Trapped (A Novel of Terror)

by Jack Kilborn

  Sara said nothing.

  “Incredible. Either I’m that good, or you’re that naïve. One of the women, the one I was fucking, actually did get seasick. And we did beach the boat. And the cannibals did attack. Joe and I got away, but Lester found us. Took us back to the doc.”

  Martin rubbed his eyes. They were tinged with red, like they always got without his Goniosol medication. The holes in his cheeks had stitches in them.

  “Plincer made you evil,” she stated.

  “That’s not quite how it works. The procedure enhances the parts of the brain that process aggression. The doctor simply enlarged these portions, making violent acts not only more appealing, but necessary. Sort of like the sex drive, except this is the violence drive.”

  Martin lashed out again, slapping her harder this time. Sara’s cheek burned.

  “Doing that to you, it gave me a huge rush. I can feel the serotonin spike, my dopamine receptors feasting on it. Better than any high I’ve ever known. And especially sweet, since I’ve wanted to do that to you almost since the day we married.”

  Sara couldn’t help the tears now, but she managed to keep from sobbing.

  “The orange ribbons on the trees…”

  Martin nodded. “That was me. After I did my disappearing act at the campsite, I changed the ribbons to lead everyone to the prison. But those feral fuckers got the jump on me. I was so caught up in playing Mr. Nice Guy Martin, telling scary stories, I forgot my gun in my backpack. You really did save my life, Sara. Allow me to thank you for that.”

  He hit her again, this time with a closed fist. Sara had been expecting it, though, and turned her head in time, so his knuckles met the top of her skull.

  “Bitch,” he said, shaking his hand and then blowing on his knuckles. “I’d feel that if I wasn’t on painkillers. I’m going to make you pay for that.”

  Sara retreated into her caregiver role, summoning up a bit of anger and righteous indignation. “Where’s Laneesha and Georgia?”

  “Plincer gave Laneesha to Subject 33. He’s had her for a while now. I doubt there’s very much left of her. He’s got some sort of device. Personally, it gives me the creeps.”

  “And Georgia?”

  “Bad girl, that Georgia. We both know she was faking her remorse. I think she was hiding more than that. We’re taking good care of her.”

  “Martin,” Sara tried to put all of her feelings into her voice. “These are our kids. You have to help them.”

  “We never had kids, Sara. None of them wanted to grow inside of you. These kids are a bunch of social miscreants. Always have been. Always will be. I’ve been doing society a favor, taking them out of the gene pool all these years.”

  Sara didn’t like this conversation at all, but she especially didn’t like the turn it just took. “What are you talking about, Martin?”

  Martin leaned in close, smiling. “Do you really think we’ve had eleven runaways since we opened the Center?”

  Sara narrowed her eyes. “What did you do, Martin?”

  He stood, walking over to the dresser. Keeping his eyes on Sara, he opened the top drawer.

  “Remember Cheerese Graves? One of our first court-appointed cases at the Center. Also our first runaway.”

  Martin reached into the drawer. Sara didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t turn away. He pulled out what looked like a brown shirt. But then he held it up, letting it unroll to full length.

  Sara gagged, throwing up on the cot mattress.

  “Not my best work,” Martin said. “Skinning isn’t easy. Especially when the person is still alive. All that flinching and bleeding. That’s why there are all the tears on this one. Take a look.”

  Martin tossed the skin across the room. It glided, almost like a kite, then landed on Sara.

  The hair was still attached, and it fell on Sara’s chest. She shook it away, and it slid across her neck. The texture was stiff, rough, not unlike burlap, and it carried an odor of salt and beef jerky. Gravity took the hide over the edge of the bed, and Sara tried to twist away from it, watching as the legs and feet, complete with toenails, fell onto the floor.

  “Poorly done. I know. But I got better, as time went on. Here’s Jenna Hamilton.”

  Martin tossed another skin at her. “And Rich Ardmore.” He threw that, too.

  Sara managed to dodge the first, squirming backward on the cot, but Rich landed directly on her face. She screamed, shaking her head back and forth, able to see Martin through a hole that was actually Rich’s mouth.

  Martin tossed another at her.

  “Here’s Miranda Sudan.” The skin landed on Sara’s legs. “And remember Henry Perez, liked to start fires? I gave him a nice, charred finish.”

  Sara freed herself of Rich, only to have Henry smack her in the head. He smelled like burned bacon. She managed to scooch back into the corner of the bed and get onto her knees. The skins piled up around her like tangled sheets.

  “Here’s one you were particularly fond of, from just last month. Tonya Johnson. All set to straighten out her life, start fresh. Then I brought her here. She doesn’t smell so fresh now.”

  Tonya’s skin hit Sara hard, with a slapping sound. It was still moist, and left a pink, wet splotch on Sara’s sweater.

  “Martin… no more.”

  “No more? But we’re just getting started, Sara honey. I’ve been forced to live a lie with you these past six years. Ever since the procedure, do you know how difficult it was to restrain myself? To push down my urges? I had to pretend to be a responsible, upstanding adult, a caring psychologist, and a decent husband, while all the time thirsting for my next opportunity to cut someone apart.”

  Martin rushed at her, making Sara cringe.

  “I…I love you, Martin.”

  His smile was demonic. “And I hate you, Sara. Hate you with every fiber in my body. Hate you so much, in fact, that I’ve got something really special planned for you. Remember Paulie Gunther Spence?”

  The memories came hurtling back. Being eleven years old, locked in the trunk with Louise, forced to hear all of the horrible things he did to her.

  “I read the coroner’s report, Sara. I know all about what he did to your friend. And I know how you were locked in the trunk of the car, listening to every atrocity. Unfortunately, I don’t have a car here. Too tough to get it up the stairs. But I do have this.”

  Martin grabbed her with both hands, one tangling up in her hair, the other tugging on her sweater. He yanked her off the bed, and she hit the floor on her knees, hard. Then he began to drag her toward—

  “Martin... please… don’t.”

  “It’ll be just like old times, Sara. A blast from the past.”

  He pulled her to the old chest in the corner of the room, and popped open the top.

  “Nice and dark in there. Dark and cramped.”

  Sara struggled, contorting her body, not letting him get a firm grip. But he did, yanking the rope so hard her shoulders felt like they were about to pop out of their sockets, lifting her up, and—oh jesus, oh god no—dumping her face-first into the trunk.

  The lid closed, catapulting Sara into absolute darkness.

  She screamed; a muffled, constricted sound that was so intimately familiar to her.

  Martin knocked on the top of the trunk.

  “So here’s what’s going to happen, Sara. I’m going to leave you in there. I don’t know for how long. Maybe a few days. Just like with Paulie, I’m going to make you wait for so long that you’ll be happy when I finally open it up to kill you. That’s what you used to tell me, those nights when you couldn’t get to sleep. You told me you wanted him to open the trunk and kill you, just so you didn’t have to wait anymore. How fucked up is that?”

  Sara looked all around, seeking a crack in the chest, a seam, something that might allow a sliver of light in. But there was only darkness.

  “I’m going to make you wait even longer, Sara.”

  No. Please not that.

  “Then wh
en I finally take you out, I’m going to finish what Paulie started. I’m going to do to you what he did to Louise. I’ve even got all the same props. The hammer and nails. The battery acid. I found the same model power sander, though it’s been discontinued for many years. Apparently it was recalled by the company. Due to—and you’ll love this—being unsafe. But it sure worked well on Louise’s knees, didn’t it? You heard it. You know how much it hurt her.”

  Sara felt like the world was spinning too fast. She found it hard to breathe.

  “I’ve also got something really special. Something you’ll really love. Remember the knife he used? The hunting knife, with the jagged back? I’ve got one of those, too. Can you picture it, Sara? You used to get woozy when you saw a steak knife whenever we went out to eat. Can you imagine Paulie’s big ole hunting knife?”

  Sara could imagine it. It was the only thing in her head, blocking out everything else.

  “Well, no need to answer me right now. You’ve got plenty of time to think about it. And then, later, much later, you can tell me how it feels when I try it on you.”

  “Please,” Sara whispered.

  “Did you say something, hon?”

  “Please. Martin. Don’t leave me in here.”

  “Would you prefer I let you out, get started on you right now?”

  Sara couldn’t believe here response, but the word left her mouth. “Yes.”

  She waited for Martin to answer. The seconds ticked away.

  “Martin?”

  There was only silence. Silence, and smothering darkness.

  “Martin!”

  And just like with Paulie Gunther Spence, Sara heard a faint chuckle.

  Georgia opened her eyes. They were dry, raw, like someone had rubbed sand into her tear ducts. She closed them again, touching her eyelids, and that made her realize the paralysis had worn off.

  She was in a warm bed, beneath a thick blanket. With a yawn she sat up, the blanket falling away, exposing her bare breasts. Georgia saw she was naked. It didn’t bother her at all, and she wondered why. Much as she tried to delude herself, Georgia knew she had body image problems. She didn’t want anyone to see her without clothes on. Even with Lester, while having sex, Georgia had nagging doubts about her looks, her performance.

  But her appearance no longer mattered to her. In fact, for the first time ever, she felt proud of her body. She slipped out from under the covers and padded over to the window. Dawn had come, flooding the outdoors with light. Georgia walked past, coming to a dresser with a mirror on top. She stopped, stared at her saggy belly, her large hips.

  But instead of shame, Georgia felt strangely proud. More than proud. She felt strong, powerful. Like she could conquer the world. She let the fantasy take hold, Georgia sitting on a throne perched up on top of a mountain, and beneath her on all sides, crosses. Crosses with people nailed to them, screaming and begging for mercy. Crucifixions as far as she could see. Hundreds. Thousands. Millions.

  Then the fantasy switched. The crucified morphed into the impaled. Georgia remembers reading about Vlad the Impaler, how he would place people on tall wooden stakes. Gravity, and struggling, would cause his victims to slide down the pole, piercing organs and tissue until it eventually came out of their mouths.

  The image made her tingle all over.

  She rubbed her eyes again, considered the procedure Doctor Plincer had performed on her. Not a pleasant memory, but the pain was gone, replaced by an overwhelming sense of self. Sleeping with Lester had shown Georgia how strong she could be. But even that paled next to how she now felt. That old Georgia was a weakling. This new Georgia was unstoppable.

  With this newfound feeling of absolute power came an overwhelming urge to hurt somebody. Anybody. Hurt them horribly.

  Georgia walked to the metal door. Locked. She scowled, irritated that she was stuck there, unable to indulge in her newfound desire. Then she noticed the package next to the door.

  It was the size of a shoe box, wrapped like a birthday present in bright red paper with a big white bow on top. Next to it was a smaller box, wrapped in the same paper. A card taped to the top of the larger present read:

  TO GEORGIA GIRL

  FROM LESTER

  Georgia plucked off the bow and tore into the large package first, revealing a steel cage. Inside, complete with matted gray fur and tiny black eyes, was the biggest rat she’d ever seen.

  Rather than flinch, which is something the old Georgia would have done, the new Georgia eyed the creature with something akin to hunger. It was so weak. So vulnerable.

  She opened the slim package next. Inside were a roll of duct tape and a pair of long, sharp scissors. There was another note at the bottom of the box.

  HAVE FUN

  Georgia smiled.

  How did Lester know this was just what I needed? What a thoughtful man.

  A rat this large wouldn’t die right away. If Georgia restrained herself, it would be good for a few hours of entertainment.

  “Hello, little friend,” Georgia told the rat, reaching for the latch with greedy fingers. “Would you like to play?”

  Cindy opened her eyes. She hadn’t been asleep. Just sitting with her back against the bars, resting, conserving her energy. Exhausted as she was, Cindy didn’t know if she would ever be able to sleep again. Or if she’d have the chance to.

  There was light coming in through the window, enough to illuminate the cells. She glanced over at Tyrone, who was staring at her. They were still holding hands.

  “How you doin’?” he asked.

  “This motel sucks. No room service. No cable TV. And the bathroom is seriously lacking.”

  “You need to pee, I can turn away.”

  She shifted her bad shoulder and gave his hand a squeeze, regretting it when she saw him grimace.

  “I’m okay. You wanna hear something funny?”

  “Hells yeah. Could use somethin’ funny right ‘bout now.”

  “I haven’t thought about meth in hours. This is the first time, for as long as I can remember, that I haven’t had any urge to get high.”

  “Cool. Sounds like you beat it.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. You’re strong. I always knew that about you.”

  Cindy felt herself blush, but it was a good feeling, not an embarrassing one.

  “How’s your hand?”

  “Hurts. It started to scab over, but now every time I move it, starts to bleed again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Won’t stop me from beatin’ the fuck out of whoever opens my cell door.”

  Cindy smiled, gave his hand a much gentler squeeze.

  “We gonna get outta here, Cindy. I promise.”

  “Good morning.”

  Cindy and Tyrone looked toward the staircase at the far end of the room, following the sound of that familiar, effeminate voice.

  Tom noticed too, and began to make a high pitched, keening sound.

  Lester strolled up to them slowly, casually. He was holding a broomstick.

  “Today is a big day. The meeting with the important people. Lester needs the boys and the girl to behave.”

  He reached into his bib overalls and removed a pair of handcuffs.

  “Lester wants to know the black boy’s name.”

  Tyrone said nothing. Lester raised up his broomstick, and Cindy saw it had a nail sticking out of the end. He aimed it at Tyrone.

  “His name is Tyrone,” she quickly said. “He’s Tyrone, I’m Cindy.”

  Lester tossed the handcuffs into Tyrone’s cell. They made a jingling sound when they hit the floor.

  “The Tyrone boy needs to put the handcuffs on, behind his back.”

  “Fuck you, you ugly, buck-toothed mutha fucker.”

  Before Cindy had a chance to yell, “No!” Lester had jabbed Tyrone on the hip with the nail. Tyrone recoiled, making a small grunting noise.

  “The Tyrone boy will put on the handcuffs.”

  “You hear me the first time?�
�� Tyrone said through his teeth. “Fuck. You.”

  Lester jabbed him again, this time aiming for Tyrone’s crotch. The teen shifted and managed to deflect the strike, instead getting pierced in the thigh.

  “Tyrone, baby, honey, please put them on.” Cindy ran her hand over his head, willing him to listen. “Please, Tyrone, for me, just do it.”

  Lester raised the stick again. Tyrone scowled at him, then reached for the handcuffs.

  “I’ll help you.” Cindy put her arms through the bars, cinching the cuffs loosely on his wrists.

  “Now the Cindy girl will put on the handcuffs.”

  Lester tossed her a pair, and she dutifully snicked them on behind her back.

  “Let Lester see.”

  She scooted over, showing him. Lester walked off, moving to Tom’s cell.

  “The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”

  The cuffs jangled the concrete floor.

  “My finger, it’s, it’s all messed up,” Tom said. He had the hiccups. “I can’t put them on.”

  Lester thrust out the broomstick, poking Tom in the stomach.

  “The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”

  “Jesus! Stop it! I can’t do it!”

  Lester jabbed him again, this time in the leg.

  “The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”

  Tom reached for the cuffs, then moaned. “I can’t get them open.”

  Lester hit him in the ribs this time.

  “The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”

  “Tom!” Cindy had her face pressed to the bars. “Tom, just put them on!”

  “I’m trying.” Hic. “I… I can’t.”

  Lester stabbed Tom in the ribs, and he made a sound like tires screeching.

  “The Tom boy puts on the handcuffs.”

  “Tom, for God’s sake!” Cindy yelled. “Put on the goddamn cuffs!”

  Slowly, painfully slowly, Tom managed to lock one bracelet across his left wrist, and get his hands behind his back. Cindy watched, intent but also repulsed at the site of his damaged finger.

  “You can do it, Tom,” she urged. “Don’t give up.”

  Tom was shaking like mad, still hiccupping, but he managed to finesse the second cuff on.

  “Show Lester.”