Trapped (A Novel of Terror)

by Jack Kilborn

  Footsteps, from the hall. Getting closer.

  The table was too small to fit beneath. The bed had no dust ruffle and she’d be easily spotted. There weren’t any other doors.

  That left the crate. Sara rushed to it, put a leg over the side, and climbed in, pressing her belly down onto a pile of hay.

  The smell hit her first, reminding her of a dog kennel.

  Then she realized there was something in the crate with her.

  “Uuuuuuhhhhnnnn,” it said.

  Sara clamped a hand over her mouth so she didn’t scream. It was only a foot away from her, buried beneath the filthy straw. The thing undulated, and Sara saw a glimpse of white skin.

  “Uuuuuuuhhhhhnn.”

  The footsteps came into the room. Sara heard them walk over to a dresser, heard the drawer open.

  The thing wiggled. “Uhhhhhnnnnnn.”

  “Lester will clean the crate soon,” said the man who belonged to the footsteps. “Lester promises.”

  More hay fell away, and Sara stared at something that used to be human. The eyes were gone, the limbs were gone, the face horribly scarred and yet somehow…

  Familiar.

  “Uhhhhhhhhhnnn.”

  The torso turned toward Sara, sniffing her, squirming closer, and Sara realized who she was looking at.

  My god. It’s Martin’s brother, Joe.

  “Lester will change the bedding later. Be quiet, or Lester will get angry.”

  Joe opened his mouth, getting ready to wail again. With a mixture of revulsion and sadness, Sara reached over and put her hand over his mouth to keep him quiet.

  It didn’t keep Joe quiet. When Joe was touched, he screamed. Sara recoiled, pushing back against the side of the crate, trying to bury herself in the soiled straw as Lester’s footsteps drew closer.

  “The pet wants hay,” Lester said. “Lester will get some hay. Along with the stick.”

  The crate shook—Lester giving it a kick. Then Sara heard him walk out of the room.

  Sara moved fast, getting to her knees, swinging a leg over the side, and then stopping.

  She looked back down at Joe’s torso, pale and scarred. She couldn’t leave him like this. There didn’t seem to be any of Joe left in this body. The funny, outgoing man she once knew was now a pathetic, sub-human creature.

  “I’m sorry, Joe,” she whispered.

  The utility knife parted his neck with a whisper, and Sara hopped out as the blood began to gush.

  Sara ran to the hallway, focusing on the task ahead rather than dwelling on what she’d just done. Seeing Lester disappear around a corner, Sara went in the opposite direction, finding another door.

  Dark in the room. Dark and quiet.

  She squinted in the darkness, making out a square shape in the corner.

  Another crate? Jesus… another trunk?

  Sara wanted out of the room, but she knew she had to check it out. She inched closer, grasping the bloody utility knife, letting her eyes adjust to the dim.

  No, not a trunk.

  A crib.

  She rushed toward it, still frightened but needing to know. Hands on the railing, she stared down at the tangle of blankets, hoping against all hope…

  Jack’s eyes were closed, his little chest moving up and down as he slept.

  Crying silently, Sara pressed her son to her chest, kissing his head, inhaling his beautiful baby smell. She tucked him into his sling on her belly, adjusted the straps and belt, and crept back into the hallway, heading for the stairs.

  Sara froze, hearing the footsteps echoing up at her, drawing closer. She went the other way, down the long corridor, which dead-ended at a door. A large, iron door, with a slot in the center and a bar across it.

  “Here comes Lester, and Lester is angry.”

  Sara looked through the slot, seeing an antechamber with another door, also with a slot. She didn’t like the looks of it, but she heard Lester’s footsteps echoing closer and had no place else to go.

  She removed the bar and went inside, closing the door gently behind her. On the floor were two empty plates and glasses. Sara approached the second door cautiously, placing an ear against it.

  There was nothing to hear.

  Sara bent down, putting her face close to the slot, trying to peer inside. She could make out a room, awash in dim, flickering light. There was also a smell. A sickly sweet, coppery smell.

  “NOOOOOOOOOOO!”

  Lester must have discovered Joe. Sara had no options left. She opened the second door and went inside.

  The lighting effect was from candles, set up all around the room. But rather than evoke a peaceful, church-like setting, it was more akin to a medieval dungeon. The stone walls looked damp, and the floor was covered with brown stains that made Sara’s shoes stick.

  She looked around. There was a large bureau, an umbrella stand, a workbench, and a table and chair with salt and pepper shakers and a roll of paper towels. There was also a bed, and for a bad moment it looked like there was someone in it.

  No; it was just pillows and shadows. But beneath the bed might make a good place to hide. With the low light in here, it would be tough to see under it.

  Sara also wondered if she could hide in the bureau, which seemed big enough, when she noticed another door in the corner of the room.

  A bathroom? A closet?

  The door was wooden, slightly ajar. Sara didn’t want to see what was behind it but knew she had no real choice.

  She was heading for the door when she heard a squeaking sound.

  It’s coming from the bureau.

  She paused, moving closer, her arms wrapped protectively around Jack.

  The bureau rattled.

  That’s when Sara realized it wasn’t a bureau at all. It was something else. Something horrible.

  And someone was inside.

  After only a few minutes, Martin tired of Captain Prendick’s screams. The gridiron was as he’d remembered; hands-off and boring. There was nothing for him to do but watch, and Prendick was face-down so he couldn’t even see the man’s expressions.

  Martin said a goodbye that probably wasn’t even heard, then took off. He was anxious to get started on Sara. He also needed another Vicodin—his cheeks really stung.

  Gun cocked and eyes scanning the trees for ferals, Martin headed back to the prison.

  Tom hurt. His finger felt like it was being crushed, burned, and sawed-off, all at the same time. Then that freakazoid Lester poked him over and over with that frickin’ nail, and each one was worse than a bullet wound combined with a snake bite, which was a guess on Tom’s part because he’d never actually been shot or bitten. But they hurt like frickin’ hell.

  To make the whole thing even worse, he was thirsty, he was forced to watch Tyrone and that skank Cindy hold hands and make lovey-dovey eyes at each other, and he still had a little piece of Meadow stuck in his teeth that he couldn’t get out.

  Tom wondered, obliquely, when someone was going to come and rescue him. Every time he’d ever gotten into trouble, there was always somebody there to bail him out. No matter how often he screwed up, it always could have been worse.

  But this situation didn’t seem like it could get any worse. Plus, none of this was even his fault, except for going a little hyper with the gun, and getting that stringy thing wedged between his back molars. But Tom didn’t blame himself for what he ate. Sure, it wasn’t his food, but how was he supposed to know it was a person? Tom did, however, wish he’d taken smaller bites and chewed more carefully, because every time he touched that stringy bit with his tongue he felt like ralphing again.

  “Tom. Tom, you awake, dog?”

  Tom ignored Tyrone. If that guy minded his own damn business, Tom would have still had the gun, and he wouldn’t be in this frickin’ cell.

  “Tom, man, I see something on the floor, near your cell. A few feet in front of your door.”

  Tom refused to look. Screw that guy, and his skank.

  “Tommy boy, I think it’
s a key.”

  Now Tom looked. Sure enough, sitting on the concrete like a brown dog turd, was one of those rusty old skeleton keys.

  “Can you reach it?”

  “I got handcuffs on, brainiac. How’m I supposed to reach it?”

  “Try your legs, man.”

  Tom decided to try his legs. The bars were close together, but he was thin, and he forced his right foot through the gap. Then he scooted closer. His knee was a little too big. He pushed hard, but it wouldn’t go in.

  “Try turning on an angle, Tom.”

  “No duh.”

  Tom turned on an angle, bending his knee slightly, and it slipped between the bars. He inched closer, trying to touch the key with his toe.

  “Careful, Tom.”

  “I know what I’m doing, Tyrone.”

  Tom shifted again, reaching a bit more, and accidentally kicked the key a few inches further.

  “Shut up,” he said, even though Tyrone hadn’t said anything.

  Tom laid down on his back, shimmying closer to the bars, pushing his thigh through almost up to his crotch. He felt around with his heel, listening for the tinkling sound of metal.

  Then the lights came on.

  “Tommy. Someone’s coming.”

  Tom heard the tinkle, felt the bump under his foot.

  “I found it.”

  Footsteps echoed closer. Tom didn’t dare to look. He tried to focus all of his attention on getting that key.

  “Just forget it, man,” Tyrone ordered. “Get your leg back in.”

  But Tom wasn’t going to forget it. No frickin’ way. His concentration was razor sharp, rock solid. He carefully bent his leg, dragging the key closer, and closer, tuning out the oncoming footsteps, tuning out Tyrone’s pleas to quit.

  See? I can focus when I have to.

  “Hello, Tom. What is this?”

  Frick. Martin.

  Martin grabbed Tom’s ankle and lifted it up, revealing the key.

  “Whoa. Someone made a mistake here. If you guys had gotten this, you would have probably all escaped.”

  Martin crouched down, picking up the key and pocketing it. Then he yanked Tom’s leg. The action was sudden and violent, bouncing Tom’s groin against the iron bar. The pain was like a gong being rung; sudden strike… building up… and then resonating, lingering.

  Tom howled, sitting up. Martin leaned forward and frowned, feigning concern.

  “I sense a bit of distress, Tom.”

  He jerked Tom’s leg once again, repeating the move.

  “Would you like to talk about how you’re feeling?” Martin asked. “You know I’m here for you.”

  It hurt so bad Tom couldn’t even inhale. His vision was peppered by swirling red and gold specks.

  “Leave him alone,” Tyrone said.

  “We’ll get to you in a moment, Tyrone. Right now it’s Tom’s time to talk.”

  “You think you all badass? Why don’ you come over here, step in this cell wit’ me.”

  Martin let go of his ankle, and thank God, because Tom didn’t think he could handle anymore. He pulled his leg back and brought his knees to his chest, curing up fetal on his side, staring as Martin walked over to Tyrone.

  “Do you know what you are Tyrone? Sticking your chest out, trying to act tough? You’re a stereotype. Poor African American kid, no father, grows up on the mean streets and joins a gang. Would you like to know why you never hear any stories about gangbangers who grow up to be happy, productive members of society? Because there aren’t any.”

  “You wouldn’t last two minutes in my hood.”

  “That’s because I wouldn’t ever go to your hood, Tyrone. It’s full of losers. That’s what you are. Born a loser, die a loser. You’re a statistic, Tyrone. And you know what else? You’re not tough at all. When we’re finished with you, you’re going to be crying like a little baby.”

  “Hells no.”

  “Hells yeah,” Martin mocked.

  Martin spread out his hands, as if welcoming a big group of people.

  “You still don’t know why I brought you here. Of course, why should you? You’re not the best and brightest of our nation’s youth. You’re not even in the top ninety-eight percent. So I’m going to be a nice guy and tell you what’s going to happen. A man is coming to the island. A very important man, who is going to change the world. But he’s going to need to be convinced. So you’re going to help convince him.”

  Martin smiled, and it scared Tom to his core.

  “He’s going to tell us what to do to you, and we’re going to do it. Happily, I might add. Painful things. Bloody things.”

  Tom couldn’t help it. He started to cry.

  “No tears yet, Tom. Save them for later. Besides, you three should actually feel pretty good about yourselves. You’ve defied all expectations, and done something productive with your lives. Something useful. Society always figured you would amount to nothing, but you’re the final pieces in this wonderful puzzle. Every ritual needs sacrificial lambs.”

  Martin’s eyes drilled into Tom, and the man who counseled him, mentored him, taught him, and pretended to actually give a shit about him, winked.

  “Now if you kids will excuse me, I have to go upstairs and torture my wife.”

  The bureau was Sara’s height. It was black, which made the dark red sketch on the front hard to see, but as Sara got closer, she could make it out.

  A human outline.

  Scrawled on the side, in chalk, were the words:

  Taylor’s Magic Box

  In fact, it looked like one of those magician’s cabinets, the kind where a woman went in and then was pierced with swords and cut into thirds.

  It also had the same little doors on the front, so the audience could see different parts of the woman’s body, to prove she was still in there.

  But Sara didn’t think this was an illusion. And a sickening sinking feeling in her gut told her who was probably inside.

  She reached for the top door, the one that would expose the face, but she stopped inches from touching it.

  All across the surface of the cabinet were round black knobs. Dozens of them. They were also on the sides, and the back, from top to bottom. Sara touched one, gently.

  Someone inside the box screamed, making Sara flinch.

  What the hell were these things?

  She looked around, stared down at the umbrella stand next to the cabinet.

  But it wasn’t filled with umbrellas. It was filled with long things that ended in black knobs.

  Suddenly understanding what they were, Sara grabbed the end of a knob in the middle of the cabinet and pulled.

  Just like the magician’s trick, Sara removed a six inch metal skewer from the box.

  Unlike the magician’s trick, this skewer was slick with blood.

  “Oh, Jesus. Laneesha.”

  Sara knew Lester was coming. Martin would be back soon, too. She and Jack had to get out of there. But she wasn’t going to leave Laneesha here with these monsters.

  That posed a problem. There were dozens—perhaps over a hundred—of these skewers sticking in the cabinet. Did Sara even have time to remove all of them? And if she did, would Laneesha bleed to death?

  She looked around for an answer, and saw two things on the floor that made her stomach churn. A car battery with jumper cables, and a handheld blowtorch.

  She had to get Laneesha out of there.

  “Laneesha, honey, it’s Sara. I’m going to help you, okay? I need to get these things out of your face first. Jesus, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry…”

  Sara lifted her hands, hesitated, reached closer, hesitated, and then pulled the six skewers out of the outline of the head as fast as she could, Laneesha’s cries of pain scarring her soul. Then she opened the door to view Laneesha’s face.

  “Kill me,” Laneesha croaked.

  Sara recoiled in horror. The blood. The damage. The agony the girl must be in.

  That’s when Sara sensed someone behind her.


  She didn’t hear it. She sensed it. Like feeling a glance from across a room. Since the door Sara came through hadn’t opened, the person must have come from the other door in the room.

  Not Lester. Not Martin. This was the one who had done this to Laneesha. This had to be Taylor, the owner of the Magic Box.

  Sara spun around, tugging the utility knife out of her jeans, ready to stab.

  It was a man. A fat, scarred man, naked except a black rubber apron that stretched from his chest to his thighs. He’d come out of the door—the bathroom door—Sara had been about to open. His greasy hair was shoulder-length. His pocked cheeks glistened with sweat over several days’ worth of stubble. His patchwork skin was lined with long, parallel scabs, like stripes, some of them still bleeding.

  And in his crippled right hand he was clenching a meat hook.

  Lester’s rage was a diesel engine in his chest, pumping and burning and threatening to blow. The pet was special to Lester. He came to the island with Martin, and Lester had bitten off some of his sensitive parts, but left him mostly untouched. He liked the funny uhhhnnnnnn sound the pet made. But he didn’t care for the begging, or the attempts to get away. So Doctor fixed him for Lester. Fixed his brain so he stopped talking. Fixed his arms and legs so he couldn’t run or fight back.

  For years, Lester had taken good care of the pet. He was Lester’s friend.

  But now someone had killed him.

  The doctor was in the lab. Martin was out. The stairs were the only way up to Lester’s room, and he didn’t pass anyone while bringing the hay.

  That left one person. The only other person on the second floor.

  Subject 33.

  Lester looked around for a weapon, wrapping his large hand around a filet knife. Razor sharp. Perfect for detail work.

  He stormed out his room, heading down the corridor.

  When Marshal Otis Taylor was a little boy, he wanted to kill people when he grew up. If his parents had known any abnormal psychology, they would have noted little Taylor wet the bed, started fires, and liked to hurt animals. These behaviors were documented precursors to psychopathy.