Trapped

by Jack Kilborn

  “Then when I finally take you out, I’m going to show you my knife collection. Do you remember Cousin Timmy?”

  Sara felt like the world was spinning. She found it hard to breathe.

  “Remember the knife he had? The hunting knife, with the jagged back? I’ve got one of those, too. Can you picture it, Sara? You used to get woozy when you saw a steak knife whenever we went out to eat. Can you imagine Timmy’s big ole survival knife?”

  Sara could imagine it. It was the only thing in her head, blocking out everything else.

  “Well, no need to answer me right now. You’ve got plenty of time to think about it. And then, later, much later, you can tell me how it feels when I try it on you.”

  “Please,” Sara whispered.

  “Did you say something, hon?”

  “Please. Martin. Don’t leave me in here.”

  “Would you prefer I let you out, get started on you right now?”

  Sara couldn’t believe her response, but the word left her mouth. “Yes.”

  She waited for Martin to answer. The seconds ticked away.

  “Martin?”

  There was only silence. Silence, and smothering darkness.

  “Martin!”

  But just like Cousin Timmy, he was gone.

  Georgia opened her eyes. They were dry, raw, like someone had rubbed sand into her tear ducts. She closed them again, touching her eyelids, and that made her realize the paralysis had worn off.

  She was in a warm bed, beneath a thick blanket. With a yawn she sat up, the blanket falling away, exposing her bare breasts. Georgia saw she was naked. It didn’t bother her at all, and she wondered why. Much as she tried to delude herself, Georgia knew she had body image problems. She didn’t want anyone to see her without clothes on.

  But her appearance no longer mattered to her. In fact, for the first time ever, she felt proud of her body. She slipped out from under the covers and padded over to the window. Dawn had come, flooding the outdoors with light. Georgia walked past, coming to a dresser with a mirror on top. She stopped, stared at her saggy belly, her large hips.

  But instead of shame, Georgia felt strangely proud. More than proud. She felt strong, powerful. Like a completely new person, one who could conquer the world. It was as if something dormant inside her had opened its eyes and awoken. She let the fantasy take hold, Georgia sitting on a throne perched up on top of a mountain, and beneath her on all sides, crosses. Crosses with people nailed to them, screaming and begging for mercy. Crucifixions as far as she could see. Hundreds. Thousands. Millions.

  Then the fantasy switched. The crucified morphed into the impaled. Georgia remembered reading about Vlad the Impaler, how he would place people on tall wooden stakes. Gravity, and struggling, would cause his victims to slide down the pole, piercing organs and tissue until it eventually came out of their mouths.

  The image made her tingle all over.

  Power was something she’d always aspired to. She had mastered its younger sibling, control. Georgia’s whole life had been about control. Controlling her emotions, manipulating others, keeping secrets.

  But power felt better than control. A million times better. While control was about maintaining order, power was about being invincible. The old Georgia was a weakling. This new Georgia was unstoppable.

  She rubbed her eyes again, considered the procedure Doctor Plincer had performed on her. Not a pleasant memory, but the pain was gone, replaced by an overwhelming sense of self. With this newfound feeling of absolute power came an overwhelming urge to hurt somebody. Anybody. Hurt them horribly.

  Georgia walked to the metal door. Locked. She scowled, irritated that she was stuck there, unable to indulge in her newfound desire. Then she noticed the package next to the door.

  It was the size of a shoe box, wrapped like a birthday present in bright red paper with a big white bow on top. Next to it was a smaller box, wrapped in the same paper. A card taped to the top of the larger present read:

  TO GEORGIA GIRL

  FROM LESTER

  Georgia plucked off the bow and tore into the large package first, revealing a steel cage. Inside, complete with matted gray fur and tiny black eyes, was the biggest rat she’d ever seen.

  Rather than flinch, which is something the old Georgia would have done, the new Georgia eyed the creature with something akin to hunger. It was so weak. So vulnerable.

  She opened the slim package next. Inside were a roll of duct tape and a pair of long, sharp scissors. There was another note at the bottom of the box.

  HAVE FUN

  Georgia smiled.

  How did Lester know this was just what I needed? What a thoughtful man.

  A rat this large wouldn’t die right away. If Georgia restrained herself, it would be good for a few hours of entertainment.

  “Hello, little friend,” Georgia told the rat, reaching for the latch with greedy fingers. “Would you like to play?”

  Cindy opened her eyes. She hadn’t been asleep. Just sitting with her back against the bars, resting, conserving her energy. Exhausted as she was, Cindy didn’t know if she would ever be able to sleep again.

  Or if she’d have the chance to.

  There was light coming in through the window, enough to illuminate the cells. She glanced over at Tyrone, who was staring at her. They were still holding hands.

  “How you doin’?” he asked.

  “This motel sucks. No room service. No cable TV. And the bathroom is seriously lacking.”

  “You need to pee, I can turn away.”

  She shifted her bad shoulder and gave his left hand a squeeze, regretting it when she saw him grimace.

  “I’m okay. You wanna hear something funny?”

  “Hells yeah. Could use somethin’ funny right about now.”

  “I haven’t thought about meth in hours. This is the first time, for as long as I can remember, that I haven’t had any urge to get high.”

  “Cool. Sounds like you beat it.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. You’re strong. I always knew that about you.”

  Cindy felt herself blush, but it was a good feeling, not an embarrassing one.

  “How’s your other hand?”

  “Hurts. It started to scab over, but now every time I move it, starts to bleed again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Won’t stop me from beatin’ the fuck out of whoever opens my cell door.”

  Cindy smiled, gave his hand a much gentler squeeze.

  “We gonna get outta here, Cindy. I promise.”

  “Good morning.”

  Cindy and Tyrone looked toward the staircase at the far end of the room, following the sound of that familiar, effeminate voice.

  Tom noticed too, and began to make a high pitched, keening sound.

  Lester strolled up to them slowly, casually. He was holding a broomstick in his left hand. His right hand—the one he’d bitten earlier—was wrapped in a bandage.

  “Today is a big day. The meeting with the important people. Lester needs the boys and the girl to behave.”

  He reached into his bib overalls and removed a pair of handcuffs.

  “Lester wants to know the black boy’s name.”

  Tyrone said nothing. Lester raised up his broomstick, and Cindy saw it had a nail sticking out of the end. He aimed it at Tyrone.

  “His name is Tyrone,” she quickly said. “He’s Tyrone, I’m Cindy.”

  Lester tossed the handcuffs into Tyrone’s cell. They made a jingling sound when they hit the floor.

  “The Tyrone boy needs to put the handcuffs on, behind his back.”

  “Fuck you, you ugly, rat-toothed mutha fucker.”

  Before Cindy had a chance to yell, “No!” Lester had jabbed Tyrone on the hip with the nail. Tyrone recoiled, making a small grunting noise.

  “The Tyrone boy will put on the handcuffs.”

  “You hear me the first time?” Tyrone said through his teeth. “Fuck. You.”

  Lester ja
bbed him again, this time aiming for Tyrone’s crotch. The teen shifted and managed to deflect the strike, instead getting pierced in the thigh.

  “Tyrone, baby, honey, please put them on.” Cindy ran her hand over his head, willing him to listen. “Please, Tyrone, for me, just do it.”

  Lester raised the stick again. Tyrone scowled at him, then reached for the handcuffs.

  “I’ll help you.” Cindy put her arms through the bars, cinching the cuffs loosely on his wrists.

  “Now the Cindy girl will put on the handcuffs.”

  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 in 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 as the seconds ticked away he tried to recall Subject 33’s name. It would have been on the tip of Plincer’s tongue, if Lester hadn’t bitten that off. Something beginning with the letter T…

  Thomspson, maybe? No, that was the neighbor’s name, the one so overprotective of his lawn.

  After a minute or so, 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.

  Taylor! That’s his name. Some sort of former special op soldier.

  Plincer chuckled, pleased to have remembered. 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 psychopath. 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 brag that he’d finally perfected the formula. If not, the afternoon meeting 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 tranquilized 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.