by Jack Kilborn
Then the smell hit her. A musty, rotten stench, moist and cloying. It reminded Laneesha of food gone bad. But this wasn’t food, this was people. People who once breathed and loved and laughed and feared just like her. Laneesha shut her eyes and crunched up her face so her lips blocked her nostrils, and moved even faster while she tried not to puke.
The throb in her shoulder stabbed deeper, hurting ten times worse, and Laneesha cried out. She tried to move, but couldn’t.
The bone had caught on something.
Laneesha didn’t want to touch it, and she tried to ease back, but she felt like she’d been staked to the spot. Eyes still closed, she raised a hesitant hand to her shoulder, felt the object she was stuck to.
The bone had caught on something large and bumpy, shaped sort of like a big pretzel.
Someone’s pelvis.
Laneesha pushed, but the pelvis held firm. Then she tried to pull the bone from her shoulder and almost passed out. While the bone was no bigger than a hot dog, it was old and brittle. When Laneesha tried to remove it, the bone splintered, digging in like a fishhook barb,
Laneesha had to take a breath, becoming dangerously light-headed, her gorge rising fast. She cradled the pelvis in her hand and tried to lift. It was attached to something. Not having any choice, she looked down.
Legs. Bits of sinew still connected the pelvis to two decimated leg bones.
Laneesha jerked up, and the hip joints pulled free of their sockets with a cracking sound. Then she crawled, one hand pressing the pelvis to her chest, crawled through the bones until she could stand up again.
Only a few yards away, silhouetted by the moonlight, a man rushed at her.
Laneesha got to her feet, stumbling away from the man, ignoring the pain and dashing through two large mounds of bones. The trees had to be close. The bone piles seemed to end just ahead. If she could just make it, just get away long enough to—
She stopped abruptly. The bone field did end, but instead of the forest Laneesha found herself facing a large stone building. It looked like a fortress, two stories high, stretching out a hundred feet in each direction.
Laneesha heard a creaking sound, looked up, saw an arch above her. Hanging on chains was an ancient wooden sign.
Rock Island Prison.
Then something hit her on the head and everything went black.
Cindy felt her heart sink when the screaming stopped. It was awful to hear, the most awful thing she’d ever heard. When it ended she had a very real feeling that Meadow—and it sure sounded like Meadow—was dead.
Still, she and Tyrone headed in the direction the cries had been coming from. Cindy didn’t like Meadow. But if there was a chance to help him, she would take that chance. One thing the Center had taught her was the value of life. Every life.
She held the torch, grateful for both the light and the warmth it emitted. In only her bra, the night air gave her goosebumps. Tyrone walked at her side. He held the gun, now cool enough to touch, in his left hand. His right hand was wrapped in his T-shirt. After fleeing the campsite, Cindy had insisted on examining his injuries. His left only had a few small blisters. His right looked like raw hamburger.
Still, Tyrone didn’t complain. He marched onward, just as determined to save Meadow as she was.
Neither of them talked about what they’d seen at the camp. But Cindy couldn’t help but think the same thing had happened to Meadow. She shivered. In the past, she’d thought a lot about death, and always expected it would be with a needle in her arm. But death by cannibals? Who could have ever conceived of such a thing?
And yet, it might actually happen to her. But instead of fleeing from it, she was heading toward it.
“Smell that?” Tyrone asked.
Cindy stopped, sniffed the air.
Her mouth watered.
Barbecue. Smoke and meat, reminding her of the venison steaks her dad would cook over an open fire.
Then Cindy’s brain caught up with her salivary glands, and she realized what she was probably smelling.
“Tyrone…could that be…?”
She saw him stiffen. “I’m gonna kill ‘em. I’m gonna kill every one of those fuckers.”
Tyrone stormed forward, rushing through the woods, Cindy unable to keep up. Running with a torch wasn’t easy, It threw sparks, and if she moved too quickly the wind shrank the flame, threatening to snuff it out. Cindy feared Tyrone would get too far ahead and she’d lose him, feared not only for herself, but for him as well. They’d counted six bullets still in the gun, but that may not be enough, and he was already injured and—
Cindy stopped abruptly before she tripped over Tyrone, who was on all fours, wheezing like he’d been punched in the gut. Beyond him she saw a faint light, coming through a gap in the trees. The roasted meat smell was overwhelming. Awful as it was, Cindy’s stomach rumbled, and she cursed herself for missing dinner.
“Don’ look,” Tyrone said.
At first, Cindy thought he meant don’t look at me. She turned away, and Tyrone caught her ankle, even though squeezing it must have caused him pain.
Tyrone meant don’t look at where the smell was coming from.
She was fine with that. Cindy already had enough images seared onto her brain for a lifetime of nightmares, and had no desire to add to them.
“How many are there?” she asked, crouching next to Tyrone.
“I dunno. Five or six. I’m gonna take ‘em down, soon as I catch my breath.”
Cindy didn’t bother to argue. Every human life was indeed sacred, but when someone was trying to eat you, the best defense was a good offense.
“Can you shoot lefty?”
“Did okay back at camp.”
“My dad taught me about guns. Used to take me hunting.”
“You ain’t doin’ it, Cindy.”
“I’m not afraid.”
Which was a lie. She was terrified. But even scarier than shooting some cannibals was thinking about what would happen if they caught her and Tyrone.
“You don’ want this on your head, girl.”
“Let me see you hold the gun.”
“I ain’t playin’”
“Neither am I. Hold it.”
Tyrone picked the gun up off the ground, held it in his left hand. He winced, unable to keep it steady.
“Give me the gun, Tyrone.”
“No way.”
“Your hands are ruined, and you won’t be able to aim. Not at six people. After the first shot, they’ll scatter, be moving targets. One of them might even run at us. So either give me the gun, or we get the hell out of here.”
Tyrone narrowed his eyes. “You can really shoot?”
“I can hit a rabbit at a hundred yards.”
She didn’t tell him that she’d never actually hit a rabbit, only rabbit-sized targets, and that was with a rifle, not a pistol. Cindy didn’t like hunting. While she had no problem eating meat, doing the killing herself was a little too personal, and after several attempts her father stopped taking her on his hunting trips because she would never pull the trigger when the moment of truth arrived.
Thinking of that, she questioned her own commitment here. How could she shoot a person when she couldn’t shoot a deer?
But it was too late. Tyrone was nodding, passing the gun to her, butt-first. She took it, handing him the torch.
“We gotta do this. For Meadow. For ourselves. But Cindy…”
Tyrone paused. She waited.
“…try not to look at what’s on the fire.”
Cindy nodded. The gun felt warm in her hand, and she automatically checked the clip, the safety, the round in the chamber, just like her father taught her.
Don’t think about it. Just do it.
She crouched, creeping toward a nearby bush. The pistol seemed to get heavier with each step. When she reached the thicket she planted her feet a shoulder’s width apart, gripped the gun in two hands, and sighted down the length of the barrel.
It was an image straight out of
hell.
A gridiron.
Meadow.
Fire.
A circle of cannibals.
Eating.
Cindy froze. The smell of roasted pork didn’t jibe with the parts they were putting in their mouths. Her finger was on the trigger, but she couldn’t shoot. She couldn’t so much as breathe.
The largest of the tribe—a wide, hairy man with an ax propped against his leg—was chewing on…
Jesus, that’s Meadow’s—
The man looked up, his eyes meeting Cindy’s. He bellowed like a bull, raising the ax.
The other cannibals turned to look.
Cindy experienced fear so visceral it hit her like a punch. She staggered back, unable to support her own weight, screaming as loud as she could, the gun dropping from her hand and disappearing into the underbrush.
Clutching Lester’s hand as he led her through the forest both frightened and exhilarated Georgia. She attributed her survival so far to her cunning and determination, but she also knew that Lester might not be as smitten as he seemed, and he still had every intention of taking her to his “playroom.”
During the walk, Lester made what he must have thought was small talk, mentioning some of the horrifying things he’d done to previous playroom guests.
Georgia had a strong stomach, but some of his descriptions made it do flip flops. She did not want to wind up at this psycho’s mercy.
That meant coming up with some kind of plan.
“Lester is home.”
Georgia was lost in her thoughts she hadn’t noticed they’d arrived at a building. The façade was gray stone, old-looking, sort of like a medieval castle. Lester released Georgia’s hand to pull a key out of his pocket and fuss with a very big and heavy iron door. After unlocking it he needed to tug hard to get the rusty thing open. It squealed like a tortured pig.
“It’s strong,” Lester grunted, “so the ferals can’t get in.”
“Ferals?”
“On the island. Ferals run free and eat people. People like Georgia girl.”
Georgia peered into the unlit building and hesitated. She had the same feeling she did when her parents took her to that haunted house on Halloween, on one of their rare family outings. Georgia knew there were scary things inside, and while she liked scaring others she didn’t like being on the receiving end.
Lester seemed to sense her hesitation, and if he mistook it as reluctance, she lost her edge. Mustering her courage, Georgia marched inside, a hand stretched out in front of her so she didn’t bump into anything in the dark.
The room was cold, damp, and smelled like mildew. Georgia sensed it was large. The floor beneath her was hard, possibly cement. She took a few more tentative steps and then touched something cold. Feeling around, she realized it was a rusty iron bar.
The lights came on, accompanied by a buzzy, electric sound. Even though there were only bare low-watt bulbs hanging from the ceiling every ten feet, Georgia still squinted against the sudden brightness. It took her a moment for her eyes to adjust, and then she realized what sort of building this was.
A prison. The iron bar she grasped was part of a cell, one of hundreds, stretching out in all directions in a wide open space almost as big as a football field. Except, upon closer examination, she wondered if it was perhaps a kennel instead. Or some sort of barn for livestock. The cells were so small that there wasn’t enough space for even a child to lie down.
“Each cell held four Confederate prisoners,” Lester told her. “They shared half a loaf of bread and a single bucket of water each day. The bucket was also their toilet. Many died from scurvy, dysentery, and smallpox. But starvation took the majority. Others murdered to get more of the bread. The dead were stacked in piles and left to rot. Thousands of them. It drove many of the prisoners mad. All that fresh meat, spoiling, just out of reach. They broke out of here just to get to the meat.”
It sounded like Lester was reciting something he memorized.
“This is Plincer’s prison?” Georgia asked.
“Rock Island Prison. Warden Plincer was Doctor’s great great grandfather.”
Georgia couldn’t believe that Martin’s stupid story was actually true. “So those…ferals…those are civil war cannibals?”
Lester smiled at her, his teeth making him look like a shark. Seeing him in the light brought color to his face. His complexion was pale, teeth yellowish, the whites of his eyes bright pink. “Don’t be silly, Georgia girl. Those Confederate soldiers died a hundred years ago.”
“Their descendants?”
“No descendants. They were men. It takes a man and a woman to have descendants.” He took her hand and rubbed his finger along her knuckles, the intimate gesture making her shiver. “Georgia girl knows that.”
Lester led her through the ranks and files of cages, their footsteps echoing off the iron and stone, making the space seem even emptier. Georgia tried to picture it filled to capacity with starving, desperate men, men who killed each other for a crust of bread or to feast on their flesh.
The image was kind of exciting.
“How did you get here?” Georgia asked. “On this island?”
“Doctor brought Lester here.”
“Why?”
Lester stopped, then looked down at her. “Doctor is Lester’s friend.”
“Georgia girl is Lester’s girlfriend, too,” she said, giving his hand an extra squeeze.
They walked out of the cell room, up a barely lit stone staircase. Unlike the first floor, which was all open space except for the bars, there were walls up here. Lester took her down a hallway, passing several closed doors.
“This is where the prisoners were punished. Beaten. Whipped. Branded. This is where Lester’s playroom is.” They stopped before an ancient wooden door. “Is Georgia girl ready to meet Lester’s pet?”
Georgia nodded. He opened the door and they went inside.
The smell hit her first. Like a public bathroom, but worse. On one side of the small room was a long metal table. There were shackles at the head and foot. Next to the table, a workbench, on top of which were various tools and devices, many of them rusty from blood. Near a small dresser, on the far wall, was a box spring with a stained mattress on top. Behind it, covering the wall, were dozens of photographs, many of them close-ups of people screaming.
On the other side of the room was a large wooden crate, the top off.
“The pet is in the box,” Lester said.
Georgia couldn’t see what was in the crate from where she stood, and she got that same haunted house vibe. On one hand, it might be something harmless in there, like a dog or cat, or maybe some animal indigenous to the island, like a raccoon. On the other hand, Lester was a psychopath, and he might be expecting her to nuzzle a rotting corpse.
Either way, Lester was watching her, judging her. She had to make a good impression.
Besides, what’s the worst thing that could be in there?
She chewed on her lower lip and approached the crate cautiously, the foul smell getting stronger. At first, all she noticed were clumps of hay. And then she saw it.
“Georgia girl can touch the pet,” Lester said. “The pet is tame.”
Georgia clamped both of her hands to her mouth and tried not to throw up.
Sara ran. Not from their pursuers—she didn’t even see their pursuers. Sara ran after Laneesha, determined to catch her and bring her back. They needed to stay together. Sara couldn’t handle losing any more kids.
But the teen was fast, and it was dark, and after two quick turns Sara lost her among the piles of bones.
Sara stopped, turning in a full circle, looking and listening for any movement.
Laneesha was gone. So were Martin and Jack.
Sara tried to backtrack, weaving her way through the bonefield, fighting the urge to yell out either of their names. She didn’t want Laneesha to be alone. Martin either, especially with his injuries.
She ran, frantic, thinking only of them and not her
personal neuroses, rounding a particularly large mound of the dead, coming face to face with the forest, the darkness. From the darkness, came a cry.
It wasn’t Meadow. It was a girl, high-pitched, a scream of fright rather than pain.
Laneesha?
If so, she’d gotten pretty far pretty fast. The sound came from deep in the woods. Without thinking, Sara ran into the trees.
When the forest surrounded her, she froze.
Martin had the flashlight.
Sara whirled around. Trees. Shadows. Darkness. Looking up, the dark had even swallowed the sky.
She felt it in her chest first, a tightening that made her pant. Her palms got wet. Her mouth went dry. Sara was nine years old again, back in the trunk, waiting for someone to free her. She tried to get her feet to move, tried to battle the weight of the darkness pressing upon her. But she remained locked in place, a statue, too frightened to even blink.
Sounds, to her left. Someone coming.
No, more than just someone. A lot of people.
Move! Dammit, Sara, move!
But she stayed rooted to the spot, even when they burst through the bushes and rushed at her.
PART 3
THE FIRE
Laneesha startled herself awake, freaked out by a crazy dream she had about running through mountains of human bones.
She didn’t know why her head and chest both hurt, or why she was sitting down rather than lying in her bed, or why she couldn’t move her arms.
Then she saw the old man standing in front of her, an old man she’d never seen before, and it all came back to her in a horrible rush.
“Hello, child. I gave you a little something to help you wake up. I also took the liberty of removing that nasty bone from your shoulder. It was a fibula, if you’re curious. Very old. About a hundred and forty years old, to be more exact. I even stitched you up. No need to thank me. I am a doctor, after all.”
The old man tucked an empty syringe into his coat pocket. It was a white coat, the kind doctors wear. But this one was covered with ugly brown stains and peach-colored smears.
