JACK KILBORN ~ TRAPPED (55 page)

It finally looked like the plan would work. The stupid Center was closing, and Georgia would be sent to juvee. She could snow those dumb, overworked shrinks at juvee, no problem. Then she’d get released, and be sent back home.

She had business at home. Business she’d been planning for a while. The parents of that little retarded brat had taken away two years of Georgia’s life, and they needed to be taught a lesson. Them and their brain dead kid.

Georgia read a lot. She knew what she was. The American Psychiatric Association's Diagnostic and Statistical Manual called it
antisocial personality disorder.

Georgia was a sociopath, and sociopaths couldn’t be cured. And why should they be?

Being one was so much fun.

Georgia ducked under a branch, pine needles tangling in her hair, and smirked once again at how she’d scared the shit out of that loser, Cindy. She wished it wasn’t so dark so she could have seen her expression better.

Frightening others was a pleasant sadistic thrill. Scaring the little brats she used to babysit was especially rewarding. It was easy, and satisfying, to reduce a five-year-old to hysterics. But since being trapped at the Center, playing the role of Good Georgia to the hilt, she hadn’t had any opportunities to let loose.

Tonight, she would do more than just let loose.

Georgia had been planning this for weeks, and had secretly smuggled all the supplies needed to do the deed. In her front pocket was an envelope containing five ounces of powder, a combination of four different materials. Powdered sugar, that she snagged while helping Sara make some insipid cookies. Iron oxide, in the form of rust particles, that Georgia meticulously scraped off a pipe behind the toilet at the Center. Saltpeter, which Martin had poured on an old tree stump out back to dissolve it. And non-dairy creamer.

The creamer by itself was flammable, as were most powders because of their high surface ratio. The other three ingredients combined to make a primitive form of black powder, a propellant used in bullets and fireworks. Georgia wished she could check the recipe on the Internet, but Center residents weren’t allowed unsupervised access, so she had to make do from the descriptions in old Civil War history books. She also wished she could test it first, but that hadn’t been possible due to the Center’s anal retentive lockdown on matches. It should work, though.

The plan was to wait for everyone to go to sleep, then sneak next to Sara’s tent, lift up the side, pour the powder in her hair, and set that bitch on fire. Georgia didn’t have matches, but the campfire was the perfect substitute. Maybe Sara would live. Maybe not. While killing her would be cool, leaving her horribly crippled and disfigured had its appeal. And with five other dysfunctional kids there, it couldn’t be conclusively blamed on Georgia.

Now all she had to do was get back to camp and wait for Sara to return and fall asleep. But that was becoming problematic.

Georgia had ducked into the woods to freak out Cindy, and had only gone maybe a dozen steps, but that was enough for her to be having some trouble finding her way back.

She thought about calling out to the others, but that wasn’t a real option. Georgia hated all of them. Hated them passionately. She preferred to stay lost than ask for help from those idiots.

So she began to wander around, which wasn’t working out too well. The darkness, coupled with too many damn trees that all looked alike, led Georgia on a meandering half-hour hike all the way to shore. When she saw Lake Huron, spreading out into infinity like a pool of black blood, she knew her only way back was to circle the shoreline and find that orange ribbon they’d dutifully tied to the trees. That would lead her to camp. Unfortunately, the island was a few miles in circumference, which meant a long, boring hike.

Georgia stared up at the stars and the bright orange moon, and tried to decide whether to go left or right. She chose left, walking along the sandy beach, holding her arms tight across her chest as the cool water breeze raised chills.

After a hundred yards or so, Georgia realized she was being followed. She sensed it at first, then spun around in time to see a figure scuttle off the sand and into the tree line, less than a stone’s throw away.

She felt the tiny hairs on her arms stand at attention, then quickly shook off the fear. It was probably one of those jerks back at camp, playing games. Georgia didn’t believe any of Martin’s silly campfire stories. Besides, if there was anything to be afraid of in the dark, it was Georgia. She was the one with the propellant in her pocket. She was the one with murder on her mind. Everyone else better stay the hell out of—

A twig snapped on her left. Georgia jerked her head toward the sound, and in the moonlight spotted a man-shaped figure leaning against a tree. It was too dark to make out any details beyond a shadow, but he looked thin and very tall, about the size of a pro basketball player.

Definitely no one from the Center.

Georgia wondered what to do. If the man intended to harm her, he was too big to stop. There was nowhere to run, and if she tried he would easily catch her. Hiding might be an option, if she could get back into the woods, but the trees were a good twenty feet away.

She filled her lungs with cool air and stood as straight as possible.

“
What do you want?” she said, making her voice strong.

The figure didn’t answer. One arm hung limply at his side. The other seemed to be holding something.

“
You deaf?” Georgia forced herself to take a step toward the man. “I’m asking you a question.”

A light flashed, followed by a familiar clicking sound.

He just took my picture.

Georgia stopped cold. She could feel her heart thumping, and her palms getting wet while her mouth went dry. It took her back to her childhood, to that nanny who used to—

“
Who are you!” Georgia screamed at him.

Instead of answering, the man began to walk to her. Slow, languid, with long, easy strides. Georgia stood her ground, having to crane her neck upward as he got within an arm’s reach. He had to be close to seven feet tall. Thin, but with thick wrists and a broad chest.

The moon was bright enough for Georgia to make out his features. He was white, and his face had a lot of sharp angles. High cheekbones, a long pointed nose, a chin that jutted out in a V. He wore denim overalls, like a farmer, and a dark sweater. A smiley face button was pinned to a bib strap.

“
Lester,” he said, his voice soft and pitched too high for such a big man. He took her picture again, causing her to startle at the flash.

Georgia never wanted to run away so badly before. She had to clench to keep from pissing herself.

“
That’s rude, Lester,” she managed to say without stuttering. “You should ask permission before you take someone’s picture.”

Lester cocked his head to the side, like a confused dog.

“
Lester takes what Lester wants.”

“
Not from me, he doesn’t. If you snap my picture again I’m going to shove that camera up your ass.”

Lester leaned down, close enough for Georgia to smell his breath. It smelled like a dog’s.

“
Isn’t the girl afraid of Lester?” he purred.

Georgia’s knees knocked together. “N…no,” she stammered. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Lester smiled. Instead of flat teeth, his had all been filed to sharp points.

“
The girl will be.”

Meadow counted four men dragging him off, two holding his arms, and two gripping his legs. They worked silently, in unison, binding his limbs to two long poles, then carrying him on their shoulders. They navigated the trees and underbrush at a quick clip. Meadow struggled like crazy, wore himself out, and eventually went limp, the nail gag in his mouth forcing him to twist his head sideways so the blood didn’t run down his throat. He began to shiver, from the cold, and from fear.

It was dark, real dark, but every few hundred yards a space opened up in the tree canopy, letting in the moonlight, and Meadow caught glimpses of his abductors.

They looked like cavemen, with long hair, beards, rags and furs for clothes, dirt smeared on their faces. And they stank of piss and sweat and blood. They were also hella strong, Meadow knew, from experience, how hard it was to carry a body, even with three other guys helping. But these dudes didn’t stop to rest or change positions. They didn’t talk, neither. That scared Meadows most of all. Brothers talked when they threw down. If they were gonna pop a cap, they let you know why, let you know how they felt about it. Meadow had no idea what these men wanted, and he wasn’t able to ask. Not knowing was worse than the pain.

After five minutes of running, they stopped and dropped Meadow onto the ground, causing instant agony in both his coccyx and his mouth. He tried to tug at his bonds, but his arms and shoulders didn’t want to follow orders—they’d been stretched out for too long.

Meadow managed to roll onto his side. Strangely, the dirt seemed warm. In fact, this entire area seemed a lot warmer than the run through the woods. It seemed brighter, too, but he couldn’t tell where the light was coming from. He craned his neck, trying to see beyond a thick patch of bushes, when a old lady came out of nowhere and knelt down in front of him.

She was rail thin, and her white hair was scraggly and all knotted up. She wore a tattered sweater with more holes in it than threads. The lady grinned insanely at Meadow. He tried to say, “help me,” but it came out as more of a moan.

Then the crazy bitch stabbed him in the arm with something.

Meadow howled, trying to twist away. She pulled her weapon back, then held it in front of her face.

It’s a fork.

Meadow watched a line of spit snake down her chin, then she stuck out a drooly tongue and licked the blood off the tines. Just as she was raising the fork for seconds one of the men batted her across the side of the head, knocking her over.

“
Dinner…not ready…yet.”

The man reached for Meadow, who flinched away. The man, and a partner, grabbed the poles and dragged Meadow uphill, around the bushes.

Meadow now understood the source of the fire and the light. In a small clearing, they’d covered the ground with a bed of white-hot coals. On top of them was some kind of metal cage, big enough for a person.

“
Grid…iron,” the man said.

Meadow, a devout atheist, prayed for the first time in his life. He prayed for forgiveness for all of his sins, prayed that there was an afterlife, and most of all prayed with all his might that these crazy fuckers would kill him before they put him on the fire.

His prayers were not answered.

Sara didn’t think, she reacted, springing from her husband’s side and lunging after Laneesha as the girl disappeared into the woods. Earlier in their marriage, Sara and Martin wanted to have children. After a year of trying, they went to a fertility clinic and Sara was diagnosed with something called
hostile cervical mucus
. No matter what they tried, Sara couldn’t get pregnant. Her body rejected all attempts.

When they founded the Center, the kids they cared for became Sara’s surrogate children. Losing them was the hardest part of the job.

In some cases, the losses were happy ones, with the teens being released back into society, the majority of them going on to live fulfilling, productive lives. But several—the runaways—proved particularly painful for Sara. She felt like she failed those children, and grieved for the loss, both hers and theirs.

So having Laneesha snatched away right under her nose was something Sara just couldn’t allow, even if she had to fight to the death to prevent it.

Sara was no stranger to fights.

Following the sounds of Laneesha cries, Sara navigated through the trees and underbrush, moving faster than safety allowed. Laneesha wasn’t a tiny girl, and whoever grabbed her was obviously struggling to carry her off, because in only a few dozen steps Sara saw the bouncing yellow beam of the Maglite. Sara poured on the speed, bursting through an elderberry bush into a small, rocky clearing, and found herself facing Laneesha’s abductors.

At first Sara thought they were homeless people like she was used to seeing on the streets of Detroit, dirty and hairy with tattered clothes. But their snarls, and the crude tree clubs they brandished, made them look more like savages; some crazed prehistoric tribe of headhunters from an epoch long passed. Both of them were thin, bare arms rippled with muscles, wearing the same insane, malevolent expression, and it took Sara a moment to realize one of them was a woman—the only way to distinguish her from her partner was the lack of facial hair.

The man snarled, spit flecking his filthy lips, and then charged.

He kept his arm high, ready to bring down his weapon in a clubbing motion. Textbook attack, even if he wasn’t a textbook assailant. Sara went in under the arc of his arm, pivoted her body while grabbing him, and flipped him over her hip, hard, using leverage and momentum to her advantage. She turned on him quickly, kneeling on his ribcage, and cocked her hand back.

She’d thrown the killing blow a thousand times in judo practice, but always pulled the punch. This time she didn’t, giving it all she had, her fist connecting with his bulging Adam’s apple. She both felt and heard something crack beneath her knuckles.