JACK KILBORN ~ TRAPPED (58 page)

She often had nightmares about it. The meth lab, her friend cooking a batch, the flask of chemicals exploding and setting him ablaze. He ran at her, screaming, and she had to push him away to keep from dying herself, scorching her hands in the process. They healed, with minimal scarring, but the pain wasn’t anything she’d ever forget.

Badly as she wanted the gun, Cindy knew there was no way she’d reach into fire to get it.

Instead, she ran toward Tyrone and Tom. Tyrone was straddling him, one hand on Tom’s neck, the other raised to punch him in the face.

Cindy caught Tyrone’s fist, held it back.

“
Don’t.”

“
Fool needs to be taught.”

“
He’s off his medicine, Tyrone. Beating him up won’t teach him anything.”

Tom looked small, terrified, a big difference from the swaggering macho dipshit he’d been seconds ago.

“
Apologize to the lady,” Tyrone told him.

Tom wheezed out, “I’m sorry.”

“
You ever gonna try that shit again?”

Tom shook his head, much as he could with his throat being squeezed.

“
We’re all on the same side, fool. We gotta watch each other’s backs. And y’all are trippin’ on Clint Eastwood. Be cool.”

Tom nodded, and Tyrone got off him. Cindy still held his fist, which opened and then clasped her hand, and then he turned and looked at her, his face soft and his pupils wide. His free hand slid around her waist, pulling her a little closer, and Cindy felt her legs get weak again.

Tom had been wrong. She hadn’t ever done anything sexual for drugs. When she was so far gone she was willing to, the boys she hung out with her too far gone to want any. So her experience was limited to a few French kisses, and a freshman year groping session on a couch that felt more like wrestling than foreplay.

But looking up at Tyrone, she felt her knees start to shake for the second time in only a few minutes, and as his lips moved slightly closer she tilted her chin up and began to close her eyes.

“
Jesus!”

Tom’s outburst was followed by him tearing ass into the woods, disappearing into the dark.

Both Cindy and Tyrone looked in the opposite direction, at what had made Tom run.

Three men stood along the tree line. They were each tall and thin, dressed in dirty, ripped clothes. Cindy knew Martin had made up that Civil War cannibal story, but that’s exactly what these men looked like. Like crazed cannibals out of a 70’s horror movie.

“
What do you want?” Tyrone said, moving Cindy behind him.

Astonishingly, the one in the middle stepped forward, and out of his pockets he pulled a rusty knife and fork.

Meadow had gone insane with pain, sometime shortly after his eyes boiled and burst. But now, even though a thin thread of consciousness remained, he was at peace. The agony was gone. He had no way of knowing it was because most of the nerves on the front side of his body had burned away, but had he known, he wouldn’t have cared. All that mattered was he didn’t hurt anymore. His throat was too swollen to scream anyway.

Then they flipped him over onto his uncooked side, and the screaming began again.

When Georgia felt Lester’s horrible teeth begin to pierce her tongue, she squeezed his testicles. Not hard enough to cause damage, but as a warning; if he didn’t let up, neither would she.

Lester’s jaw clenched, and Georgia realized she’d judged him wrong. He was going to bite off her tongue, and her lips, and her face, and that would just be the beginning. The first man she’d ever kissed was going to make headcheese out of her.

But then his mouth opened, his own tongue snaking out of her mouth and across her lips in a way that made her chest feel heavy and her breath quicken. He stuck the tip into her ear, sending sparks throughout her body. His tongue flicked across his chin, down her neck, and then Georgia was gently lowered onto her back. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he tugged her sweater up over her head.

This was all happening fast. Too fast. She’d never done anything like this before, and she didn’t know this guy at all. Plus he was psychotic. Georgia knew she should be scared, and maybe she was. Her heart was beating so fast she couldn’t differentiate between fear and exhilaration. Then Lester had her bra up, around her neck, not a strangle move but enough to show her he was in control. His hot breath was on her chest, and then his horrible teeth were nibbling on her breasts, her nipples. First one, then the other, the points barely grazing her skin, causing pin-pricks of pure sensation. Georgia knew that if he wanted to he could tear them off, chew them up, turn this exquisite pleasure into unbearable pain, and in some sick way that made it even more exciting.

Then his head went lower, fingers fumbling for her jeans, and Georgia began to struggle in earnest, not wanting his face anywhere near that part of her, not wanting those teeth to so much as—

“
Uhhnnn.”

Lester didn’t use his teeth. He used his tongue, and his fingers, and he was gentle and insistent and she wound her fists in his hair and pulled him closer and ground into him even though she was terrified, grunting deep within her chest.

And then his pointy teeth locked onto her and he bit down.

When Martin was a little boy, he wanted to be a doctor. He didn’t really have an interest in medicine, and got woozy at the sight of blood. But he had an inner drive to care for people who needed help.

At fifteen years old he and his older brother Joe went on a camping trip, a tradition that began when both boys were younger and would continue on into adulthood. This particular excursion was in Michigan’s upper peninsula. Three days in the woods, no adult supervision. Martin and Joe didn’t suffer from the sibling rivalry that plagued most brothers born a year apart, and they were the best of friends. Camping with Joe was Martin’s favorite time of the year.

The second day into their hike, Joe slipped and broke his leg—a nasty compound fracture that swelled up to the size of a melon. It was a decade before cell phones and GPS became commonplace, and a compass miscalculation put them two miles from the spot they told their parents they would be. Worst of all, it had happened in gray wolf territory. Joe was hurt so bad he couldn’t move, drifting in and out of consciousness. If Martin left him, chances were high the wolves would kill Joe before he could return with help.

So Martin stayed with his brother, gathering food and water, keeping the fire going. And most importantly, talking.

Martin hadn’t understood the true power of words before that fateful trip. How talking about the future, of dreams and hopes, of fears and failures, could sustain a person in an increasingly hopeless situation. Martin learned more about Joe than he ever could have imagined. He also learned about himself. As sure as man needed to eat, sleep, and breathe, he needed to communicate.

The boys were rescued after four days. In a way, Martin was almost sad to see it end. He had bonded with, and helped save, a human being, and that was rewarding on a level he’d never dreamed possible.

Ironic how, so many years later, Joe would wind up in even worse trouble.

As for Martin, this incident led him from an interest in medicine to an interest in social science and psychology. Human nature, and the way people interact, never ceased to fascinate Martin. He thought he was unique in this curiosity, until he met Sara.

Sara’s desire to help others was only matched by her desire to learn. Unlike Martin, who believed that certain psychological problems could inhibit socialization, Sara was convinced that actions, not thoughts, dictated a person’s social potential. They were a perfect match for getting wayward youth back on track, Martin working on healing their psyches, Sara teaching them how to integrate into society.

And now, with the funding for the Center being cut, Martin was cut off from Sara as well. He’d hoped, on Plincer’s Island, to bond with Sara in a way they’d never bonded before.

But being attacked and hunted like animals hadn’t been part of the plan.

Martin hurt. His swollen hands throbbed in time with his pulse, and his face felt like it been pulled off and sewn back on off-center. But these aches disappeared when he saw the tribe of crazies cross his path only a few dozen feet ahead.

Being caught by them once was enough for a lifetime, and the thought that they might get Sara or Laneesha was unacceptable. Because of this, his pain was surpassed by a surge of adrenalin that made him grab both women and drag them face-first to the ground. The trio collectively held their breath. Martin’s imagination boiled with images of horrific tortures and screaming victims, and he squeezed his eyes shut and decided, if need be, he’d fight to the death right here rather than let those bastards take him again.

The tribe moved closer, not bothering with stealth, marching single file and slapping wayward branches out of their way. Martin felt Laneesha squirm, and he kept hard pressure on her shoulder, preventing her from bolting and giving away their position.

Laneesha whimpered, a single sharp vowel, brief but unmistakably human. And loud enough to be heard by the hunters.

Martin watched as one of the feral people fell out of line, cocking a head in their direction. He took two steps toward them and stopped again, sniffing the air like a dog. This man was fatter than the others, his shoulders broad and powerful looking.

Again Laneesha squirmed, kicking some dead leaves, making a shuffling sound.

Dark as it was, Martin could see the hunter raise his arm. He was holding an ax.

Martin felt the tension in his legs, wondering how he could spring up from a prone position. He adjusted his toes, silently digging them into the ground for traction, forcing his crippled hands to grasp some loose dirt to throw in their attacker’s face.

Then there came a scream.

Not from Martin or the women, and not from any of the hunters. This came from deep in the forest, shrill and agonized, a sharp note that went on and on.

The axman turned toward the scream, then lumbered back into the woods.

Martin let out his breath. “Let’s wait a minute,” he whispered, his tongue and cheeks feeling like he’d just gargled acid, his jaw throbbing. “Make sure they’re gone.”

“
Who’s screaming?” Laneesha said.

“
I don’t know.”

“
Martin.” He felt his wife’s hand grip his shoulder. “That’s one of our kids.”

Martin placed a thumb and forefinger on his eyes, rubbed them gently. “We don’t know that.”

The scream returned, a high-pitched chord that Martin could feel in his molars.

“
That’s Meadow,” Laneesha said.

“
We don’t know it’s Meadow, Laneesha.”

“
Jesus, what are they doin’ to him?”

“
Laneesha, you have to stay calm.”

“
It’s Meadow. I know his voice. What could make him scream like that?”

Sara clutched Martin’s arm. “We have to help him, Martin.”

“
Sara, I counted eight,
eight
, of those people. And even if it is Meadow, and it might not be, someone is making him scream like that. We have no idea how many of them there are on this island.”

Sara got up onto her knees. “We still have to try.”

Martin put his hand on the small of her back. “We will. I promise. But we need to get back to the campsite first.”

Another scream, weaker this time, ending in a horrible sob.

“
We don’t have time,” Sara said, standing up.

Martin debated whether or not to tell her, and decided he had no choice. He painfully got to his feet and caught up with Sara, who was already heading toward the scream.

“
Sara, I have something at the campsite we can use.” He paused. “A gun.”

Though he couldn’t see it, he could imagine the shocked look on his wife’s face.

“
A gun, Martin? Why the hell do you have a gun?”

“
I took it as a precaution. Camping can be dangerous.”

“
Do you know how dangerous it is to bring one along, especially with our kids? What if one of them found it?”

“
It’s hidden.”

“
Jesus, Martin, I didn’t even know you owned a gun.”

There’s a lot you don’t know,
Martin thought.

“
Look, hon, I understand you’re angry, but this isn’t the time for righteous indignation. If that is Meadow out there, we need to find our camp, get the gun. That’s the only way we’ll have a chance against those people.”

Martin held Sara’s elbow, felt her tense up.

“
Look,” he said, keeping the edge out of his voice, “I was a Boy Scout, remember? My brother and I both got our rifle shooting merit badges. I know how to use weapons, safely. And this could be Meadow’s only hope.”

He heard her sigh, and she stopped tugging against him. “How do we find camp?”

“
The orange ribbons.”

“
I’ve been looking for those for more than an hour.”

“
I’m pretty sure I know where one is. Come on.” He walked back toward Laneesha, spoke quietly. “You doing okay?”