Endurance (A Novel of Terror)

by Jack Kilborn

  Then came the explosion.

  He felt it a moment after he saw it. A vibration in his feet, as if someone had hit the bow with a bat. Then a soft warm breeze on his face, carrying mingling scents of burning wood and gasoline. The cloud of flames and smoke went up at least fifty feet.

  After watching for a moment, Sal retrieved his pole and reeled in his lure, then pulled the starter cord on his 7.5 horsepower Evinrude. The motor didn’t turn over. The second and third yank yielded similar results. Sal swore and began to play with the choke, wondering if Maggie was scared by the crash, hoping she was all right.

  Maggie Morton awoke to what she thought was thunder. Storms in upper Wisconsin could be as mean as anywhere on earth, and in the twenty-six years they’d owned this house she and Sal had to replace several cracked windows and half the roof due to weather damage.

  She opened her eyes, listened for the dual accompaniment of wind and rain. Strangely, she heard neither.

  Maggie squinted at the red blur next to the bed, groped for her glasses, pushed them on her face. The blur focused and became the time: 10:46

  “Sal?” she called. She repeated it, louder, in case he was downstairs.

  No answer. Sal usually fished until midnight, so his absence didn’t alarm her. She considered flipping on the light, but investigating the noise that woke her held much less appeal than the soft down pillow and the warm flannel sheets tucked under her chin. Maggie removed her glasses, returned them to the night stand, and went back to sleep.

  The sound of the front door opening roused her sometime later.

  “Sal?”

  She listened to the footfalls below her, the wooden floors creaking. First in the hallway, and then into the kitchen.

  “Sal!” Louder this time. After thirty-five years of marriage, her husband’s ears were just one of many body parts that seemed to be petering out on him. Maggie had talked to him about getting a hearing aid, but whenever she brought up the topic he smiled broadly and pretended not to hear her, and they both wound up giggling. Funny, when they were in the same room. Not funny when they were on different floors and Maggie needed his attention.

  “Sal!”

  No answer.

  Maggie considered banging on the floor, and wondered what the point would be. She knew the man downstairs was Sal. Who else could it be?

  Right?

  Their lake house was the last one on Gold Star Road, and their nearest neighbor, the Kinsels, resided over half a mile down the shore and had left for the season. The solitude was one of the reasons the Mortons bought this property. Unless she went to town to shop, Maggie would often go days without seeing another human being, not counting her husband. The thought of someone else being in their home was ridiculous.

  Reassured by that thought, Maggie closed her eyes.

  She opened them a moment later, when the sound of the microwave carried up the stairs. Then came the muffled machine-gun report of popcorn popping. Sal shouldn’t be eating at this hour. The doctor had warned him about that, and how it aggravated his acid reflux disease, which in turn aggravated Maggie with his constant tossing and turning all night.

  She sighed, annoyed, and sat up in bed.

  “Sal! The doctor said no late night snacks!”

  No answer. Maggie wondered if Sal indeed had a hearing problem, or if he simply used that as an excuse for not listening to her. This time she did swing a foot off the bed and stomp on the floor, three times, with her heel.

  She waited for his response.

  Got none.

  Maggie did it again, and followed it up with yelling, “Sal!” loud as she could.

  Ten seconds passed.

  Ten more.

  Then she heard the sound of the downstairs toilet flush.

  Anger coursed through Maggie. Her husband had obviously heard her, and was ignoring her. That wasn’t like Sal at all.

  Then, almost like a blush, a wave of doubt overtook her. What if the person downstairs wasn’t Sal?

  It has to be, she told herself. She hadn’t heard any boats coming up to the dock, or cars pulling onto their property. Besides, Maggie was a city girl, born and raised in Chicago. Twenty-some years in the Northwoods hadn’t broken her of the habit of locking doors before going to sleep.

  The anger returned. Sal was deliberately ignoring her. When he came upstairs, she was going to give him a lecture to end all lectures. Or perhaps she’d ignore himfor a while. Turnabout was fair play.

  Comforted by the thought, she closed her eyes. The familiar sound of Sal’s outboard motor drifted in through the window, getting closer. That Evinrude was older than Sal was. Why he didn’t buy a newer, faster motor was beyond her understanding. One of the reasons she hated going out on the lake with him was because it stalled all the time and—

  Maggie jack-knifed to a sitting position, panic spiking through her body. If Sal was still out on the boat, then who was in her house?

  She fumbled for her glasses, then picked up the phone next to her clock. No dial tone. She pressed buttons, but the phone just wouldn’t work.

  Maggie’s breath became shallow, almost a pant. Sal’s boat drew closer, but he was still several minutes away from docking. And even when he got home, what then? Sal was an old man. What could he do against an intruder?

  She held her breath, trying to listen to noises from downstairs. Maggie did hear something, but the sound wasn’t coming from the lower level. It was coming from the hallway right outside her bedroom.

  The sound of someone chewing popcorn.

  Maggie wondered what she should do. Say something? Maybe this was all some sort of mistake, some confused tourist who had walked into the wrong house. Or perhaps this was a robber, looking for money or drugs. Give him what he wanted, and he’d leave. No need for anyone to get hurt.

  “Who’s there?”

  More munching. Closer. He was practically in the room. She could smell the popcorn now, the butter and salt, and the odor made her stomach do flip-flops.

  “My…medication is in the bathroom cabinet. And my purse is on the chair by the door. Take it.”

  The ruffling of a paper bag, and more chewing. Open-mouthed chewing. Loud, like someone smacking gum. Why wouldn’t he say anything?

  “What do you want?”

  No answer.

  Maggie was shivering now. The tourist scenario was gone from her head, the robber scenario fading fast. A new scenario entered Maggie’s mind. The scenario of campfire stories and horror movies. The boogeyman, hiding under the bed. The escaped lunatic, searching for someone to hurt, to kill.

  Maggie needed to get out of there, to get away. She could run to the car, or meet Sal on the dock and get into his boat, or even hide out in the woods. She could hurry to the guest bedroom, lock the door, open up the window, climb down—

  Chewing, right next to the bed. Maggie gasped, pulling the flannel sheets to her chest. She squinted into the darkness, could barely make out the dark figure of a man standing a few feet away.

  The bag rustled. Something touched Maggie’s face and she gasped. A tiny pat on her cheek. It happened again, on her forehead, making her flinch. Again, and she swatted out with her hand, finding the object on the pillow.

  Popcorn. He was throwing popcorn at her.

  Maggie’s voice came out in a whisper. “What…what are you going to do?”

  The springs creaked as he sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Everything,” he said.

  He couldn’t move.

  The table he laid on was cold against his naked back. There were no ropes binding his arms, no belts securing his legs. But he was immobile, paralyzed.

  Yet he was still able to feel.

  Panicked thoughts swirled through his brain. Where am I? Was I in an accident? I can’t open my eyes. Am I blind? Am I dead? I can still think, so I must be alive. But I can’t move. Can’t talk. What’s happening to me?

  He concentrated, hard as he could, trying to move his hands and touch his face.r />
  Nothing happened.

  Noise, from the right. Footsteps. His body didn’t seem to work, but thankfully, his ears did.

  Someone’s in the room.

  He felt a hand touch his face, and then saw painful bright light.

  A doctor in a green smock stared down at him.

  He just pried my eyelids open.

  “Good morning. You’re disoriented, I bet. Confused. Probably can’t even remember how you got here.” The doctor’s voice was scratchy, strained, as if he wasn’t accustomed to using it.

  Please, tell me what’s going on…

  “You can’t move because you’ve been given a paralytic.” He was an older man, bald, his scrubs stained. “Unfortunately, you have to remain conscious for this procedure to work.”

  The doctor walked off, out of sight. The man’s eyes remained open, unblinking, gazing into the light overhead. Am I in an operating room? What procedure? Who was that doctor?

  It was bright, but it didn’t seem bright enough to be a hospital. The light was yellowish, dingy, coming from a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. And there was a smell. Not an antiseptic, care-facility smell. A smell of rot and decay.

  “The drug immobilizes the skeletomuscular system.” The doctor was somewhere near his feet. The man couldn’t move his eyes to see him. “You’re completely helpless. One more dose and you’d stop breathing altogether.”

  The doctor rested a hand on the man’s knee, gave it a pat.

  “You’ve lost your reflexes, your ability to flinch. But other vital functions remain active.”

  A sudden pressure, between his legs. The doctor was squeezing his testicles. The agony bloomed, white hot and inescapable. His vision went blurry. He tried to pull away, tried with all of his might, but he didn’t budge an inch.

  “You can still feel pain, as I’m sure you notice. Lacrimation is normal, for now. Your pupils can dilate. And, of course, your pulse and heart rate just shot up considerably. The drug keeps you from moving so I can do the procedure, but it doesn’t shut you down completely.”

  The man felt the tears flow down the sides of his head, the throb still lingering after the doctor released his grip.

  This wasn’t a hospital. It couldn’t be. A doctor wouldn’t do that to me. What the hell was going on?

  Then he heard the most agonizing scream of his life.

  It didn’t come from the room, but from someplace else in the building. Nearby, maybe a room or two over. The scream was so shrill it didn’t sound human at first. Then it lost pitch and was replaced by shouting.

  “NO! PLEASE NO! STOP IT! JESUS NOOOOOO!”

  What are they doing to that poor guy?

  And what are they going to do to me?

  “That’s one of Lester’s guests,” the doctor said. “Lester has been with him for a few hours now. I’m surprised he still has a voice left. I shudder to think what’s being done to make him cry out like that. Do you recognize who it is?”

  And then, all at once, the man knew who was screaming. He remembered how they got there. The strange noises. Being chased. Hunted. Running terrified. And then being caught. Caught by…

  “No need to worry.” The doctor leaned over him, smiling. Crumbs wedged in the corners of his thin lips, on his chin, and a small streak of something brown—blood?—smeared across his age-spotted forehead. “You won’t end up like that. You’re being given a gift. An invaluable, extraordinary gift. The world is full of lambs. But very few get to be wolves. Lester’s playmate, sadly for him, is a lamb. But you, you, my lucky fellow—you’re about to become a wolf.”

  The doctor raised a gigantic syringe.

  “This is going to hurt. Quite a bit, in fact.”

  The man couldn’t move, couldn’t turn away, and he was forced to watch and feel as the needle descended and plunged into his unblinking eye.

  Sara Randhurst felt her stomach roll starboard as the boat yawed port, and she put both hands on the railing and took a big gulp of fresh, lake air. She wasn’t anywhere near Cindy’s level of discomfort—that poor girl had been heaving non-stop since they left land—but she was a long way from feeling her best.

  Strangely enough, Jack seemed to be enjoying it. The three-month-old baby in the sling around Sara’s chest had a grin on his face and was drooling happily. Sara pulled a tissue from the sling’s pocket and wiped off her son’s chin, wondering how anyone, especially someone so small and fragile, could actually like this awful motion. Even though she was feeling ill, she smiled at the sight of him. Just like she did every time.

  Sara closed her eyes, bending her knees slightly to absorb some of the pitch and roll. The nausea reminded Sara of her honeymoon. She and Martin had booked a Caribbean cruise, and their first full day as a married couple found both of them vomiting veal picata and wedding cake into the Pacific. Lake Huron was smaller than the ocean, the wave crests not as high and troughs not as low. But they came faster and choppier, which made it almost as bad.

  Sara opened her eyes, searching for Martin. The only one on deck was Cindy Welp, still perched over the railing. Sara approached the teen on wobbly footing, then rubbed her back. Cindy’s blonde hair looked perpetually greasy, and her eyes were sunken and her skin colorless; more a trait of her addiction to meth than the seasickness.

  “How are you doing?” Sara asked.

  Cindy wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Better. I don’t think there’s anything left in me.”

  Cindy proved herself a liar a moment later, pulling away and retching once again. Sara gave her one last reassuring pat, then padded her way carefully up to the bow. The charter boat looked deceptively smaller before they’d gotten on. But there was a lot of space onboard; both a foredeck and an aft deck, a raised bow, plus two levels below boasting six rooms. Though they’d been sailing for more than two hours, Sara had only run into four of their eight-person party. Martin wasn’t one of them. It was almost like he was hiding.

  Which, she supposed, he had reason to do.

  A swell slapped the boat sideways, spritzing Sara with water. It tasted clean, just like the air. A seagull cried out overhead, a wide white M against the shocking blue of sky. She wondered, fleetingly, what if be like to feel so free, so alive like that.

  In the distance, a green dot against the expanse of dark water, was Rock Island. Even from this far away, Sara noticed its wedge shape, the north side of it several times the height of the south, dropping off at a sharp cliff.

  Sara shivered, protectively cupping her hands around Jack.

  There was a soft thump, next to her. Sara jumped at the sound.

  Another gull. It had hopped onto the deck, and was staring at her with tiny black eyes. Sara touched her chest, feeling her heart bounce against her fingers.

  Just a bird. No need to be so jumpy.

  Sara squinted west, toward the sun. It was getting low over the lake, turning the clouds pink and orange, hinting at a spectacular sunset to come. A month ago, when she and Martin had planned this trip, staring at such a sun would have made her feel energized. Watching it now made Sara sad. A final bow before the curtain closed for good.

  Sara continued to move forward, her gym shoes slippery, the warm summer breeze already drying the spray on her face. At the prow, Sara saw Tom Gransee, bending down like he was trying to touch the water rushing beneath them.

  “Tom! Back in the boat please.”

  Tom spun around, saw Sara, and grinned. Then he took three quick steps and skidded across the wet deck like a skateboarder. Tom’s medication didn’t quite control his ADHD, and the teenager was constantly in motion. He even twitched when he slept.

  “No running!” Sara called after him, but he was already on the other side of the cabin, heading below.

  Sara peeked at the sun once more, retied the flapping floral print shirttails across her flat belly, and headed after Tom.

  She stopped at the top of the stairs. The stairwell was tight, and the sunlight didn’t penetrate it.

  “T
om?” she called down after him.

  He didn’t respond. Sara hesitated, adjusted the knit cap on Jack’s head, then took the first step down.

  As she descended the staircase, the mechanical roar of the engine overtook the calm tempo of the waves. The hallway was dark, cramped. Sara didn’t like it, and she picked up her pace, her palms on the walls searching for a light switch and not finding any. Her breath quickened, and her fingers finally grazed some protuberance which she grasped like it was a life preserver. She flipped it up and an overhead light came on.

  Sara sighed, then chided herself for feeling so relieved. She tried to remember the Captain’s name.