Trapped (A Novel of Terror)

by Jack Kilborn

  But they were too busy physically and sexually abusing Taylor to notice that he might be a little off-kilter.

  Perhaps they should have paid more attention, because when Taylor turned twelve he turned on the gas stove, blew out the flame, and waited in the back yard while the carbon monoxide filled the house and poisoned them to death.

  It was deemed an accident, and the neighbors corroborated that Taylor was a handful and his parents sometimes made him sleep outside.

  Taylor did the foster home shuffle for several years, eventually running away at fifteen and joining a travelling carnival. He learned how to be charming there, and how charm was the key to deception. He was taught street magic, and the art of the hustle, and may other carny tricks. He also learned how to drive the double-clutch eighteen-wheelers used for hauling equipment from town to town.

  By age nineteen his boyish good looks had bloomed into masculinity, and he’d saved and swindled enough money to buy his own truck.

  The truck-stop hookers thought he was so cute, they often gave him freebies.

  He killed his first one in Wisconsin. His second in Nebraska.

  Over the years, Taylor’s route, and his hunting ground, encompassed the entire lower forty-eight. He killed one in every state, and after that lost count.

  When they finally caught him, he was only charged with twenty murders, which wasn’t even a third of them.

  Taylor received the death sentence, and he had memories of being strapped to the table, the prison doctor hooking up the IV that contained the lethal injection.

  Then his memories got fuzzy.

  He remembered snippets of things. Some sort of military training. A special forces unit. Foreign countries. Missions that involved even more killing. Screaming people. Lots and lots of screaming people.

  And coyotes. Taylor remembered the coyotes, eating him alive while he was unable to fight back.

  Then somehow, well over a year ago, sewn back together like a crazy-quilt, Taylor had wound up here.

  He wasn’t even sure where here was.

  His good looks were ruined. His body didn’t work like it should have, due to muscle loss, his voice was gone, and his fingers jutted out at odd angles and were barely functional. The insane doctor who kept him here—Doctor Plincer—had tinkered with Taylor’s brain.

  Before the tinkering, Taylor had enjoyed causing others pain.

  After the tinkering, causing pain was the only think Taylor lived for.

  It was an addiction, stronger than any drug.

  And the doctor fed his addiction, for the most part, supplying him with a steady stream of victims.

  Of course, the one victim Taylor longed for most was the doctor himself.

  He just had to get the bastard in his Magic Box.

  The box was based on months of testing and experimenting. Every skewer positioned and angled so it wouldn’t hit anything vital. Taylor’s biggest wish was to get the doctor in there, and make him suffer for weeks.

  But until that day came, he had other victims to play with.

  Like this tender little morsel clutching a baby.

  The woman was cute. Cute ones were so sexy when they screamed.

  But the baby…

  Taylor had never done a baby before.

  It sounded like a lot of fun.

  Sara was paralyzed with fear. A tiny part of her brain recognized what a cliché that was. But it was true. She was so terrified, so overwhelmed by dread, she couldn’t move.

  Taylor stared at her. Through her. Sara knew he could read her thoughts, sense her helplessness.

  He lowered the meat hook and gave her a lopsided grin. Then he limped slowly to Sara’s left, his gait wobbly and twisted, like he had a degenerative muscle disease. But Sara noticed it wasn’t a disease—beneath his scarred skin, some of his muscles were simply gone.

  Taylor stopped at a dresser, his bloodshot gaze drilling into her.

  Run! Sara yelled at herself. Get out of there!

  But her feet remained planted, her veins felt filled with cement. She couldn’t even turn her head, staring at her abductor out of the corner of her eyes, watching as he slowly pulled open a drawer. He put his hand inside, grinning, obviously enjoying himself, and then removed a rope.

  No! Don’t let him tie you up, Sara! You have to move!

  That’s when the door burst open.

  The sound was enough to break Sara out of her frozen state. In one smooth motion she yanked Jack from his sling and dove sideways, keeping him off the floor, and scooted lengthwise under the bed. She placed her baby on his belly, tucked against her side, and felt him kick against her as he woke up.

  “You! You killed my pet!”

  Lester’s presence seemed to fill the room. He looked twice as big as the last time Sara saw him, and his eyes were wide and lips pulled back to bare his revolting teeth. He was pointing, accusingly, his hand ending in a knife that glinted orange in the candlelight.

  But he wasn’t looking at Sara. He was looking at Taylor.

  “The pet is dead. Now Lester will kill Subject 33’s pet.”

  Lester took two quick steps toward Laneesha’s cabinet, and Sara watched aghast as he flung open the large middle door without removing the skewers.

  Laneesha’s insides came out, spilling onto the ground, some of them sliding under the bed and onto Sara and Jack. She shoved her knuckles into her mouth and bit down to keep from screaming. When she looked down at Jack, Sara saw his eyes were open and he was making that pinched, unhappy face he would always make before he started to cry.

  Sara shoved her finger in his mouth. He made a tiny little whine of protest.

  Lester turned toward Taylor, raising the knife.

  “Now Lester will kill Subject 33.”

  Taylor held up one hand in supplication as he shook his head. His other hand was gesturing wildly.

  Pointing right at Sara.

  But Lester wasn’t following the man’s finger, and though Taylor’s lips were moving, no sounds were coming out.

  Lester lunged.

  For a limping, pudgy man, Taylor moved pretty fast. He danced away from the blade and came up on Lester’s side, the meat hook raised. Taylor swung, cutting through empty air with a whir.

  Jack let out a soft cry. Sara massaged his gums with her fingertip. He began to suck.

  Lester lunged again, nicking Taylor on the shoulder. Taylor again swung and missed. The taller man’s reach was too long, and he easily kept Taylor at a distance.

  When Lester cut Taylor’s other shoulder, she could see the futility on Taylor’s face. He knew he was going to die. That’s when he stared Sara dead in the eyes, and then ran right at her.

  Sara shrank back, tugging Jack with her, but it wouldn’t help. This was a cheap bed, light and flimsy. Taylor would be able to upend it with one hand, exposing them both to Lester.

  But Lester acted fast, sticking out a foot, tripping Taylor so he fell near the edge of the bed. The fat man flopped onto his belly, momentum making him slide across the gore toward Sara.

  The meathook clanged to the floor and bounced away, and Sara locked eyes with the fallen killer, less than two feet between them. Up close, Taylor’s face looked like it had been sculpted by a preschooler, all disfigured and missing parts. He opened his ruined mouth and let out a wheeze, his bloodshot eyes wide with panic.

  Then Taylor stretched his hands under the bed and grabbed Jack’s arm.

  Martin was feeling pretty good. The drugs had taken the edge off his injuries, the children were all accounted for, and he was about to spend some quality time with the missus. Plus, he was now the owner of a pretty sweet boat. Which, unfortunately, he was going to have to sink.

  Martin had told Captain Prendick the truth about his prices being too high, and Martin was fully prepared to takeover Plincer’s supply needs. But the real reason he killed Prendick was because he needed the boat for his plan to work.

  A noted psychologist, a ship’s captain, and six teenagers
couldn’t just disappear while Martin walked away scot-free. So Martin was going to use Prendick’s GPS navigation system to find the deepest part of the lake; Huron went down 750 feet in some parts. Then he was going to set the boat on fire and sink it, putting in a last minute call to the Coast Guard just as he jumped overboard.

  “There was some kind of horrible explosion,” he would tell the authorities. “I must have been thrown clear. Damn lucky thing I had my life jacket on. Oh, my poor now-dead wife. My poor son. Those poor, underprivileged, blown-up children. What a terrible and tragic freak accident.”

  He’d work on the story, and his delivery. A few burn marks on his life preserver would lend credence, as would his outstanding reputation in the field of social work.

  The best part? Sara was insured for half a million dollars. Enough to buy a nice, new boat. Joe had been right about that one thing; boating life was the way to go.

  Martin got to the top of the stairs and wondered if he should drop in on brother Joe, maybe give him a dog bone for old time’s sake. But the growing tension in his groin told him to wait until later. He wanted to get in some husband and wife bonding first.

  He walked to his room, smiling when he saw the trunk in the corner. Martin could picture Sara in there, tied up and terrified. He thought of all those countless, wasted nights, holding her in bed because she was frightened, pretending to care.

  Payback was a bitch.

  Martin snuck over, raising his palm to give the chest a good whack and scare the crap out of her, when he heard Lester yell something down the hall.

  Odd. Lester never yelled. Not in the years Martin had known him. Something must be happening.

  He left Sara to her personal hell and went into the corridor.

  Another yell from Lester.

  It seemed to be coming from Subject 33’s room.

  Martin headed that way.

  Whatever grip fear had over Sara since her youth disappeared when this ghoul grabbed her baby.

  Instead, her fear was replaced by rage.

  Taylor gripped Jack’s little arm, his bloodshot eyes huge with panic, trying to drag her son from her grasp.

  No way in hell that was going to happen.

  Sara still held the utility knife, and she used it without hesitation, slashing at his knuckles, his hands, his arms. Digging deep and twisting the triangular blade.

  Taylor released Jack, his soundless lips flapping as Lester tugged him away from the bed. Taylor’s arms scoured the floor, trying to grab onto something, finding only bits of Laneesha.

  Sara watched, awestruck, as Lester placed a huge foot on Taylor’s flabby backside, leaned down, and plunged the knife into his back. Taylor flopped around for a bit, like a fish on a pier, his mouth wide in a silent scream.

  Then, all at once, he stopped moving, a sail that ran out of wind.

  She stared, knowing Lester wasn’t going to stop there. While part of her said she should turn away, another part wanted to watch as Lester cut Laneesha’s killer into a million little pieces. Indeed, Lester tugged out the knife and raised it again. But his plans were interrupted when the door opened.

  “Lester? Aw, shit, Lester! What did you do?”

  Sara felt herself grow very cold. Martin had walked into the room.

  Jack heard his father’s voice and cooed happily. Sara felt around and stuck her finger back into his mouth.

  Lester squinted at the knife like he didn’t know how it got there. Then he looked at Martin.

  “Subject 33 killed the pet. So Lester killed Subject 33.”

  “Dammit, Lester, you can always get a new pet. Plincer’s going to be pissed at you.”

  Martin knelt down, felt Taylor’s neck. Though Sara thought nothing could shock her any more, Martin’s callous disregard for his brother’s death made him even more horrible.

  “He’s still alive. Help me get him to the lab.”

  They each grabbed a leg, and dragged Taylor across the bloody floor, out the door.

  Sara waited. She needed to figure out what to do next. She still had four kids left. The three in the cells, and Georgia, wherever she was being held. But those cells were solid. She would need tools to get in. A saw, or a pry bar.

  Or a drill.

  There was a drill in Martin’s room, on his tool bench.

  Sara slowly slid out from underneath the bed, avoiding the blood on the floor and refusing to look in Laneesha’s direction. She tucked Jack back into his sling and was halfway to the door when she realized Laneesha deserved better than that. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to face the cabinet.

  “I’m sorry,” Sara whispered, feeling the words stick in her throat. “I know you believed we go someplace, after we die. If you’re right, and you can hear me, I’m making you a promise. If…no…when I get out of here, I’ll make sure your daughter finds a good home, and knows how brave her mother was. I’m so sorry.”

  Sara closed her eyes but could still picture the ruined, bloody thing before her.

  “I also promise, even if I die trying, to get every one of those fuckers who did this.”

  Sara snuck out into the antechamber, and then peeked around the corner before committing to the hallway. Once she deemed it clear she moved quickly, on the balls of her feet, pausing by Martin’s doorway. She heard voices, from the spiral staircase ahead of her.

  “…sick of dragging this heavy bastard. The wheelchair is in my room. I’ll go get it.”

  Martin.

  Sara hurried into his room, frantically looking for a hiding place. It was too well lit in here to hide under the bed. But there wasn’t any place else. Except…

  Can I do this?

  She gaped at the trunk, her legs feeling weak. The alternative was facing Martin with the utility knife—which had too small a blade to do any serious damage. Plus Martin attended the same judo class as she did. Sara had more experience, but he was stronger and outweighed her by sixty pounds. She silently cursed herself for making him take classes with her.

  His footsteps reverberated through the stone corridor, getting closer.

  I can do this.

  Utility knife clenched in a death-grip, Sara cautiously lifted the trunk lid.

  It’s so dark in there.

  She cradled Jack’s head and climbed in anyway, forcing herself to squat down, the pain in her leg making her wince.

  But she couldn’t get herself to close the lid.

  Martin’s footsteps drew closer, practically outside the room.

  Dammit, Sara. Look what Laneesha went through. You can do this.

  Sara eased the lid down, watching her light get smaller until it was a thick line… a thinner line… just a speck…

  And then the darkness.

  It assaulted her like a freezing wind, making her want to scream while also taking her breath away. A minute ago, a second ago, she’d been empowered, a woman on a mission. But the dark reduced her to jelly. She wasn’t even sure if she could keep hold of the utility knife.

  Sara strained to hear outside the trunk. Was Martin in the room yet? What was he doing? Would he notice the lock on the trunk was broken? What if he opened the lid? Would she even be able to defend herself while holding her baby?

  Then there was a huge banging noise and the trunk shook and Sara screamed and dropped the knife, the darkness swallowing it, and her.

  Martin slapped the top of the trunk and was rewarded with a cry of absolute terror from the woman he exchanged vows with.

  “You okay in there, honey? I don’t want you thinking I’ve forgotten about you.”

  Sara’s crying continued, and it was so infantile it almost sounded like a baby.

  Martin went to the wheelchair, parked next to the tool bench. It had shackles on it, and was useful for moving people around. An elevator would have been more useful, but Lester was pretty strong and there weren’t many people he couldn’t lift by himself.

  Subject 33, however, had to weigh three hundred and fifty pounds. He’d really let hi
mself go since Plincer locked him in that room. Martin made a mental note to bring him a Nordic Track or something on his next visit. If the fat bastard pulled through.

  He wheeled the chair to the doorway and then abruptly stopped.

  Something was wrong. He felt it.

  Martin turned around, scanning the room. Work bench. Dresser. Peg board. Bed. Trunk.

  There, by the trunk.

  “Trying to get away? You naughty girl.”

  Martin walked over, bending at the waist to pick up the object on the floor. Chereese’s tanned hide was lying in a pile, like a dropped leather jacket. Martin had put all of his skins away, but somehow had overlooked her. He lifted her up, brushing a piece of rock salt out of her hair, and reverently put her back in the dresser.

  Then Martin left the room. He had to walk backwards down the stairs, lest the wheelchair get away from him. Lester hadn’t waited, and had pulled Subject 33 by himself halfway across the cell area. Martin rolled up to him, and they hefted the fat man into the chair.

  The lab was on the other side of the cells, through a doorway and at the end of the hall, between Plincer’s bedroom and the kitchen. As expected, the doctor was in the lab, fussing with some test tubes.

  “What happened now?”

  Martin frowned. “He and Lester had a disagreement. So Lester stabbed him in the back.”

  Plincer came over, peering close. “So how did he get so fat?”

  “Eating too much and lack of exercise.”

  Subject 33 groaned.

  “Oh dear, we don’t want this one waking up on us. Hold him down.”

  Lester placed his hands on Subject 33’s shoulders and leaned on him. Martin stared at Doctor Plincer, clucking like a mother hen while he searched his cabinets for some succinocholine, and wondered how a man so brilliant could be such a space cadet at the same time.

  The doctor found the bottle and filled a syringe. By now Subject 33’s eyes were open. He stared up at Lester, projecting hate. Lester projected hate right back. Plincer gave the fat man a shot in the thigh.