by Jack Kilborn
“He’s off his medicine, Tyrone. Beating him up won’t teach him anything.”
Tom looked small, terrified, a big difference from the swaggering macho dipshit he’d been seconds ago.
“Apologize to the lady,” Tyrone told him.
Tom wheezed out, “I’m sorry.”
“You ever gonna try that shit again?”
Tom shook his head, much as he could with his throat being squeezed.
“We’re all on the same side, fool. We gotta watch each other’s backs. And y’all are trippin’ on Clint Eastwood. Be cool.”
Tom nodded, and Tyrone got off him. Cindy still held Tyrone’s fist, which opened and then clasped her hand, and then he turned and looked at her, his face soft and his pupils wide. His free hand slid around her waist, pulling her a little closer, and Cindy felt her legs get weak again.
Tom had been wrong. She hadn’t ever done anything sexual for drugs. When she was so far gone she was willing to, the boys she hung out with her too far gone to want any. So her experience was limited to a few French kisses, and a freshman year groping session on a couch that felt more like wrestling than foreplay.
But looking up at Tyrone, she felt her knees start to shake for the second time in only a few minutes, and as his lips moved slightly closer she tilted her chin up and began to close her eyes.
“Jesus!”
Tom’s outburst was followed by him tearing ass into the woods, disappearing into the dark.
Both Cindy and Tyrone looked in the opposite direction, at what had made Tom run.
Three men stood along the tree line. They were each tall and thin, dressed in dirty, ripped clothes. Cindy knew Martin had made up that Civil War cannibal story, but that’s exactly what these men looked like. Like crazed cannibals out of an old horror movie.
“What do you want?” Tyrone barked at the men, moving Cindy behind him.
Astonishingly, the one in the middle stepped forward, and out of his pockets he pulled a rusty knife and fork.
Meadow had gone insane with pain, sometime shortly after his eyes boiled and burst. But now, even though a thin thread of consciousness remained, he was at peace. The agony was gone. He had no way of knowing it was because most of the nerves on the front side of his body had burned away, but had he known, he wouldn’t have cared. All that mattered was he didn’t hurt anymore. His throat was too swollen to scream anyway.
Then they flipped him over onto his uncooked side, and the screaming began again.
When Georgia felt Lester’s horrible teeth begin to pierce her tongue, she squeezed his testicles. Not hard enough to cause damage, but as a warning; if he didn’t let up, neither would she.
Lester’s jaw clenched, and Georgia realized she’d judged him wrong. He was going to bite off her tongue, and her lips, and her face, and that would just be the beginning. The first man she’d ever kissed was going to make headcheese out of her.
But then his mouth opened, his own tongue snaking out of her mouth and across her lips in a way that made her chest feel heavy and her breath quicken. He stuck the tip into her ear, sending sparks throughout her body. His tongue flicked across her chin, down her neck.
This was all happening fast. Too fast. She’d never done anything like this before, and she didn’t know this guy at all. Plus he was psychotic. Georgia knew she should be scared, and maybe she was. Her heart was beating so fast she couldn’t differentiate between fear and exhilaration.
Then he reached down, for the front of her jeans.
That was too fast for Georgia. As exciting and dangerous as this all was, she wasn’t going to let this psycho fuck her.
On the other hand, she didn’t want to be taken back to his playroom either.
So she compromised and jerked him off.
It wasn’t erotic, at least not for Georgia. In fact, she found the whole process strangely mechanical, and more than a little tiring. But she did feel a tremendous sense of control. The same kind of control she felt when cutting the feet off a gerbil. Lester was moaning and helpless in her hands, and even though it made her feel powerful Georgia wondered what the hell he was going to do to her when she was finished.
When Martin was a little boy, he wanted to be a doctor. He didn’t really have an interest in medicine, and got woozy at the sight of blood. But he had an inner drive to care for people who needed help.
At fifteen years old he and his older brother Joe went on a camping trip, a tradition that began when both boys were younger and would continue on into adulthood. This particular excursion was in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Three days in the woods, no adult supervision. Martin and Joe didn’t suffer from the sibling rivalry that plagued most brothers born a year apart, and they were the best of friends. Camping with Joe was Martin’s favorite time of the year.
The second day into their hike, Joe slipped and broke his leg—a nasty compound fracture that swelled up to the size of a melon. It was a decade before cell phones and GPS became commonplace, and a compass miscalculation put them two miles from the spot they told their parents they would be. Worst of all, it had happened in gray wolf territory. Joe was hurt so bad he couldn’t move, drifting in and out of consciousness. If Martin left him, chances were high the wolves would kill Joe before he could return with help.
So Martin stayed with his brother, gathering food and water, keeping the fire going. And most importantly, talking.
Martin hadn’t understood the true power of words before that fateful trip. How talking about the future, of dreams and hopes, of fears and failures, could sustain a person in an increasingly hopeless situation. Martin learned more about Joe than he ever could have imagined. He also learned about himself. As sure as man needed to eat, sleep, and breathe, he needed to communicate.
The boys were rescued after four days. In a way, Martin was almost sad to see it end. He had bonded with, and helped save, a human being, and that was rewarding on a level he’d never dreamed possible.
Ironic how, so many years later, Joe would wind up in even worse trouble.
As for Martin, this incident led him from an interest in medicine to an interest in social science and psychology. Human nature, and the way people interact, never ceased to fascinate Martin. He thought he was unique in that curiosity, until he met Sara.
Sara’s desire to help others was only matched by her desire to learn. Unlike Martin, who believed that certain psychological problems could inhibit socialization, Sara was convinced that actions, not thoughts, dictated a person’s social potential. They were a perfect match for getting wayward youth back on track, Martin working on healing their psyches, Sara teaching them how to integrate into society.
And now, with the funding for the Center being cut, Martin was cut off from Sara as well. He’d hoped, on Plincer’s Island, to bond with Sara in a way they’d never bonded before.
But being attacked and hunted like animals hadn’t been part of the plan.
Martin hurt. His swollen hands throbbed in time with his pulse, and his face felt like it had been pulled off and sewn back on off-center. But these aches disappeared when he saw the tribe of crazies cross his path only a few dozen feet ahead.
Being caught by them once was enough for a lifetime, and the thought that they might get Sara or Laneesha was unacceptable. Because of this, his pain was surpassed by a surge of adrenalin that made him grab both women and drag them and Jack to the ground so they wouldn’t be seen. The trio collectively held their breath. Martin’s imagination boiled with images of horrific tortures and screaming victims, and he squeezed his eyes shut and decided, if need be, he’d fight to the death right here rather than let those bastards take him again.
The tribe moved closer, not bothering with stealth, marching single file and slapping wayward branches out of their way. Martin felt Laneesha squirm, and he kept hard pressure on her shoulder, preventing her from bolting and giving away their position.
Laneesha whimpered, a single sharp vowel, brief but unmistakably human. And loud enoug
h to be heard by the hunters.
Martin watched as one of the feral people fell out of line, cocking a head in their direction. He took two steps toward them and stopped again, sniffing the air like a dog. This man was fatter than the others, his shoulders broad and powerful looking.
Again Laneesha squirmed, kicking some dead leaves, making a shuffling sound.
Dark as it was, Martin could see the hunter raise his arm. He was holding an ax.
Martin felt the tension in his legs, wondering how he could spring up from a prone position. He adjusted his toes, silently digging them into the ground for traction, forcing his crippled hands to grasp some loose dirt to throw in their attacker’s face.
Then there came a scream.
Not from Martin or the women, and not from any of the hunters. This came from deep in the forest, shrill and agonized, a sharp note that went on and on.
The axman turned toward the scream, then lumbered back into the woods.
Martin let out his breath. “Let’s wait a minute,” he whispered, his jaw throbbing and his tongue and cheeks feeling like he’d just gargled acid. “Make sure they’re gone.”
“Who’s screaming?” Laneesha said.
“I don’t know.”
“Martin.” He felt his wife’s hand grip his shoulder. “That’s one of our kids.”
Martin placed a thumb and forefinger on his eyes, rubbed them gently. “We don’t know that.”
The scream returned, a high-pitched chord that Martin could feel in his molars.
“That’s Meadow,” Laneesha said.
“We don’t know it’s Meadow, Laneesha.”
“Jesus, what are they doin’ to him?”
“Laneesha, you have to stay calm.”
“It’s Meadow. I know his voice. What could make him scream like that?”
Sara clutched Martin’s arm. “We have to help him, Martin.”
“Sara, I counted eight, eight, of those people. And even if it is Meadow, and it might not be, someone is making him scream like that. We have no idea how many of them there are on this island.”
Sara got up onto her knees. Their son was in his sling, asleep. Martin admired the child’s resilience.
“We still have to try,” his wife said.
Martin put his hand on the small of her back. “We will. I promise. But we need to get back to the campsite first.”
Another scream, weaker this time, ending in a horrible sob.
“We don’t have time,” Sara said, standing up.
Martin debated whether or not to tell her, and decided he had no choice. He painfully got to his feet and caught up with Sara, who was already heading toward the scream.
“Sara, I have something at the campsite we can use.” He paused. “A gun.”
Though he couldn’t see it, he could imagine the shocked look on his wife’s face.
“A gun, Martin?” Her voice was sharp. Sara didn’t like weapons of any sort. Knives especially, but guns were high on her list too. “Why the hell do you have a gun?”
“I took it as a precaution. Camping can be dangerous.”
“Do you know how dangerous it is to bring one along, especially with our kids? What if one of them found it?”
“It’s hidden.”
“Jesus, Martin, I didn’t even know you owned a gun.”
“Look, hon, I understand you’re angry, but this isn’t the time for righteous indignation. If that is Meadow out there, we need to find our camp, get the gun. That’s the only way we’ll have a chance against those people.”
Martin held Sara’s elbow, felt her tense up.
“Look,” he said, keeping the edge out of his voice, “I was a Boy Scout, remember? My brother and I both got our shooting merit badges. I know how to use weapons, Sara. Safely. And this could be Meadow’s only hope.”
He heard her sigh, and she stopped tugging against him. “How do we find camp?”
“The orange ribbons.”
“I’ve been looking for those for more than an hour.”
“I’m pretty sure I know where one is. Come on.” He walked back toward Laneesha, spoke quietly. “You doing okay?”
“This is one fucked up trip, Martin.”
Martin kept the smile off his face because it would have hurt too much. “That it is. Sara? The flashlight?”
She handed it over. Martin walked past, through a patch of dogwood, and found the large elm tree he remembered tying a ribbon to earlier. Sure enough, the reflective orange strip was wound proudly around the trunk.
“The next one should only be a few yards away,” he said. “Let’s all stick together, and try to stay quiet.”
Something touched Martin’s hand, and he flinched at both the surprise and the jolt of pain. He spun, saw Sara at his side.
Her touch was gentle but firm.
Much as it hurt, he grasped her hand back.
Tyrone pushed Cindy behind him, standing between her and the three men. He’d never seen cannibals before, but this trio looked just like he pictured they would. The dirt on their tattered clothing wasn’t dirt at all, but dried blood. Their beards and hair were tangled with burrs and twigs. Their eyes were crazy, darting every which way. The one in the middle—the one with the knife and fork—was actually drooling.
Tyrone reflexively reached for his hip, but there was no weapon. The only weapon nearby was currently roasting on a burning log in the campfire. On the one hand, Tyrone had no idea what the heat had done to the mechanisms and the bullets. He didn’t want to depend on a pistol and have it jam on him, or worse, blow up in his grasp.
On the other hand, he didn’t want to be eaten.
He quickly picked up one of the sticks they’d used for marshmallows and nudged the pistol off the log and through the ash, to cool ground, one eye on the cannibals. They just stood there, staring. Then the one with the cutlery spoke, his voice dry and raspy.
“Give…the… girl… and…we… let… you… go.”
He smiled when he said it, revealing a witch’s mouth of blackened and missing teeth.
Tyrone felt Cindy press against him.
“That ain’t gonna happen.”
The drool dribbled down the man’s beard. “Then… you… both… die.”
Tyrone shook his head. “That ain’t happenin’ neither.”
The cutlery man grunted at his two companions, and they each walked off in a different direction. Circling the campfire, moving toward Tyrone and Cindy.
Tyrone dug a hand in his pocket, pulled out the lining, and ripped. It tore away.
“Y’all don’ wanna do this.”
“Yes… we… do.” The cutlery man reached into his pants and pulled out…
No fucking way, Tyrone thought. It’s a salt shaker.
The two men flanking them came in low and slow, stalking like lions. The cutlery man stood his ground, cutting off that escape route. In just a few moments, Tyrone and Cindy would be surrounded in a tightening triangle.
Go time.
Wearing the ripped pocket like a sock puppet, he bent down and grabbed the pistol.
The cloth offered some protection from the heat, but in the time it took Tyrone to raise the gun and seek the trigger, the pain became overpowering and he dropped it between his feet.
None of the cannibals reacted to Tyrone’s attempt, not even pausing in their approach.
“Shit,” Tyrone said. Again he reached for the gun.
It felt like holding a hot coal, and every instinct, every nerve in his body, screamed at him to drop it, to pull away from the pain.
Tyrone grimaced, aimed, fighting to hold on, his finger frantically seeking the trigger, trying to get it inside the trigger guard—
And he dropped it again.
His hand was definitely burned, and he felt that sick dizzy feeling of being badly injured. He chanced a look. The cloth of the pocket had burned away in spots, revealing bloody blisters.
The cannibals now had them surrounded.
Tyrone star
ed down at the gun, gritting his teeth, his hand twitching. He needed to pick that son of a bitch up, but his brain and his body were deadlocked. Even as he bent for it a third time, his hand refused to go near it.
So Tyrone grabbed it lefty.
This time his finger got inside the trigger guard on the first try, and the gun was already cocked, making the pull easy. He raised, aimed, and fired in less than two seconds. The weapon kicked in his hand, and he let go again, it falling to the ground beside him.
His target, the cannibal approaching on their right, jerked his head back. The bullet hit him just above his right eye. He stood there for a moment, then dropped like his strings had been cut, flopping onto his knees, then his side.
Tyrone had both hands to his face, blowing on them, eyeing the next immediate threat while psyching himself up to reach for the gun again.
But there was no next threat. Rather than continue their attack, the cutlery man and his companion slunk over to their fallen comrade.
The knife and fork flashed in the firelight. Tyrone refused to watch, pulling his shirt up over his head, backing up, and wrapping the hot gun in the fabric.
He heard Cindy gag. “Oh…my god…”
“Don’ look at them.”
“They’re eating him.”
Tyrone kept his eyes averted. “We gotta get outta here. When I say run, we run.”
“He’s still wiggling. Tyrone, he’s not even dead yet.”
Tyrone stared into the woods. They were dark. Too dark. Without light they’d be walking around in circles. He needed a torch.
“Gimme your shirt,” Tyrone said. He turned and stared at Cindy. She was watching the cannibals, her face a mask of horror and revulsion. He gently touched her chin, turning her face toward his.
“Cindy. I need your shirt.”
She nodded, lifting it up over her head. In just her bra she looked smaller and younger, and she automatically folded her arms, either out of cold or shame.
Tyrone located the half-full bag of marshmallows near the fire. He had no idea if this idea would work, but he knew from recent experience these things burned nice and slow. He wrapped Cindy’s shirt around the bag, then tied that to the end of a two foot branch from their firewood pile.
