically clinging to him. She hadn’t seen the bodies, so maybe she was only being affected by his nervousness. Leon had once read that children were more sensitive to things than adults, often able to pick up feelings and emotions from their surroundings. If so, then what she was picking up made her afraid.
They had just rounded a curve in the road when he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. The sound came from behind them, the heavy roar of a truck engine. Leon couldn’t see the truck because of the curve, but he didn’t have to see it to be afraid of it. It was almost as if a wave of pure terror preceded the vehicle. For some strange reason, he knew that danger was coming their way.
Leon looked around, searching for a place to hide. The truck was almost upon them. Any second it would come around the curve. Visions of ebony black death machines driven by laughing skeletons flooded his mind. He turned and spotted the weed-filled ditch that ran along the opposite side of the road.
“Hurry!” he yelled, grabbing Amy’s hand and pulling her across the road and down into the ditch. The sound of the truck was louder, closer.
Amy must have known what he wanted, for she dove into the ditch and burrowed beneath the weeds like a rabbit. Leon did the same, flattening himself out the best he could, peeking through the tall weeds at the road.
The truck appeared, a dark blue cargo truck with bold white lettering. A government transport. Leon caught a glimpse of the man driving the truck and felt the evil that enveloped the vehicle. Then he felt something else.
As the truck zoomed past, Leon knew she was inside it, the woman whose voice he heard—the woman from the alley. Her terror was like a physical blow and he nearly cried out from the force of it. Instead it was Amy who screamed.
“Mother!”
Amy started to jump up, but Leon grabbed her legs and dragged her back down.
“Let me go!” she yelled, kicking to get free. Her foot struck him in the mouth. He tasted blood but held on. Only when the cargo truck was nothing more than a receding dot in the distance did he let go. Amy scrambled out of the ditch and ran to the middle of the road.
“Mother! Wait!” she yelled.
Leon jumped up and chased after the little girl. He grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around. “Amy, what’s wrong?”
She tried to tear free of his grasp. “My mother’s in that truck.”
“Your mother?” Leon asked, remembering what she had told him the previous night.
Amy nodded.
“How do you know she’s in the truck?” he asked.
“She called me,” Amy said. “I heard her.”
Could it be possible they both heard the same voice? He kneeled down in front of Amy, speaking to her softly. “How did your mother call you?”
She looked at him, but didn’t answer.
He tried again. “Sweetheart, this is important. I want to help. How did your mother call you?”
“You won’t believe me.”
“Yes I will.”
Amy touched her forehead. “In here. My mother talks to me here.”
Leon was stunned. He wasn’t the only one who heard the voice of the mystery woman. Amy also heard the voice, only she believed it to be her mother who called. He wanted to question the child further, to find out what the voice said to her, but there wasn’t time. If they both heard the voice, then the woman must surely be in the truck that had just passed. She was also in danger. He turned and looked down the road. The cargo truck had disappeared, but a black pickup was coming from the opposite direction.
“Amy, listen to me,” he said. “Do you want to help your mother?”
She nodded.
“Good, then I want you to do exactly as I tell you.”
He instructed her to sit by the side of the road, with head lowered, while he tried to flag down the oncoming pickup. Stepping to the center of the road, Leon waved his arms and pointed at Amy. The driver started to swerve around him, then spotted the little girl and stopped. Through the dirty windshield, Leon could see that the driver was a young, dark-skinned man, probably Hispanic or Filipino. With him was an old man with long gray hair. An Indian.
“Can you help us?” Leon asked, stepping up to the passenger window. “My little girl is bad off.”
The driver looked at him suspiciously. “Your little girl?”
“She is now. Her father’s dead. I promised him before he died that I would take care of her.”
“What’s wrong with her?” asked the driver.
“I don’t know. She’s got a bad fever. Please, I need to get her to a doctor.” As he spoke, Leon spotted an assortment of pistols lying on the seat between the two men. He also saw a revolver sticking out of the old Indian’s belt. His mouth went dry.
Leon’s plan had been to get the two men to step out of the truck, then pull his knife and rob them of their vehicle. But with the guns that plan was now out of the question. Unsure of what else to do, he kept talking.
“Yeah, she’s real sick. She can’t keep anything down, been throwing up for two days now. I think she’s dying.”
A look of concern crossed the driver’s face.
Good. Good. Keep talking.
