JACK KILBORN ~ TRAPPED (74 page)

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.”

Tom got to his knees, letting the man see his hands. Lester raised the stick again.

“
No!” Cindy cried.

In rapid succession, Lester jabbed Tom four more times. He was raising back for a fifth when Cindy said, “Lester.”

Lester turned to look at her. He was grinning, a thin streak of drool running down his chin.

“
Don’t,” Tyrone told Cindy under his breath.

But it was too late. Lester was coming over.

“
Is the Cindy girl jealous that the Tom boy is getting all the attention?”

Cindy looked at Lester, then at the nail on the stick, which was glistening with Tom’s blood.

“
I just, uh, had a question, Lester. You said we’re meeting important people today. Who are we meeting?”

“
It’s a surprise,” Lester said.

“
But these people are important?”

“
Very important.”

“
And you said we need to behave. But if you keep poking us with that stick, we won’t be able to behave. We won’t even be able to move. Is that what you want?”

Lester seemed to think about it, then slowly shook his head.

“
No. That wouldn’t be good.”

Then, lightening quick, he thrust out the stick, stabbing Cindy in the arm.

“
But one little poke can’t hurt,” Lester said.

Then the giant walked away, across the room, back up the stairs.

Cindy clutched her arm, which felt like she’d been kicked by a mule, and stared out the window fully believing that this was going to be the last sunrise she ever saw.

Dr. Plincer opened his eyes. He stretched, yawned, removed his earplugs, put on his glasses, and then forced himself out of bed and into the bathroom, where he sat down on the toilet to urinate. Running water and electricity were the only two utilities on the island, and both were limited. There were only three toilets and four sinks in the entire prison, and the water they used was rust-colored and tasted muddy.

It was a big day today, so he showered. The electric generator used a lot of gasoline, and one of the biggest power hogs was the water heater, which Plincer kept on the lowest setting. The doctor stoically braved the lukewarm water, toweled off quickly, and then stood in front of the mirror to put on his face.

First he shaved, never an easy task because of the extra bumps and divots. Then he spent ten minutes building up layers of scar putty, filling in holes and smoothing over rough edges. When he was finished, a bit of pancake make-up to blend. He checked his profile, found it to be suitable, and then dressed in slacks, a fresh shirt, and a clean lab coat.

The dart gun was a pistol model, not accurate more than five feet, but able to be fired using just one hand. Plincer made sure it was loaded, and he put a fresh CO2 cartridge. Then it was off to make breakfast.

The prison hallway was scream-free. Either Subject 33 had been unable to restrain himself and had killed his playmate too soon, or he was having a rest. Plincer was grateful for the silence. There was no better way to start a day than a cup of hot coffee and some quiet contemplation.

He used bottled water for the coffee, and while it brewed he scrambled ten eggs in a large bowl. Plincer then took a loaf of bread out of the freezer, microwaved it until thawed, and dumped the slices into the eggs. As the bread soaked, he heated up the large cast iron skillet on the stove top.

The secret to perfect French toast was timing. Timing, and just a dash of cinnamon and sugar. When the skillet was hot enough, he gave it a spritz of non-stick spray, then arranged the first four slices on the pan using a spatula. He flipped them at the exact right time, and took them off the heat when both sides were golden brown but the insides still soft. Plincer repeated this process, sipping coffee and musing about a neighbor he once had, a bitter old man who used to yell whenever anyone stepped on his lawn. Perhaps if the neighbor had taken pleasure from the simple things in life, such as making a nice breakfast, he wouldn’t have been so unpleasant.

Doctor Plincer stocked the cart with the tray of toast, plates, glasses, a carton of orange juice, napkins, some plastic knives and forks, tiny carafes of maple syrup, and some dog biscuits.

Getting it up the spiral staircase was a slow affair, one step at a time, making sure nothing fell off, but Plincer looked forward to it. Frankly, it was the only exercise he got during the day.

He pushed the cart to Subject 33’s room at the end of the hallway, checked the slot to make sure he wasn’t in the antechamber, and took the dart pistol out of his lab coat.

“
Good morning. Breakfast is here.”

Plincer waited, and after a few seconds Subject 33 put his hands through the slot in the second door. They were caked with dried blood.

“
One plate or two?”

Subject 33 held out two fingers.

“
Excellent.”

Doctor Plincer filled two plates with French toast, and set them on the floor of the antechamber, along with two glasses of OJ, forks, and syrup. After locking up, he pushed the cart down the hall to Martin’s room.

Neither Martin, nor his guest, was in. Scratch that—Plincer heard someone whimpering inside the chest. A part of him wanted to open the chest, because he so rarely prepared meals for guests and a small part of him wanted to hear a bit of praise for his cooking. But whatever Martin was doing to her was Martin’s business, and the doctor wasn’t going to interfere.

Subject 33 was enhanced to the point where he was impossible to control. Plincer was able to control Lester somewhat since his enhancement, but the alterations he’d made to his teeth, along with his freakish height, made it difficult for him to blend in to the general populace. But Martin; Martin was the embodiment of everything Plincer was trying to do.

The doctor had taken a normal man and made him into a Level 6. Martin was truly evil, but also able to keep his tastes hidden and function within society. Function at a very high level. He’d been successful in maintaining both a job and a marriage, while keeping his killing secret.

Plincer didn’t want to do anything to annoy Martin, so he moved along.

Next it was on to Lester’s room. The tall man was sleeping, as was his pet.

“
Lester, my friend. It’s time to start your day. We’ve got a big one ahead of us.”

In one fluid motion Lester levered himself out of bed and picked up the box of dog biscuits. He threw two into the pet crate, and popped one into his own mouth.

“
Lester, I made French toast. I wish you wouldn’t ruin your appetite with those things.”

“
The biscuits help support healthy teeth and bones,” Lester said, quoting the line on the box. “Lester likes healthy teeth.”

“
Do you have any idea where Martin is?”

Lester shook his head.

“
After breakfast, meet me in the lab. We have to go over a few last minute things. And perhaps it’s time to change your pet’s hay. I believe it’s getting a bit stinky in here.”

Doctor Plincer rolled the cart further down the hallway, to Georgia’s room. He paused, fearful that he’d set his hopes too high. If the procedure had been successful, Plincer could tout that he’d finally perfected the formula. If not, the meeting with Kong would require a bit more finesse.

Time to find out.

He placed his ear to the door, and heard a high-pitched screeching. A good sign, or perhaps not. If Georgia was tormenting the rat Lester had given her, she’d been properly enhanced. If, however, she was eating the rat, she would have to be tranked and left out with the feral people.

Plincer didn’t knock. He unlocked the metal security door and pushed it open with one hand, aiming the gun with the other.

Georgia was naked. The squirming, duct-taped rat in one hand. The scissors in the other. Blood was spattered on her bare breasts.

The procedure had been a success.

He pocketed the key and pulled the cart inside, the door closing behind him and locking automatically.

“
Good morning. I made French toast.”

Georgia stared at him, neither hostile nor fearful.

“
Thank you. And thanks for what you’ve done to me.”

If Plincer could still blush, he might have. “Yes, well, you were a perfect candidate for it, and an excellent subject. What you’re doing right now, with the rodent there, do you think you might enjoy doing that same thing to a person?”

Georgia’s eyes lit up. “When?”

“
Sometime after breakfast. I’ll come to collect you. I’m assuming it doesn’t matter that you’d be doing it to one of your friends that you came to the island with.”

“
Those aren’t my friends.”

“
Yes, excellent, it’s a date then. Might I ask, do you like orange juice?”

“
Sure.”

Georgia moved slowly toward him, swaying her hips. Rather than be embarrassed by her nudity, she seemed to flaunt it. One of the added benefits of the procedure. Grandiose narcissism.

“
I must ask you, tell you, to stay back. We need to establish some mutual trust first. You understand.”

She nodded, running her tongue across her upper lip. “My eyes itch.”

“
There is a bottle of artificial tears in the bathroom, above the sink. That should relieve the redness. Let me set down your food.”

He quickly made a plate for her, placing everything on the dresser.

“
The door is locked,” Georgia said. “Am I a prisoner?”

“
It’s for your own protection,” Plincer said, adding
and mine too
in his head. “Once we’re sure you’ve been successfully enhanced, you’ll be able to roam freely.”

Georgia made an exaggerated pout. “Don’t you trust me, Dr. Plincer?”

Plincer didn’t go there. “Enjoy the meal. I’ll be back later.”

He fumbled to put the key in the lock, glancing back at Georgia several times to make sure she wasn’t sneaking up. When he finally got the door open, the girl was standing right next to him.

The doctor yelped, surprised, raising up the dart gun. But Georgia had already caught his wrist, and she was strong for her size.

“
Relax, Doctor. I was just going to hold open the door while you pushed out the cart.”

She stood next to him, her palm on the door. Plincer thanked her and quickly hustled out of there, the door closing and locking behind him.

Doctor Plincer again faced the staircase, but going down was always easier, and the cart was considerable lighter. Then it was back to the kitchen. There were many pieces of French toast left, but no one on hand to eat them. He didn’t care for the dish himself. He supposed he could toss them out a window, let the ferals find them. Or maybe give them to the children in the cells downstairs.

No. Bad idea. He didn’t want them throwing up in front of the company.

In Dr. Plincer’s experience, people in terrible pain sometimes threw up.

Since French toast didn’t reheat well, he went with the simplest solution and tossed the leftovers into the garbage.

Such a shame, such a waste.

When the last slice hit the can, he changed his mind and fished out all the food he’d thrown away. Piling it onto a paper plate, he went to the front door, checked the peephole for ferals, and then it opened up and left the plate on the ground.