Endurance

by Jack Kilborn

  Jimmy halted his advance. “Stitch...?”

  “You can do it! You can sew up your wound! There’s a needle on the cart!”

  Jimmy looked at the scalpel again, and Mal was sure the crazy son of a bitch was going to plunge it right into his heart.

  But Jimmy didn’t. He dropped the scalpel, shook off the oven mitts, and grabbed the large, curved, surgical suture. He lifted the needle up, the thread dangling down, and stared at it.

  “Do it,” Mal said. “Stitch up your neck. You can fix it. You’re a doctor.”

  Jimmy nodded several times. “I’m... a doctor.”

  Then he pinched the wound closed with his free hand and gouged the needle into his skin.

  “Keep going,” Mal said. “You can do it. In and out, just like that.”

  Jimmy pierced his flesh, again and again, showing a fair amount of enthusiasm. But enthusiasm didn’t replace skill, and after six stitches the wound was still gushing.

  He’d also sewn his fingers to his neck.

  “That’s it!” Mal said. He felt both ready to laugh hysterically and sob at the same time. He shook away both emotions, forcing himself to stay in the moment. “You’re doing it, Dr. Jimmy! A few more stitches and you’re done!”

  Jimmy lasted one more stitch. Then he dropped onto his face.

  Mal let out a breath, his head resting back onto the table. He closed his eyes.

  It’s over.

  Now I need to get out of here.

  Maybe I can escape.

  Maybe I can even find a doctor to reattach my hand.

  It’s over.

  The worst is over.

  Then his eyes went wide with panic when he heard the door open.

  # # #

  Deb stole a glance at the framed poster of Ulysses S. Grant facing the toilet as she hid in Florence’s bathroom. Like the poster in the Roosevelt room, it seemed to be looking right at her.

  Then she stared at the door, straining to hear what was happening.

  “Granny, that was a big mistake.”

  Florence was in trouble.

  What do I do? Go out there and try to help?

  Anything is better than waiting in here for them to find me.

  Deb flinched when she heard the gunshots. Two, in rapid succession.

  Jesus, did they kill her?

  “Hi there, girly girly.”

  Deb spun around.

  The poster of Grant was yawing open on hinges, and Teddy was slinking out into the bathroom through a hole in the wall.

  He flopped onto the floor, reaching his hideous, double-thumbed hands for her, grabbing her prosthetics.

  Deb cast a frantic look around, seek some kind of weapon. There was nothing. Just a sink, a toilet, and a shower. She lashed out at the poster, trying to break the glass.

  Plastic. The covering is plastic.

  Teddy began to pull himself up her artificial legs, groping at her underwear.

  “How ‘bout you ‘n Teddy get familiar on the floor right here, girly?”

  Deb felt herself losing balance, tipping forward. She reached for the toilet to steady herself, her hands slipping on the cistern cover.

  The heavy, porcelain cistern cover.

  She snatched it off the toilet tank, a flat slab of stone that weighed at least eight pounds. Without thinking, she slammed it down onto Teddy’s head.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  One the fourth strike, the cover cracked in half. Deb raised the broken piece, ready to bring it down again.

  She didn’t have to. Teddy’s skull looked like a kicked pumpkin. His bloodshot eyes—popping from their sockets from the beating—stared at her accusingly. Deb pushed him aside, sliding his body across the spreading lake of blood, reaching for the door behind her, stumbling out of the bathroom to see—

  BANG!

  —a third gunshot, Florence shooting a man on the floor in the head—

  BANG!

  —the older woman fluidly bringing the pistol around and pulling the trigger as the Sheriff lunged at her, shooting him in the stomach. He dropped to his knees, clutching his gut.

  “Deborah? Are you okay?” Florence asked, keeping her eyes on the Sheriff.

  “Teddy... he got into the bathroom. He crawled through the walls. There are secret passages everywhere.”

  “Come over here. I’ve got some jogging shorts and a sweater in my suitcase. Put them on.”

  Deb looked at herself, half naked, and sought out the suitcase next to the bed, making sure she kept far away from the dust ruffle.

  The Sheriff groaned. “Lordy, you got me good, granny.”

  “The next one goes through your head, Sheriff. If you don’t want to end up like Grover here, tell me where my family is, and how many people are guarding them.”

  The Sheriff shook his head. “Don’ matter none. I’m dead anyway. Wasted all my styptic on John.”

  “That’s not a fatal wound.”

  The Sheriff grinned. “It is for me. So you can take that gun and shove it up your ass, old woman. I ain’t tellin’ you shit.”

  Deb sat on the floor, fighting to get the shorts up over her Cheetahs.

  When she heard the Sheriff yelp, she looked up and saw Florence grinding her heel into the man’s stomach wound.

  “Let’s get something straight right now,” Florence said. “I’ve seen some terrible things in my life. Things I promised I’d never do, no matter how desperate I got. But if you keep me from my family, I’ll break that promise and make your last moments on earth absolutely unbearable. Now I’ll ask you once more, and then I’m going to stick my finger in that bullet hole and pull your guts out. Where is my family and how many people are guarding them?”

  The Sheriff made a grunting noise. Wincing, he said, “Rot in hell, you old bag.”

  Deb’s mouth fell open as she watched Florence drop to one knee and jab her index finger into the Sheriff’s stomach.

  The Sheriff thrashed for a moment, and then made good on both of his promises; he refused to talk, and he died.

  Florence’s eyes went wide. She felt his neck. “He shouldn’t be dead. I was a combat nurse. It wasn’t a fatal wound.”

  “Look at all the blood,” Deb said, pointing.

  There was a large pool of red on the floor around the Sheriff. Pints of the stuff. A similar amount surrounded Grover.

  “Styptic,” Florence said. “That stops bleeding.” She wiped her finger off on the Sheriff’s sleeve. “They’re hemopheliacs. Their blood doesn’t clot on its own.”

  “Teddy said something about needing my blood.”

  Florence shot her a look. “Are you O negative?”

  Deb nodded.

  “So am I. So are my daughter and granddaughter. Did you get the room for free?”

  “Yeah.”

  Florence wiped her finger off on the Sheriff’s sleeve. “So did we. When we filled out the applications for Iron Woman, we listed our blood types. O negative is rare. Less than seven percent of the population has it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “They lured us here for our blood.”

  It was so ghastly, so unreal, Deb didn’t want to believe it.

  Florence touched one of the Sheriff’s open eyes. She plucked off a contact lens, exposing an eyeball as bloodshot as Teddy’s.

  “Besides hemophilia, they’re also anemic. They may have other blood disorders as well. Without regular transfusions, they’ll die.”

  “That’s fine by me.” Deb tugged on a sweater. “Does he have any more bullets?”

  Florence checked his belt. “No. But he’s got a knife.” Florence offered the switchblade to Deb.

  “I’ve got one in my room. I need to go back upstairs to look for my friend, Mal.”

  “I’m looking for my daughter and her daughter. Letti and Kelly. I’ll start on this floor, you start upstairs. If you find anything, yell.”

  Deb nodded. “You do the same.”

&nbs
p; Florence stood up. “Both of these men were big, strong. I’m guessing there are others. But a deep cut ought to stop them, even kill them.”

  “Shouldn’t we call someone?”

  Florence pointed at the Sheriff. “Who? The police?”

  Deb had no answer for that. “Do you have a car?”

  “No. Flat tire. But now I’m thinking they shot the tire out. It sounded like a gunshot.”

  “Us too. That’s what Mal said. A gunshot.”

  “When you find him, get out to the road, see if you can flag down a car for help. But be careful. We don’t know how many of them there are. Talking to Eleanor, I get the feeling there might be a lot. And she obviously has outside help, if she was able to see our triathlon applications.”

  Deb nodded. “I know one of them. An asshole desk clerk back at the event hotel. He’s the one who sent me here.”

  Florence frowned. “Maybe we should stick together.”

  “We can cover more ground by splitting up. And we may not have a lot of time.”

  Florence seemed to consider it, then held out her hand. “Good luck.”

  Deb shook it. “You too.”

  They held their grip for a moment, and Deb sensed a finality there. She wondered if she’d ever see the older woman again.

  Then Deb walked out of Florence’s room. The hallway was empty, silent. She took the stairs slowly, holding the handrail. Previously, the inn had seemed kitschy and somewhat amusing. Now it was downright ominous. The floors, the walls, the ceilings—Deb could imagine secret passages and trap doors everywhere she looked. This entire building was a funhouse straight out of hell. Mal’s words of the many disappearances over the years kept echoing in Deb’s mind. Five hundred people had gone missing in this area, and this place was no doubt the reason why.

  Eleanor and her family have been operating with impunity for decades.

  How big has her clan become?

  “So big it needed the blood of five hundred people,” Deb whispered to herself.

  She made it down the stairs without any freaks popping out at her, and approached the Theodore Roosevelt room.

  Will it be locked? I left my key inside.

  The knob turned. She hesitated.

  Is someone in my room?

  Deb considered going back upstairs, asking Florence for help.

  Just run in, grab the knife. It will only take three seconds.

  Deb braced herself, bending her knees, leaning slightly forward.

  I’ll go on three.

  One...

  Two...

  Three!

  She shoved open the door—the room looked empty—took four quick steps and ran to the bathroom—also empty—reached for her fanny pack on the sink—dug out her knife—flicked open the blade.

  So far so good.

  Next stop, the closet. Deb wasn’t going to leave her prosthetics in there. It would take weeks to get replacements made, and she needed to have spares on her in case something happened to the Cheetahs.

  The closet door was closed. She approached it slowly, tightening her grip on the folding knife. Placing her ear against the door, she held her breath, listening for any sounds.

  There was only silence.

  She shifted from one leg to the other. Without her gel socks, the sockets on the prosthetics were starting to chafe, because they no longer had a perfect fit.

  I’ll snag them after I grab my legs.

  Deb opened the closet door.

  Two naked men were sitting on the closet floor, going through her suitcase, throwing her clothes everywhere. They had bulbous, bald heads, and crooked mouths. One had three nostrils. The other had an empty hole where his nose should be. The whites of their eyes were stop-light red.

  Before Deb was even able to gasp, three hands reached out at her, grabbing her Cheetahs, pulling them out from under her so she fell onto her ass.

  Deb kicked out, trying to pull away, but the two men were already crawling on her, pawing at her thighs, her hips, her chest.

  And that’s when Deb realized, to her horror, that it wasn’t two bodies on top of her.

  It’s one body with two different heads.

  # # #

  Kelly felt sick. Sick and scared and hurt and overwhelmed and most of all, young. She felt more like a first-grader than a teenager.

  She looked at Mom, who was in a heated conversation with Maria about which way to go. The pregnant woman, Sue, stood there like a zombie, completely zoned out. JD was sniffing around, waiting for someone to tell him what to do. The only one who seemed to be okay was Cam. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking vaguely bored.

  I wish I could act more like him.

  Kelly was wracked with worry. Even though she was out of that horrible cell, they were still trapped in these tunnels. And according to Maria, there were a lot of bad people who lived here. Kelly knew that even if they got away, they wouldn’t have anywhere to go. They were in the middle of the woods. The car didn’t work. Maria and Sue and Larry had been here for a long time, and hadn’t been able to escape.

  What if we’re trapped here forever?

  “Mom?” Kelly said.

  “In a second, Kelly.”

  Kelly wished Grandma was with them. Mom was strong, but Grandma was strong in a different kind of way. She was calmer, more rational. Though Kelly didn’t know her grandmother very well, she knew that if anyone could get them out of this situation, Grandma could.

  “You okay?”

  Kelly glanced up at Cam, who had moved next to her.

  “Yeah,” she managed.

  “You’re very brave,” Cam said.

  “You think so?” Kelly hugged herself. “I’m scared out of my freakin’ mind.”

  “We’re all scared, Kelly.”

  “Even you?”

  Cam nodded.

  “Even when you... broke that man’s neck?”

  Cam glanced away. “Yeah. That was scary. But he was hurting bad and wanted to die, so I did him a favor. Besides, death isn’t so bad.”

  “How do you know?”

  Cam took off one of his leather gloves and showed Kelly his wrist. It was covered with scars.

  “After my friend died, I killed myself.”

  “You mean you tried to kill yourself,” Kelly corrected.

  “No. I succeeded. I was actually dead for two and a half minutes before they revived me.”

  Cam held out his arm, so Kelly could touch it. They scars were creepy, but kind of cool, too. She ran a finger across one, surprised by how bumpy it was.

  “What did it feel like?” she asked. “To die?”

  Cam shrugged, tugging his glove back on. “It was like going to sleep.”

  “It wasn’t scary?”

  “There are a lot scarier things than dying, Kelly.”

  “Like what?”

  Cam stared at her. “Like living.”

  Kelly decided she liked Cam. She liked his straight talk, and how open he was.

  He’s also kind of cute.

  “We’re going this way,” Mom said. “C’mon, Kelly.”

  Kelly began to follow.

  Cam thinks I’m brave. How do brave girls act around cute guys?

  Without second-guessing herself, she reached out and took Cam’s hand.

  When she felt him squeeze it back, Kelly wasn’t as scared as she was before.

  # # #

  As expected, Letti’s room was empty. Florence found the secret entrance in the back of Letti’s closet, and considered going in.

  Not yet. I should check all the other rooms first.

  Florence was still shaken up by what she’d done to the Sheriff. After witnessing suffering, misery, and man’s inhumanity to man on six continents, Florence would have bet her life she’d never do something so atrocious.

  And yet, she’d done it without even hesitating.

  Because they have my family.

  It put things into perspective. In a big way.

  If I’m read
y to throw out my ideals and morals for the people I love, why did I spend so much of my life helping strangers?

  For the first time ever, she understood why Letti was so mad at her for missing her husband’s funeral. The realization was like a splash of ice water in the face.

  I blew it. I’m so sorry, Letti. I’ll make it up to you. I swear I will.

  Exiting the Grover Cleveland room, she crept quietly down the hallway and moved one door over to Lyndon B. Johnson.

  Never did care for LBJ. Let’s see if anyone is home.

  She put her hand on the knob, and found it to be unlocked. Moments ago she’d double-checked the Sheriff’s Colt revolver, and made sure there were two bullets left, one under the hammer. Florence held it at her side and went into the room fast, putting both hands on the gun so it couldn’t be knocked away.

  There wasn’t a bed. No desk or dresser, either. The room had an eerie, pink glow to it, coming from three china cabinets along the rear wall.

  Florence had seen some things in her day. Some terrible things.

  This was one of the worst.

  Back when she was a child, a travelling carnival came to town. Her father paid a nickel extra so they could get into the freakshow tent. Florence cringed at the sight of deformed people, some of them real, some fake. A human torso. A woman with bird feathers. An ape man. A fellow who stuck skewers through his cheek and tongue. A woman who ate glass. But the thing that stood out the most in her juvenile brain—the thing that scared her more than anything else—was a jar.

  “It’s a pickled punk,” her father had said.

  Florence later learned that was a carny term for a baby with birth defects, preserved in formaldehyde. That particular child had four legs and a harelip.

  Florence now faced an entire wall of deformed babies in jars, lit from behind. Traces of blood in the preservation fluid made the jars give off a soft, red glow.

  My God. There are dozens of them.

  Babies with multiple limbs. Babies with no limbs. Some had organs on the outside. Some had feet where the arms should be. Some had flippers like seals. Some were completely covered in fine hair. Some were tiny, their umbilical cords still attached, no more than embryos. Others filled their jars completely, their malformed little bodies crammed inside.