by Jack Kilborn
Her smile faded. They won’t be their kids for very much longer.
“It happened on an island,” Martin continued. “Just like this one. In fact, now that I think about it, this might actually be the island where it all happened.”
Tyrone snorted. “This better not be the same island, dog, or my black ass is jumping in that mofo lake ‘n swimming back to civilization.”
More laughter, but this time it was clipped. Uneasy. These teenagers had never been this far from an urban environment, and weren’t sure how to act.
Sara shivered, tucking the blanket in around her baby. All the things she wanted to say to Martin earlier were still bottled up inside because she hadn’t had the chance. Since the boat dropped them off, it had been all about hiking and setting up camp and eating dinner, and Sara hadn’t been able to catch him alone. He’d been intentionally avoiding her, staying busy, keeping that smile on his face like it had been sculpted there.
“Was it really this island?” Laneesha asked. Her voice was condescending, almost defiant. But there was a bit of edge to it, a tiny hint of fear.
“No, it wasn’t,” Sara said. “Martin, tell her it wasn’t.”
Martin didn’t say anything, but he did give Laneesha a sly wink.
“So where was it?” Georgia asked, though her face showed zero curiosity.
“It wasn’t anywhere, Georgia.” Sara slapped at a mosquito that had been biting her neck, then wiped the tiny splot of blood onto her jeans. “This is a campfire story. It’s made up, to try to scare you.”
“It’s fake?” Georgia sneered. “Pretend?”
Sara nodded. “Yes, it’s pretend. Right, Martin?”
Martin shrugged, still not looking at Sara.
“So what pretend-happened?” Laneesha asked.
“There were eight people.” Martin was sitting on an old log, higher up than everyone else. “Camping just like we are. On a night like tonight. On what might be this very island. They vanished, these eight, never to be seen again. But some folks who live around here claim to know what happened. Some say those unfortunate eight people were subjected to things worse than death.”
Meadow folded his arms. “Ain’t nothin’ worse than death.”
Martin stared hard at the teenager. “There are plenty of things worse.”
No one spoke for a moment. Sara felt a chill. Maybe it was the cool night breeze, whistling through the woods. Or maybe it was Martin’s story, which she had to admit was getting sort of creepy. But Sara knew the chill actually went deeper. As normal as everyone seemed right now, it was only an illusion. Their little family was breaking apart.
But she didn’t want to think about that. Now, she wanted to enjoy this final camping trip, to make some good memories.
Sara scooted a tiny bit closer to the campfire and put her arms around Jack. The night sky was clear, the stars bright against the blackness of space, the hunter’s moon huge and tinged red. Beyond the smoke Sara could smell the pine trees from the surrounding woods, and the big water of Huron, a few hundred yards to the west. As goodbyes went, this was a lovely setting for one.
She let her eyes wander over the group. Tyrone Morrow, seventeen, abandoned by a mother who could no longer control him, running with one of Motor City’s worst street gangs for more than two years. Dressed in a hoodie and jeans so baggy they’d fall around his ankles without the belt.
Meadow was on Tyrone’s right. He was from a rival Detroit club. That they were sitting next to each other was a commitment from each on how much they wanted out of the gangsta life.
On Meadow’s side, holding his hand, Laneesha Simms. Her hair was cropped almost as short as the boys’, but her make-up and curves didn’t allow anyone to mistake her for a man.
Georgia Dailey sat beside Laneesha. Sixteen, white, brunette, pudgy. She held a long stick and was poking at something on the ground; a dead frog, belly-up with its legs jutting out. Sara thought about saying something, decided to let it go.
Behind Georgia, Tom Gransee predictably paced around the fire, tugging at his wifebeater T like it was an extra skin he wanted to shed.
These were kids society had given up on, sentenced into their care by the courts. But Martin—and by extension, Sara—hadn’t given up on them. That was why they created the Second Chance Center.
Sara finally rested her gaze on Martin. The fire flickered across his handsome features, glinted in his blue eyes. He had aged remarkably well, looking closer to twenty than thirty, as athletic as the day she met him in that graduate psych class. She looked down at her son in the baby sling—a miniature version of Martin—and absently rubbed his back.
“On this dark night six years ago,” Martin continued, “this group of eight people took a boat onto Lake Huron. The SS Minnow.”
Sara smiled, knowing she was the only one old enough to have caught the Gilligan’s Island reference, the boat the castaways had taken on their three hour tour.
“They had some beer with them,” Martin said. “Some pot…”
“Hells yeah.” Tyrone and Meadow bumped fists.
“…and were set to have a big party. But one of the women—there were four men and four women, just like us—got seasick on the lake.”
“I hear that.” In her oversized jersey and sweatpants, Cindy looked tiny, shapeless. But Sara noted she’d gotten a little bit of her color back.
“So they decided,” Martin raised his voice, “to beach the boat on a nearby island, continue the party there. But they didn’t know the island’s history.”
Tom had stopped his pacing and was standing still, rare for him. “What history, Martin?”
Martin smiled. An evil smile, his chin down and his eyes hooded, the shadows drawing out his features and making him look like an angry wolf.
“In 1862, done in secret, Rock Island Prison was built here to house captured Confederate soldiers. Like many civil war prisons, the conditions were horrible. But this one was worse than most. It was run by a war profiteer named Mordecai Plincer. He stole the money that was supposed to be used to feed the prisoners, and ordered his guards to beat them so they wouldn’t stage an uprising while they starved to death. He didn’t issue blankets, even during the winter months, giving them nothing more to wear than burlap sacks with arm and leg holes cut out, even when temperatures dropped to below freezing.”
Sara wasn’t a history buff, but she was pretty sure there was never a civil war prison on an island in Lake Huron. She wondered if Martin is using Camp Douglas as the source of this tall tale. It was located in Chicago near Lake Michigan and considered the northern counterpart to the horrors committed at the Confederate prison, Andersonville.
Yes, Martin has to be making this up. Though that name, Plincer, does sound familiar.
Martin tossed one of the branches they’d gathered earlier onto the fire. It made a whump sound, throwing sparks and cinders.
“But those starving, tortured prisoners staged a rebellion anyway, killing all of the guards, driving Plincer from the island. The Union, desperate to cover up their mistake, stopped sending supplies. But the strongest and craziest of the prisoners survived. Even though the food ran out.”
“How?” Tom asked. “You said there are no animals on this island.”
Martin smiled, wickedly. “They survived… by eating each other.”
“Oh, snap.” Tyrone shook his head. “That shit is sick.”
Sara raised an eyebrow at her husband. “Cannibalism, Martin?”
Martin looked at her, for the first time in hours. She searched for some softness, some love, but he was all wrapped up in his menace act.
“Some were cooked. Some were eaten raw. And during the summer months, when meat would spoil, some were kept alive so they could be eaten one piece at a time.”
Sara did a quick group check, wondering if this story was getting too intense. Everyone appeared deadly serious, their eyes laser-focused on Martin. No one seemed upset. A little scared, maybe, but these were tough kids
. She decided to let Martin keep going.
Martin stood up, spreading out his hands. “Over the last five decades, more than a hundred people have vanished on this part of Lake Huron. Including those eight men and women. What happened to them was truly horrible.”
The crickets picked that eerie moment to stop chirping. Sara noticed a brief flash in her peripheral vision. Lightening? No, the weather was fine. Besides, this seemed to have come from the woods. She scanned the woods, waiting for it to happen again. They stayed dark.
Cindy eventually broke the silence. “What happened to them?”
“It’s said that these war prisoners became more animal than human, feeding on each other and on those men unlucky enough to visit. Unfortunately for this group of eight partiers, they were all doomed the minute they set foot onto Plincer’s Island. When their partying died down, and everyone was drunk and stoned and passing out, the prisoners built a gridiron.”
The word gridiron hung in the air like a crooked painting, blending into the forest sounds.
Tyrone whispered, “They built a football field?”
Martin shook his head. “The term gridiron is used for football these days, but it’s a much older word. It was a form of execution in ancient Rome. Coals are spread over the ground, stoked until they’re red hot. Then the victim is put in a special iron cage, sort of like a grill, and placed on top of the coals, roasting him alive. Unlike being burned at the stake, which is over in a few minutes, it takes hours to die on the gridiron. They say the liquid in your eyes gets so hot, it boils.”
Sara stood up. Martin should have known not to go there with the gore. “I think that’s enough, Martin. You’ve succeeded in freaking everyone out.” She forced joviality. “Now who wants to roast some marshmallows?”
“I want to hear what happened to those people,” Tom said.
“And I want to be able to sleep tonight,” Sara replied.
Sara’s eyes met Martin’s. She saw intensity there, but also resignation, and something else. Something soft and happy. Eventually his lips curled into a grin.
“But we haven’t gotten to the part where I pretend to be dragged off into the woods, kicking and screaming. That’s the best part.”
Sara placed her hands on her hips, feeling herself smile. “I’m sure we would have all been terrified.”
Martin sat back down. “You’re the boss. And if the boss wants to do marshmallows, who am I to argue?”
“I thought you’re the one who created the Center,” Laneesha asked.
Martin glanced at Sara. There was kindness in his eyes, and maybe some resignation, too.
“Sara and I created it together. We wanted to make a difference. The system takes kids who are basically good but made a few mistakes, sticks them into juvee hall, and they come out full blown crooks. The Center is aimed at giving these kids positive direction and helping them to change.” Martin smiled sadly. “Well, that was its purpose.”
“It’s bullshit the man cut your program, Martin.” Meadow tossed a stick onto the fire.
“It sucks,” Cindy added.
There were nods of agreement. Martin shrugged. “Things like this happen all the time. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you kids. Sara, Jack, and I are a small family, but you guys are like our—”
Martin screamed in mid-sentence, then fell backward off the log, rolling into the bushes and the darkness.
Sara, like everyone else, jolted at the sound and violent action. Then laughter broke out, followed by a few of the teens clapping.
“That was awesome, Martin!” Tom yelled into the woods. “I think I wet my freakin’ pants.”
The applause and giggles died down. Jack slept right through it. Sara caressed his head and waited for Martin to lumber out of the woods and take a bow.
But Martin stayed hidden.
“Martin, you can come out now.”
Sara listened. The woods, the whole island, stayed deathly quiet.
“Martin? You okay?”
No answer.
“Come on, Martin. Joke’s over.”
After a moment the crickets began their song again. But there was no response from Martin.
“Fine,” Sara called out. “We’re not saving you any marshmallows.”
Martin apparently didn’t care, keeping silent. Sara picked up the bag of marshmallows and began passing them out, the kids busying themselves with attaching the treats to the sticks they’d picked out earlier. Sara kept glancing at the forest, inwardly annoyed.
“Now what?” Tyrone asked, raising his stick like a sword.
“You put it in the fire,” Tom said. “Duh.”
“Ain’t never roasted marshmallows before, white boy.”
“It’s like this, Tyrone.” Sara held her twig six inches above the flame. “Like we did with the hot dogs. And keep turning it, so it browns evenly on all sides.”
Everyone followed her lead. Sara allowed herself a small, private smile. These were the moments they came out here for. Everyone getting along. Criminal pasts momentarily forgotten. Just six kids acting like kids.
“Mine came off,” Cindy said. She was sitting so far from the fire it had fallen onto the ground.
“Wouldn’t eat it no how. So skinny, oughta change yo name to Annie Rekzic.”
“Respect,” Sara reminded Meadow.
“Sorry. My bad.”
Tyrone pulled his marshmallow out of the fire, blew on it, then offered his stick to Cindy. She took it, plucked off the gooey treat, and popped it into her mouth.
“Georgia. Please stop that.”
Georgia had been using her stick to nudge the dead frog into the fire. She gave Sara a blank stare and then jammed a marshmallow onto the tip that had been poking the frog.
There was a comfortable silence. The fire crackled. The crickets chirped. The stars sparkled. Tyrone and Cindy giggled, sharing some private joke.
Sara forced herself to stay in the moment, to not look over her shoulder for Martin. He’d come back when he was ready.
Then she saw another flash in the woods. Tiny and bright, over almost as quick as it began. A flashlight?
“I’m on fire.” Georgia held her stick and mouth level and blew hard on the burning marshmallow. Then she bit into it carefully. “Mmm. Gooey.”
“Like an eyeball on the gridiron.” Tom plucked his off the stick and pretended it was oozing out of his eye socket.
“Awful way to die.” Cindy hugged her knees. “Guy I knew, had an ice lab in his basement. He died like that. When he was cooking a batch it blew up in his face. Burned him down to the bone.”
“You see it?” Tyrone asked.
Cindy glanced at her hands, then nodded.
Tyrone frowned, his face looking ten years older. “Saw a brother die, once. Drive by. Right next door to me. I was eight years old.”
“I saw someone die, too,” Tom said.
Meadow sneered. “Man, yo gramma doesn’t count.”
“Does too. I was there. Does it count, Sara?”
“It counts,” Sara said. She gave up trying to find the source of the flash and smiled at Tom. “And let’s try to talk about something other than death for a while.”
“Damn.” Tyrone stuck out his tongue. “My shit is burned. Tastes nasty.”
“I’ll take it.” Cindy held out her hand, and Tyrone passed it over.
Sara bit into hers, careful not to drip any on Jack. The perfect combination of sweet and toasty. She loaded up another, then felt her neck prickle, like she was being watched. Sara turned around, peering into the trees. She saw only blackness.
“When is Martin coming back?” Cindy was drawing in the dirt with her stick, making no attempt to replace her lost marshmallow.
“He’s probably just beyond the trees,” Sara said. “Waiting to jump out and scare us again.”
“What if someone grabbed him?”
“Cindy, no one grabbed him. We’re the only ones on this island.”
“You sure?”
Sara made an exaggerated motion out of crossing her heart. “And hope to die.”
“What if he had an accident?” Cindy persisted. “Maybe hit his head on a rock or something?”
Sara pursed her lips. There was a slight chance, but it could have happened.
“Meadow, can you go check?”
Meadow made a face. “You want me to go in those woods so he can jump out ‘n scare the soul outta brother? No way.”
Sara sighed, and just for the sake of argument she let her imagination run unchecked. What if Martin’s little stunt really had gone wrong and he’d hurt himself? What if he’d fallen into a hole? What if a bear got him? There wasn’t supposed to be any bear on this island; according to Google, there wasn’t supposed to be any animal here larger than a raccoon. But what if Google was wrong?
She frowned. Her imagination had won. Even if this was a stupid trick on Martin’s part, Sara still had to go check.
“Fine. I’ll do it.” She got up, handed her marshmallow to Cindy, and dusted off her jeans, staring into the darkness of the woods surrounding them.
And the woods were dark. Very dark.
The confidence Sara normally wore like a rain coat fell away, and she realized the very last thing in the world she wanted to do was tread into that darkness.
“Tom, can you help me look?”
Tom shook his head. “He can stay out there. I’m not leaving the fire.”
“Ain’t got no balls, white boy?”
“Why don’t you go then, Meadow?”
“Hells no. At this particular time, Laneesha be holding my balls.”
Laneesha rolled her eyes and stood up. “Y’all are cowards. C’mon, Sara. We’ll go find him.”
Sara blew out the breath she’d been holding, surprised by how grateful she was for the girl’s offer. “There’s a flashlight in one of the packs. I’ll get it.”
She walked over to her tent and ducked inside. It was dim, but the fire provided enough illumination to look around. Sara cast a wistful glance at the double sleeping bag. She tugged her eyes away, then located the backpack. While pawing through the contents she removed a canteen, a first aid kit, some wool socks, a bottle of Goniosol medication, a hunting knife, the papers...