by Jack Kilborn
Georgia’s eyes lit up. “When?”
“Sometime after breakfast. I’ll come to collect you. I’m assuming it doesn’t matter that you’d be doing it to one of your friends that you came to the island with.”
“Those aren’t my friends.”
“Yes, excellent, it’s a date then. Might I ask, do you like orange juice?”
“Sure.”
Georgia moved slowly toward him, swaying her hips. Rather than be embarrassed by her nudity, she seemed to flaunt it. One of the added benefits of the procedure. Grandiose narcissism. Plincer raised the dart gun.
“I must ask you, tell you, to stay back. We need to establish some mutual trust first. You understand. The metaphorical roadblocks have been taken off your morals, which can lead to episodes of, overindulgence. Until I see you’re able to control the appetites my procedure has enhanced, you need to keep your distance.”
She nodded, running her tongue across her upper lip. “My eyes itch.”
“There is a bottle of artificial tears in the bathroom, above the sink. That should relieve the redness. Let me set down your food.”
He quickly made a plate for her, placing everything on the dresser.
“The door is locked,” Georgia said. “Am I a prisoner?”
“It’s for your own protection,” Plincer said, adding and mine too in his head. “Once we’re sure you’ve been successfully enhanced, you’ll be able to roam freely.”
Georgia made an exaggerated pout. “Don’t you trust me, Dr. Plincer?”
Plincer didn’t go there. “Enjoy the meal. I’ll be back later.”
He fumbled to put the key in the lock, glancing back at Georgia several times to make sure she wasn’t sneaking up. When he finally got the door open, the girl was standing right next to him.
The doctor yelped, surprised, and tried to aim the dart gun. But Georgia had already caught his wrist, and she was strong for her size.
“Relax, Doctor. I was just going to hold open the door while you pushed out the cart.”
She stood next to him, her palm on the door. Plincer thanked her and quickly hustled out of there, the door closing and locking behind him.
Doctor Plincer again faced the staircase, but going down was always easier, and the cart was considerably lighter. Then it was back to the kitchen where he set a plate for himself.
Eating was an arduous process that took some time, but Plincer enjoyed it as best he could. Food, and thumbing his nose at the scientific community with his experiments, were the only pleasures he had in life.
He cut the toast into very tiny squares, but still needed to manipulate his jaw with the hand to get it chewed enough to swallow. As he ate, he reflected on his life. Doctor Plincer believed creating psychotics was an appropriate way of saying fuck you to the world that had abandoned him. Money, too, played a part. Pure research was the most rewarding part of science, and his enhancement procedures were going to keep him well-heeled for the rest of his life.
But Plincer was a man of science, and he couldn’t discount the possibility that vengeance, monetary concerns, and a thirst for knowledge were his only motivators. He knew, after his ordeal with Lester, that something had snapped inside of him.
At the end of the day, Plincer mused, it might just come down to the fact that I’m insane.
Not that it really mattered.
There were many pieces of French toast left, but no one on hand to eat them. He supposed he could toss them out a window, let the ferals find them. Or maybe give them to the children in the cells downstairs.
No. Bad idea. He didn’t want them throwing up in front of the company.
In Dr. Plincer’s experience, people in terrible pain sometimes threw up.
Since French toast didn’t reheat well, he went with the simplest solution and tossed the leftovers into the garbage.
Such a shame, such a waste.
When the last slice hit the can, he changed his mind and fished out all the food he’d thrown away. Piling it onto a paper plate, he went to the window and tossed it through the bars.
Throwing perfectly good food away was wrong, and Plincer didn’t want that on his conscience.
Captain Prendick opened his eyes. For a moment he thought he was asleep on his boat, but then the headache hit, followed swiftly by the memory of how he received it.
He’d just locked up the Randhurst woman and the two kids in Doc Plincer’s prison; something he would be getting a large bonus for. Martin had asked him to stay close and ready, just in case. Prendick understood why. He hated coming to the island. When he did his monthly supply drop-off, it was during the day. Being here at night really upped the danger quotient.
He hadn’t seen a single feral on his walk back to the beach. He’d heard things, but figured they feared him too much to try anything.
Then, when he was reaching into the bushes to drag out his dinghy, he got whacked from behind.
Now he was naked, lying on his back and locked in some kind of strange cage. It was in a clearing, and to his right was a bed of coals, glowing orange. Prendick had no illusions what those coals were for. He checked the other side, and could see his clothes in a pile just a few feet away on his left.
Was my gun in the pile as well?
He couldn’t tell, and couldn’t reach. The cage gave him no freedom to move, the bars crisscrossing his chest and back. It was sort of like being the meat in an iron sandwich.
Pendrick knew it was the ferals. It had to be. But he didn’t see any of them around so he was able to control his panic. This cage had to have some kind of locking mechanism, something that didn’t involve any kind of key, because those cannibals wouldn’t have keys. That meant a crossbar, or some sort of lever set-up. He began to explore the bars with his fingers, seeking out the hinges. They were covered with a thick layer of charred grease.
“Hello, Prendick.”
Someone was standing over him, but Prendick couldn’t crane his neck back far enough to see who it was.
“Who is it? Christ, you gotta help me. Those goddamn savages are going to roast me alive. See if there’s a latch on this cage.”
Movement, to his right. He looked, and saw the figure walk next to him and crouch down. His face was bathed in the soft, orange light from the coals, and Prendick sighed in relief when he recognized Martin.
“It’s not a cage. It’s a gridiron.”
“I don’t give a shit what it’s called, Martin. Get me out of this thing.”
Martin smiled. “Now that would be counter-productive. Who do you think put you in this thing in the first place?”
Prendick didn’t think that was funny at all. He knew Martin was a killer. What else could explain the many trips Martin took to the island with a companion, only to be alone when Prendick picked him up? But he also knew Martin needed him. There weren’t too many don’t ask/don’t tell captains on Lake Huron.
“Seriously, Martin. Let me out before those freaks come back.”
“Seriously, Captain Prendick. I’m the one who hit you on the head, carried you here, and put you in the gridiron. Both Doctor Plincer and I have grown tired of your escalating prices. So we decided that I would be the supplier from now on. I’ll need your boat, of course. I’m assuming it’s paid for, with all the money we’ve given you over the years. Where’s the title on that, by the way?”
Prendick read Martin’s face, looking for the joke, the lie. But the man looked serious.
“I haven’t bought the boat yet. Most of the money the doctor gives me goes to my mother. She has cancer, and I pay for the treatment. Seriously, you have to believe me.”
Martin stared at him. Prendick felt sweat break out over his entire body, despite the cool morning air.
“Martin, if you think the cost of my services is too high, I’m happy to renegotiate. Hell, I’ll even throw in some freebies. Sort of like frequent flyer miles. You’ve been a great customer, and I don’t want to lose you.”
Martin moved closer. Pren
dick saw a glint in his blue eyes.
“Where’s the title to the boat, Captain Prendick?”
“I haven’t paid it off yet. I swear.”
“I see. Well, we’ll find out soon enough.”
Martin reached down, grabbing the bottom bar of the cage. He kept his back straight and lifted with his legs, tilting the gridiron, and Prendick, onto the side. Prendick eyed the hot coals, just a simple push away.
“Martin! Wait! We can talk this out!”
“I built this gridiron myself. Always was curious to try one, after reading about them.
While it delivers some deliciously slow and agonizing deaths, it wasn’t hands-on enough for my taste. So I gave it to the ferals. They’ve discovered a benefit beyond its intended purpose. Cooking their food. I find the whole thing rather distasteful, really. But who am I to look down my nose at their cuisine? There isn’t much else to eat on this island.”
Prendick felt hysteria creeping up his spine. He fought to maintain control. “Martin, please, I’m begging you. Don’t do this.”
“Where’s that boat title, captain?”
“If I tell you, will you promise not to push me onto those coals?”
“Of course.”
“Do I have your word?”
“Cross my heart.”
Prendick could feel the heat rising from the coal bed. The thought of being pressed against them, unable to pull away, was the most terrifying prospect he’d ever considered.
“Behind Goldie’s tank, in the safe. The combination is my birthday, three, twenty-nine, seventy. I’ll even sign the title over to you.”
“How gracious of you. But that won’t be necessary. I’m sure I can adequately forge your signature.”
Prendick felt the gridiron shift.
“Martin!” he impotently cried. “You promised!”
“I’m a killer, Captain Prendick. Certainly you could have guessed I’m a liar as well.”
Prendick screamed as the gridiron tipped over, dropping him face-first onto the burning coals.
General Alton Tope opened his eyes and shut off his alarm. He’d gotten exactly two hours of sleep. Not ideal, but it would do. He rolled out of bed and went into the toilet, still a bit wobbly from the scotch.
He brushed his teeth, shaved, combed his hair, and dressed in his uniform, perfectly timing the completion of the Windsor knot on his tie with the knock at the door.
The men he allowed into his room were under Tope’s command, but the delivery they’d brought him was unofficial. In fact, records would show that both men were currently stationed at another base.
General Tope didn’t like to play it this way, but his hands were tied. He’d made a mistake recently—a minor one at that—and in order to do what was right it had to be under the radar.
“Show me,” Tope ordered.
One of the men placed a metal briefcase on the bed, popped the latches, and opened the lid.
Tope stared. He didn’t so much as flinch, but he was shocked that something worth so much money was so small. The General told his men to leave, so entranced by what was on the bed that he wasn’t even aware he’d used the word please, as if making a request rather than a command.
The men saluted, then turned on their heels. Tope paid them no mind as they left. There were also papers in the briefcase, but the General didn’t bother checking them, knowing they were in order. He closed the lid and shook his head, marveling at what some people considered valuable.
But then, there were few things in the world that were portable, legally obtainable, easily salable, and were worth twenty-five million dollars.
General Tope didn’t bother checking his watch because he already knew the time in his head. His plane would be leaving a little over two hours, enough time for him to carry out the legitimate orders he’d been given for the day.
He picked up the briefcase and headed out, confident that he was about to take the first step in changing the future of the USA, and by extension, the future of the world.
Laneesha opened her eyes. But she couldn’t see anything, only feel a sharp yet empty throb.
That was because her eyeballs were gone.
Sara closed her eyes. She wasn’t a religious person. She understood the social and psychological needs that religion sated. Apart from a few late night college gab fests with fellow psych majors fueled by wine and pot, she’d managed to avoid having to justify her godless convictions.
But locked in the trunk, relieving the biggest horror of her past and waiting to experience one that would be even worse, knowing she’d lost her kids, her husband, her son, Sara gave herself over to a higher power and prayed for death.
She prayed hard, with all she had, chanting the phrase over and over in her head until please God let me die became one long, infinite word, ends running into beginnings running into ends.
She tried to help God along, hyperventilating to the point of dizziness, trying to suck up the last bit of oxygen in the trunk.
letmediepleasegodletmedieplease…
When that didn’t work, possibly because the trunk wasn’t air tight, Sara tried holding her breath, willing her body to give up, picturing her brain cells dying and bodily functions ceasing through the sheer force of determination.
That didn’t work either. Sara sobbed for a while, alternately being assaulted by terrifying memories of the past, self-hatred at her own naïveté for loving and trusting and being married to a monster, and the despair of what would happen to the rest of her kids, of what had probably happened to Jack, and the horror of the tortures yet to come. The darkness nipped away at her soul, the heat and cramps making the claustrophobia even worse than when Timmy locked her in the trunk all those years ago. The feeling of helplessness was so encompassing, so powerful, she lost all sense of anything else.
The shift was gradual. The sobbing abated, mostly out of exhaustion. The darkness remained, but became a tiny bit more bearable. Anger snuck into the mix, jockeying for position against fear and guilt. It built slowly, and Sara embraced it, fed off of it, and added a fuel she didn’t have when she was nine years old; responsibility.
This wasn’t just her life on the line. There were children involved. Children she’d pledged to help and protect.
And Jack had to be alive. He had to. As monstrous as Martin was, he wouldn’t kill his son.
She had to escape.
Sara stretched out a crick in her neck, shifted her weight, and began to test her bonds. The rope was thin, nylon, the same type the ferals had used to string up Martin.
Should have let the bastard hang there.
She let the anger carry her forward, twisting her arms, trying to get some play in the rope to slip out. Her wrists became slick, first with sweat, then with blood, but the knots were simply too tight.
Then she remembered the nail clippers that she’d shoved into her back pocket while at the campsite. Were they still there, or had Martin taken them?
Sara shifted again, bending her knees to give her hands more room to work. Her fingers dug into her pocket and touched the small metal object.
Small, but packed full of hope.
They weren’t the best tool for the job, and Sara couldn’t see what she was doing, but she opened up the clippers and began to slowly nip away at the rope binding her left wrist.
It was slow going, and involved intense concentration. The clippers were slippery, and the repetitive motion made her fingers cramp and throb. But she kept at it, clipping a few nylon threads at a time, and after five minutes of exhausting work she was through the rope.
It freed her left arm, which was one of the greatest feelings Sara had ever experienced. But her right wrist was still tied to her legs, the multiple knots Martin had used still holding tight. Sara attacked the rope again, using her left hand. But it lacked the control, and strength, of her right, and after ten minutes she’d only gotten halfway through.
Self-doubt returned. Martin could come back any minute. He might even be in
the room right now. Maybe he left her the nail clippers on purpose, seeing if she’d try to escape, waiting for her to come out. He’d fooled Sara for years without her suspecting a thing. Clearly he was capable of anything.
The darkness pressed down on Sara, getting into her nose and mouth and ears, reminding her what was going to happen.
Keep cool. Stay focused. You can do this.
She doubled her effort, fighting the cramps, imagining the clippers were a tiny alligator, relentless, tenacious, biting, biting, biting—
I’m free.
Sara didn’t bother with her ankles. She turned onto her back, pressed her feet against the top of the trunk, and pushed like she was doing the mother of all leg-presses.
The trunk lid creaked, then popped open, drenching Sara in beautiful, majestic light.
She did a sit-up, looking around the room, nail clippers clenched in her hand to poke in Martin’s eye if he were anywhere close.
He wasn’t. The room was empty.
Sara pulled herself out of the trunk, rolling over the edge and closing the lid behind her. She inch-wormed over to the table with the tools. There, on the top, was the survival knife.
She recoiled. Martin had found a match for Timmy’s knife, the one that haunted Sara’s imagination. It was horrible looking, with a seven inch blade, and a serrated back that seemed capable of sawing through wood.
Even though it would have made a good weapon, Sara couldn’t bring herself to touch it. Instead she took a utility knife—one with a retractable razor blade—and quickly freed her wrists and ankles. Then she grabbed Jack’s sling, winding it over her shoulder.
Now to go get my kids.
Sara went to the door and carefully checked the hallway. Clear. Not knowing which way to go, she chose left, creeping alongside the wall, listening for any sounds.
One came from behind her. A toilet flush.
Sara hurried into the nearest room. It looked a lot like Martin’s, with a bed and a table piled high with gore-stained tools. Along the wall were dozens of pictures, taped there. Pictures of people. Of victims. Some of them kids form the Center. Alongside the wall was a large wooden crate.
