Trapped (A Novel of Terror)

by Jack Kilborn

  “Okay, let’s try to get him up on the table. Face down.”

  The three of them heaved, sweated, grunted, and strained, and eventually managed to beach the whale on the stainless steel operating table.

  “We’ve got a knife wound four inches right of the L2 vertebra.” Plincer placed his ear to Subject 33’s back. “There’s a pneumothorax. How long was the knife?”

  Lester held his fingers apart.

  “Possible liver puncture as well. Did you do all of these other cuts as well?” Plincer spread out his hands, indicating the dozens of slices on the fat man’s body.

  “Subject 33 was like that when Lester stabbed him.”

  “Self-inflicted? Fascinating.” Plincer peered over his glasses at Lester. “You weren’t trying to kill him, were you?”

  “Not right away,” Lester said.

  “But for heaven’s sake, why try at all?”

  “Subject 33 killed the pet.”

  “How did he get out of his room?”

  Lester shrugged. So did Martin.

  “Did you, perhaps, stop and think that maybe someone let him out?”

  Martin dug into his pocket. “Lurch here dropped a key in the cell area,” he said, holding it up.

  “Not Lurch,” Lester said. “Lester did it.”

  Plincer rolled his eyes. “The meeting is in less than an hour. Make sure that everyone is where they’re supposed to be. Including Georgia.”

  Martin and Lester both turned to leave.

  “Hold it, hold it please. I’m going to need some help re-inflating his lung and sewing him up. Lester, you stay here with me, since you’re the one that did this. Martin, are you sure your wife is contained?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Double-check. And as for you, old friend.” Plincer patted Subject 33’s head. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to properly sedate you. You’re going to feel this, but that’s what you get for messing around with another man’s property.”

  Lester smiled. Martin sighed, heading back to his room. He was annoyed, and tense.

  But he had complete faith that a few minutes with Sara would help relax him.

  Sara listened, as hard as she could, but Jack’s crying flooded her ears. Had Martin left? Or was he still there, silently waiting, ready to grab her when she opened the trunk?

  She tried rubbing Jack’s gums again, but the noise of his father banging on the trunk had scared him too much. His wailing increased in volume. Even more than the suffocating darkness, Sara feared Martin would hear him, figure out what was going on.

  Adjusting her body, she stuck Jack up under her shirt, pulling down her bra.

  He latched onto her breast and began to nurse.

  Sara sighed, stroking his scalp. For a precious minute, she and Jack were the only two people in the universe. He suckled lazily, and then she felt him release her, his body relaxing in sleep.

  The smothering dark returned.

  I’ll count to a fifty. Then I’ll come out.

  Sara made it to seventeen, then popped out and gasped for air like she’d been underwater, swinging the knife around in case Martin was close.

  He wasn’t. The room was empty. But the sudden movement woke up Jack, and he began to cry again.

  Sara climbed out of the trunk on shaky legs. She closed the lid, standing still for a few seconds, trying to get her hyperventilating under control. Now wasn’t a good time to pass out.

  Jack’s volume increased. She tried her breast again, but he turned away from it.

  Overtired? Bored? Wet?

  She stuck a finger in his diaper. Dry.

  “Shush,” she told him.

  He didn’t shush.

  Sara had to get out of there, fast. But first, she needed tools. Sara made her way to the work table and picked up the cordless drill. The bit was thick, four inches long. She squeezed the trigger and it whirred to life.

  Jack stopped crying, reaching a tiny hand out to touch the drill.

  “Do you like the drill? Yes you do like the drill.”

  She kept up the baby-talk patter and let it whir for another few seconds. Then she noticed something potentially more important.

  On the table, in an ashtray, was a key.

  It didn’t look like it would open the cells. This was a new key, and those were over a hundred years old, with locks to match. But it couldn’t hurt to hold on to.

  Sara took it, and closed the utility knife, sticking both into her pocket. She also took from the bench an ice pick, a hammer, and a hacksaw. She then put down the saw, unable to carry everything at once, and rushed into the hallway, heading for the stairs.

  When she was almost there she put on the brakes, noticing another door.

  It looked out of place in the castle-type environment, made of silver metal with a bright new doorknob.

  Keep going. Save the kids.

  But what if there’s some other poor victim in there? What if it’s Georgia?

  Sara reached for the doorknob hesitantly, as if she were about to touch a hot stove. She paused.

  Yes or no?

  Sara palmed the knob and gave it a deft turn.

  Locked.

  “Hello? Who’s there?”

  That was Georgia’s voice.

  Sara moved her mouth closer to the door. “Georgia? Are you in there?”

  “Sara? Is that you?”

  Sara put her hand on the door, leaning against it. “It’s me. Are you okay?”

  “I’m scared, Sara.” Georgia’s voice got louder. “Please get me out of here.”

  “I’m going to try. Don’t worry. I won’t leave you.”

  It was a no-brainer what to try first. The key. She set down the drill and the hammer and fished out the key, fitting it into the lock easily. Sara tried to twist.

  No good. The key wouldn’t turn.

  Sara gave it the standard key-jiggle, bumped the door with her shoulder to loosen up the bolt, and tried again.

  It worked. Sara pocketed the key and pushed the door open, keeping a protective hand on Jack as she looked around. The room was well-lit, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around. Sara saw a bed, a dresser, but no Georgia.

  Sara studied the door, and noticed the pneumatic arm at the top. She bent down and jammed the ice pick under the rail so it wouldn’t close automatically, and then stepped inside.

  “Georgia?”

  Sara glanced behind the door and was met with the shocking image of a Georgia standing there, nude and covered in blood.

  “Georgia! Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, now that you’re here.”

  Georgia smiled, oddly incongruous with her appearance. Then Sara noticed the bloody scissors in Georgia’s hand.

  “Georgia?”

  The pudgy girl launched herself at Sara, stabbing downward with the scissors.

  Instinct took over, Sara sidestepped to the right, ducking under the arc of Georgia’s swing and driving an elbow into the teen’s back.

  Georgia smacked into the dresser and Sara turned to face her, planting her feet apart and stepping on something squishy. She took a quick look at the floor.

  It was covered with blood. Blood and animal parts.

  Georgia spun, raising the scissors again. Her expression was gleefully manic.

  “It’s me, Georgia,” Sara pleaded, cradling Jack against her chest. “It’s Sara.”

  “I know who you are, bitch.”

  The girl lunged again, but this time she feinted before the swing, throwing Sara off balance. Sara back-pedaled, the scissors passing inches in front of Jack’s head. Her ass hit a desk, and Georgia slid and fell onto one knee.

  Sara looked to her right. The bed was in the corner of the room, at least ten feet away. Then looked down at her son, and at the crazed face of Georgia.

  Without second-guessing herself, Sara yanked Jack from his sling and tossed him through the air, at the center of the bed, aiming so he hit back-first. Before she could tell if she hit her target, Georg
ia had recovered and plowed into her, doubling Sara over and knocking her onto her back.

  Jack didn’t make a sound, and Sara couldn’t see him.

  Georgia fought like a rabid dog. Sara fought to push the girl off, but Georgia had straddled her, making the older woman cry out when she ground her knee into Sara’s leg wound. Sara strained against her, but Georgia was strong and fierce and weighed more.

  Georgia used that weight, leaning onto the scissors, bringing the blades closer and closer to Sara’s throat until they poked into her chin.

  Georgia was more than just excited. She was aroused. The scissors pricked at Sara’s face, making little blood freckles, and Georgia was loving it.

  The rat had been fun, but this was a hundred times better. Georgia had never tried any drugs, never had friends who attempted to share any with her. But she imagined this is what they must feel like. Each drop of blood that bloomed on Sara’s face was like another spike of ecstasy. Heroin and sex and cocaine and sky-diving all mixed up in one gigantic, pleasurable rush.

  Then Georgia’s fingers were being bent back, and she had to turn her body with the rotation so they didn’t break.

  She rolled off of Sara, no longer holding the scissors. The intense pleasure was gone, like a faucet that had been shut off. Not even an afterglow.

  Georgia looked up at Sara and snarled.

  “We can get you help,” Sara said, wiping red off her chin. “You have to trust me.”

  “I don’t want help.”

  Georgia scrambled onto all fours and then tackled Sara, wanting, needing, to bite the bitch’s face off.

  Martin reached the top of the stairs and immediately noticed a power drill and hammer next to Georgia’s door. He ran to them, saw the door was open, and saw a naked Georgia wrestling with…

  Sara. How the hell did she get free?

  He rushed into the room, blood boiling, yanking Georgia out of the way and cocking back a fist guaranteed to break his wife’s jaw.

  Georgia was there one second, gone the next, replaced by Martin. Sara had been trying to control Georgia without seriously hurting her, but with Martin she had no such compunction. She kicked him with everything she had, right between the legs, and then threw a right cross that broke the bastard’s nose.

  Martin went down.

  Then Sara was running for the bed. She panicked when she didn’t see Jack—

  Did I miss the mattress? Did he bounce off?

  —then saw him behind a bunched-up blanket.

  Sara scooped Jack up with one hand, pressing him to her chest, and took a quick look over her shoulder.

  Martin was getting up, turning her way.

  Georgia was on the floor, reaching for Sara’s ankle.

  Sara vaulted over Georgia’s hand, toward the doorway. Then she was reaching for the ice pick and yanking it free, pulling the door shut behind her. After confirming the door was locked, she stuck the pick in her pocket and checked Jack over.

  He smiled at her. This had to be the least-fussy, best-behaved child on the planet. She kissed his forehead and tucked him into his sling, then scooped up the hammer and drill, and limped down the stone stairs. They came to an end at the cell room, which was brighter with the lights on, but not by much. She gingerly touched her leg wounds and noted they were bleeding again.

  Wouldn’t it be funny if I lived through this and then died of an infection?

  She ignored the pain, scurrying over to the kids’ cells. They each had their hands cuffed behind their backs, and Tom was curled up in a ball.

  “Sara!”

  “Shh,” she told Cindy. “I’m going to try to get the doors open. You all need to watch the stairs and the door over there, make sure no one is coming. What happened to Tom?”

  “Lester and Martin,” Tyrone said. “Beat him up pretty good. Why’d you marry that guy anyway?”

  “The man I fell in love with was a good man,” Sara said, squinting at the lock on Cindy’s prison door. “He was turned into something else.”

  Sara knew the key for Georgia’s room wouldn’t fit, but she tried it anyway. No suck luck. Then she stuck the ice pick in the keyhole. Sara had no idea how lock mechanisms worked, other than something needed to be turned. She poked around for a minute without getting anywhere.

  “Tyrone, can you pick locks?”

  “Why, ‘cause I’m black?”

  “No, Tyrone. Because you’re a criminal.”

  “Hells no. Only thing I ever needed to bust a lock was my foot, or a gat.”

  Sara tucked the ice pick away and wielded the drill.

  “That might work, too,” Tyrone said.

  She placed the bit inside the keyhole and pushed while pressing the trigger. The bit was stronger than the old iron, and it immediately began to dig in.

  Then the drill whined, and slowly petered to a stop. Sara pressed the trigger a few more times.

  The battery was dead.

  “Lester, did you hear that?” Dr. Plincer asked.

  Lester hadn’t been paying attention. While Doctor was busy sewing Subject 33 up, Lester had been clandestinely squeezing the paralyzed man’s testicles. Lester got pleasure from the act, as he did whenever he was hurting someone, but was unhappy that Subject 33 couldn’t scream or cry. Pain without screams was like ice cream without chocolate sauce.

  Lester would wait for the drug to wear off. Then he’d do much worse things.

  “It sounds like a machine of some sort,” Doctor said. “In the cell room.”

  Lester listened, hearing a faint buzzing noise that faded out.

  “Go check it, please, Lester, if you would be so kind.”

  Lester gave Subject 33 one more big squeeze and then headed for the door.

  Martin sprinted at the metal security door for the third time, slamming his shoulder against it. His nose was bleeding over his mouth, down his neck, but he didn’t pay it any mind. His only goal was to get through this door and get that bitch he married.

  “Don’t you have a key?” Georgia asked.

  Martin sneered at her. “If I had a key, would I be trying to bust it down?”

  The girl rolled her eyes. “You always were an asshole, Martin. How’s your nose? Looks painful.”

  Georgia chewed on her lower lip and gave his nose a stiff poke.

  Martin lashed out with a backhand, knocking the little brat across the room. “Don’t touch me ever again. And put on some goddamn clothes.”

  He stared at his nemesis, the door, once more. Solid metal. Set in a stone wall. Calling for help was an option, but he didn’t think his voice would carry all the way to the lab. Kicking wouldn’t it be any more useful than ramming it, especially since the door opened inward.

  Wait a sec. The hinges are on the inside.

  Martin looked around on the floor, found the bloody metal shears. There were three hinges on the door, each with a pin holding the two parts of the shaft together. He knelt down and pried the bottom pin up, like pulling a nail. It took a bit of effort, but he was able to get it out.

  The middle pin was more difficult, probably because the door’s weight was no longer evenly distributed. Martin took off his hiking boot, placed the tip of the scissors under the pin’s head, and beat on the end until it came free.

  He used the same hammering technique on the last pin, which was the toughest of all. The sucker simply didn’t want to budge. But Martin was ferocious in his determination, and millimeter by millimeter the pin eased out of the shaft until it finally popped out the top and clanged onto the floor.

  Now hingeless, Martin could pry the door open. It fell behind him with a crash that made Georgia jump. Martin put his boot back on, stuck the scissors in his back pocket, and wiped his bleeding nose on his sleeve.

  Punch me? Let’s see how you punch when I cut your fingers off, Sara.

  Sara didn’t bother to curse the universe. Even though it was probably warranted, she didn’t have the time. She tried unplugging the battery and plugging it back in, but it
did nothing. The drill was useless.

  That left the hammer and the ice pick. She stuck the pick back in the lock and gripped it tight, ready to give the base a whack.

  “Sara!” Cindy’s voice had gone up an octave. “Lester’s coming!”

  Sara didn’t bother to look. She continued to beat on the ice pick.

  “Shit,” Tyrone sounded scared. “Martin just came down the stairs. You gotta run, Sara.”

  Sara whacked the pick again. “I’m not leaving you here.”

  Cindy said, “Lester’s coming this way.”

  “So is Martin,” Tyrone said. “Sara, you gotta go.”

  She shook her head, not daring to look up. “No. I’m getting you out.”

  “Sara,” Cindy was leaning against the bars. “Go to the gridiron. I dropped a gun in the bushes right next to it. It’s bright out now. You can find it, then come back and save us.”

  Sara hit the pick once more. The tip broke in half. She felt like crying.

  “Sara, please. Go.”

  Now Sara did look up. Her husband and Lester were heading toward her, and then Martin pointed.

  “There you are!”

  Sara stared hard at Cindy. “I’ll be back for you.” Their fingers touched.

  Then Sara ran. She ran to the big steel door, turned the lock, and pushed.

  Nothing happened.

  She pushed harder, leaning into it, and the door squealed and inched open.

  “Sara!” Cindy yelled.

  Sara didn’t want to look, but she did. Martin and Lester were twenty yards away at most, both of them running. Sara only had a few seconds.

  She strained against the heavy door, putting all of her weight into it, her injured leg trembling and feeling like it was about to burst.

  The door opened to a foot wide, maybe an inch or two less. Sara crammed Jack through the crack, holding him by the back of his onesie. Then she tried to wedge herself into the space, sandwiched between the door and the frame, fitting her head through sideways. But her body wouldn’t follow suit, her chest was too big.

  I’m stuck.