Trapped

by Jack Kilborn

  How many of them were there?

  Meadow opened his mouth to yell for help, but as soon as he did a foul-smelling hand jammed something between his lips, forcing it inside. Something hard and round, like a golf ball, but rougher. Meadow shook his head and pushed at the object with his tongue, wincing as the pain hit. Sharp pain, in his cheeks, his lips, the top of his mouth, like he was chewing on a pin cushion.

  Meadows sucked in air and gagged, blood seeping down his chin, comprehending what had been shoved into his mouth while disbelieving it at the same time.

  “Meadow?” Tyrone called to him.

  Meadow screamed in his throat, screamed for the very first time in his life, as his attackers dragged him off into the woods.

  When Tom was a little boy, he wanted to be a race car driver when he grew up. He also wanted to be a pilot, an astronaut, a basketball player, a baseball player, a football player, a sniper, a hockey player, and a boxer, up until he got into a fist fight in fifth grade and another kid showed him how much it hurt to get hit in the face, and Tom decided boxing wasn’t for him.

  At first, his parents indulged his interests. Tom’s mother constantly shuffled him around from one sporting event to another, and his father bought a $300 flight simulator program for the computer that included NASA-approved specs for landing the space shuttle.

  Tom quickly grew bored with the sports. He argued with coaches and teammates, and most of the playing time was spent waiting for something to happen. Tom hated waiting. He also hated the flight simulator. It wasn’t fun like his Xbox, It was slow and complicated and boring. Even the crashes were boring, and Tom crashed often.

  As for becoming a sniper, the only way to do that was to join the military. The military meant lots of rules and following orders, two things Tom wasn’t good at. He’d have to settle for buying a gun when he got old enough, and maybe using it to go hunting or something, even though he didn’t know any hunters and had never even held a real gun before.

  Driving, however, he enjoyed. He could make his own excitement behind the wheel of a car, and Driver’s Ed was the only high school class he ever did well in, the rest resulting in Ds or worse.

  But his parents didn’t buy Tom a car. Partly because of his bad grades, but mostly because every time he borrowed the family sedan it was always returned with another scrape, ding, or missing part. Tom continuously lied when asked what happened, blaming it on someone hitting him when he was parked, but when a State Trooper showed up at the house with pictures of Tom fleeing an intersection fender-bender that he caused, he was completely forbidden to drive. How was Tom supposed to know that some street lights had automatic cameras in them?

  The Gransees didn’t fully realize their son’s obsession with driving, and the lengths he’d go to indulge his obsession. After the courts suspended his license, Tom stole a neighbor’s Corvette and led police on a forty minute chase, reaching speeds in excess of 120 miles per hour, appearing live on Detroit TV and as highlights on CNN.

  An expensive lawyer, and a sympathetic judge whose son also had ADHD, allowed Tom to get off easy. Rather than doing hard time in juvee, Tom was sent to the Center.

  The Center was okay. Sure, it was boring as hell, and Tom missed his freedom as much as he missed driving, but Sara and Martin were teaching him how to stay on task, how to set and reach goals, and how to make better decisions. Also, for the first time in his life, Tom was actually doing okay on his grades. Tests were still a nightmare, but he was allowed to speak his answers instead of having to write them down, and Sara usually helped him study.

  Tom liked Sara. She didn’t yell at him all the time like other adults, and she seemed to understand a lot about him, things even he didn’t understand himself. He even thought she was kinda hot, though she didn’t wear hardly any make-up and mostly dressed like a guy.

  As for Martin, everyone seemed to like him, and he always treated Tom with respect. But there was something about that guy that rubbed Tom the wrong way. Martin was almost too good. Like it was all an act, rather than natural. Still, he was better than Tom’s old high school teachers, and he treated Tom okay.

  Too bad it was all coming to an end. Unlike the rest of the Center kids who would go into juvee, Tom’s father had made arrangements to send him to military school. One of those bullshit boot camps that was supposed to scare teenagers into acting responsible. Tom decided he wasn’t going. As soon as they got off the island, he was going to run. Steal a car, drive someplace far away, like California.

  That was the plan. But first he had to get off the island.

  Tom stared hard at where Meadow disappeared into the woods, willing him to reappear, to say this all was one big frickin’ joke. But deep down Tom knew it wasn’t a joke. He’d heard the struggle behind those dark bushes, and something that sounded a lot like muffled screams.

  Tom was scared. Scared even worse than when the police caught him after his big chase, twenty cops all pointing guns at him and shouting orders. Every instinct Tom possessed told him to get the hell out of there, to start running and never stop.

  But there was nowhere to run. Instead, Tom began to pace, back and forth like a caged tiger, eyes locked on those bushes.

  “Yo, Meadow!” Tyrone called. “Stop the bullshit and come out!”

  “Something took him.”

  “Nothing took him, man.”

  “You saw the bushes shake. You heard the sounds.”

  “He just messin’ with us.”

  “Something frickin’ took him, dragged him away.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Tom backed up, toward the campfire, and walked to the other side of the clearing. No escape there. No way out. Just more bushes and trees and darkness. He veered left, began to circle the fire, eyes scanning the woods, neck snapping this way and that way to make sure nothing was sneaking up behind him.

  “We need to find Sara.” Cindy stood next to Tyrone, and just like the boys she stared into the trees.

  “They probably got Sara, too. Like they got Martin, and Laneesha, and Georgia.” Tom picked at the dry skin on his upper lip. “They’ll come for us next.”

  Tyrone turned to face Tom. “And who is they?”

  “I dunno. The ghosts of those war prisoners.”

  “Ain’t no such thing as ghosts.”

  “You can tell them that, when they’re roasting you on hot coals.”

  Tom really itched to run. He walked the circle even faster, shoving his hands in his pockets, not liking them there, taking them out, clasping them behind his head, then sticking them back into his pockets again.

  Cindy made a face at Tom as he passed. “Can you please stop pacing?”

  Tom didn’t like Cindy, but one of the things Sara taught him was to listen when someone talked to you, to make eye contact and try to understand what was said. Then, after listening, reason out what they want. If you didn’t understand what they said, ask for clarification. Sara was big on asking clarification. One of Tom’s challenges, Sara constantly told him, was to focus his attention.

  So Tom stopped, trying to process Cindy’s question. He’d heard her the first time, but hadn’t let it take hold in his head. Sara said ADHD was like doing four things at once but not focusing on any of them, sort of like watching TV while talking on the phone while playing a videogame while listening to music. That’s how Tom often felt, like everything wanted his attention at once, and because of that he couldn’t focus.

  “Thank you,” Cindy said. “You were making me dizzy.”

  Tom listened, and processed, and realized he’d done what Cindy wanted unintentionally. That made Tom angry, made him want to grab Cindy and shake her and scream in her face. He might have tried it, but then he noticed that she and Tyrone were holding hands. Tom wasn’t afraid of Tyrone. Tom was taller, and probably stronger. But Tyrone knew how to fight, and Tom didn’t.

  Maybe if I had some sort of weapon to even the odds…

  Tom cast a quick glance at the fire, seeking out
a flaming branch or a log or something. Why the hell was Tyrone getting all lovey-dovey with that meth-head skank anyway? Maybe some firewood upside the head would knock some sense into him.

  “Just calm down,” Tyrone said. “We need to figure this shit out. And you look like you’re ready to lose it, Tom. Remember group? Working out your anger issues? Remember what Sara said about keeping cool?”

  Tom made a fist, his anger nearing the boiling point, and a little voice in his head told him to exercise some control, reminded him he had problems controlling anger when off his meds.

  Which made Tom remember he hadn’t taken his nightly medicine.

  Tom took two pills a day for his Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder. The first was Adderall, which helped him focus even though it was a stimulant and should have made him even more hyper. He took those in the morning. At night, he took Risperdol, an anti-psychotic which helped him calm down.

  Tom didn’t know what time it was, but he knew he needed his Risperdol. When he missed a dose he just got more and more agitated until he wound up in big trouble. He was already close to freaking out, and without his meds he might wind up running off into the woods, which would be big trouble for sure.

  Tom walked toward Sara and Martin’s tent.

  “You’re not allowed in there.”

  “Mind your own frickin’ business, Cindy.”

  Tom knew he wasn’t supposed to go in the tent. He also knew he was supposed to treat everyone with respect. But Sara and Martin weren’t there, and he needed his meds, and they were probably in Sara’s backpack because she was the one who gave Tom his pills. How else was he supposed to frickin’ get them?

  He ducked through the entry flap, using a Velcro strap to hold it open so the fire from behind lit the enclosed space. On the left were a sleeping bag, a small cooler, and a stack of canned goods. That would teach Tyrone to mind his own business—bouncing a can of creamed corn off his dome. On the opposite side of the tent were two backpacks. One was already open, some things laying beside it.

  Tom knelt next to the open pack. It was dark, but he noticed a walkie-talkie, a first aid box, and a prescription bottle. He picked up the bottle, but it was Martin’s, not his. He tossed it aside and began to paw through the bag, finding clothing and some papers and nothing else.

  Getting even more annoyed, Tom unzipped the second pack. Sara better not have forgotten his meds. If she did, whatever happened was her fault, and Tom couldn’t be blamed for acting—

  “Holy shit.”

  A big smile crossed Tom’s face, and without even thinking he picked up what he was staring at, holding it and extending his arm. It was heavy, heavier than he would have guessed.

  But that was because the only guns Tom had ever held before were toys. This was a real one, big and black wicked-looking. He fussed with the switches on the side, finding the button for the clip and the safety next to the trigger. Tom pulled the top part back—the slide—like he saw on TV, jacking a round into the chamber. Immediately, he felt alive. Even more alive than when he was joy-riding.

  Tom cocked the hammer back.

  Who’s the frickin’ man now, Tyrone?

  Sara reached her hands up over her head and touched Martin’s shoes, making him twist slowly.

  “We’ll get you down. Just hold on.”

  Sara knew that was redundant—bordering on moronic—thing to say, but she didn’t stop to dwell on it, already shining the weakening Maglite up past her husband’s bound wrists. She followed the rope to where it looped over a high bough and stretched taut on an angle through the branches, all the way down to its end, tied around the base of a tree trunk a few meters to their right. Sara hurried over, sticking the flashlight in her mouth, attacking the knot with her fingers.

  The rope was thin, nylon, the knots small and hard as acorns. She tried to pry at it with her fingernails, wincing as she bent one backward. The Center didn’t allow weapons or anything that could be used as a weapon. Matches, lighters, aerosol sprays, tools, and even the plastic cutlery they used for eating; all was kept under lock and key. This rule was retained for the camping trip; the sharpest thing they’d brought along was some fingernail clippers, but those were left back at the campsite.

  Another nail bent and cracked, and Sara felt like screaming. The agony Martin was in must have been unbearable, and if he’d been strung up there for as long as they’d been searching for him chances were good his hands had lost all circulation. No blood flow meant tissue death. Sara felt like whimpering. If they didn’t get him down fast…

  “Try this.”

  Laneesha stood next to Sara, and handed her a dirty rock about the size of a softball.

  “It’s got a sharp edge,” Laneesha said, pointing.

  Sara took a deep breath, kept her emotions in check, then handed Laneesha the light.

  “Good work, Laneesha. Hold this on the rope for me.”

  Sara raised the rock up and struck the rope where it wound around the trunk. She hit it again, and again, and again, the bark slowly chipping away but the rope seemingly unmarred. Cramps built in her hands and shoulders, but Sara wouldn’t relent, gritting her teeth against the pain, willing the rope to break, not daring to stop until—

  The twang sounded like a bass string being plucked, the rope whipping past Sara’s face as if shot upward and Martin fell to earth. He made an umph sound when he hit, tumbling onto his side, his back to her.

  Sara ditched the rock and scrambled over, awash with concern. Laneesha came up from behind with the Maglite, shining it onto Martin’s shoulders, then around to his face.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Laneesha dropped the light, and Sara wasn’t sure what she’d seen. She picked it up off the dead leaves and knelt next to Martin, focusing the weak beam on his face.

  Jammed into her husband’s mouth and protruding from his lips was a ball of nails. They jutted out of his cheeks like cat whiskers, dark with dirt and blood.

  “Oh, jesus, oh baby…”

  Sara’s first instinct was to help, to nurture, which she would have done with anyone in this situation. She worked soup kitchens every Thanksgiving. She spent a summer in Peru with the World Health Organization, helping to care for a TB epidemic. Sara had endless resources of empathy, and equal measures of strength to keep from breaking down. But seeing Martin—her Martin—like this, hit her right in the heart, and the tears came so quick and fast she wondered how she could have been so resolved to divorce this man if she still cared this deeply.

  Sara put a hand on his forehead, her touch gentle so as not to hurt him any further. Her husband’s eyes found hers, locked on.

  “ara…”

  “Shhhh. It’s all going to be okay. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  He made the slightest of nods, then brought up his bound hands, tied together at the wrists. They were swollen, and the color of ripe plums.

  Sara wasn’t able to hide her wince. She examined the rope, saw it was a simple slip knot.

  “Okay, I’m going to count to three, then free your hands. When your circulation returns, it’s going to hurt really bad. You ready?”

  Another nod. And something in his eyes, something beyond the fear and pain. Trust. Trust, and maybe even love. Sara clamped the light under her armpit and held his wrists.

  “One…two…”

  Sara went on two, pulling at the rope with one hand and pulling his right arm with the other. The rope resisted at first, then slipped off.

  Martin’s eyes went glassy, then rolled up into his head as he let out the most chilling, agonized howl Sara had ever heard in her life. Sara bit her lower lip and kept her own cry inside, patting Martin’s chest, wishing she could bear some of the pain for him.

  His back arched, bending at an almost impossible angle, and then, mercifully, he passed out.

  Sara seized the opportunity. She worked fast, digging a finger into the corner of his mouth and touching the horrible gag stuck inside. It was a wood, roughly golf-ball sized,
and Sara counted eight nails protruding out of it, each two inches long. Two skewered his right cheek, one his lower lip, and three his left cheek. The other two jutted from his mouth like tusks.

  She stretched his left cheek back, forcing the gag further to the right, making the wounds on that side bleed fresh.

  Martin’s eyes popped open and he lashed out, smacking Sara on the side of the head, sending her sprawling.

  Sara opened her eyes and stared up at the forest canopy, a small opening allowing a few stars to shine through. She’d once again lost the flashlight, but little bright motes swam through her vision like sparks. Her head was ringing.

  It was the first time Martin had ever hit her. Not his fault, of course. He’d been unconscious. But it was as good a blow as she’d ever sustained, especially since she hadn’t been on guard to block it.

  She sat up, squinting as the light hit her eyes.

  “Shine it on Martin, Laneesha, and kneel next to him.”

  When the beam rested on Martin’s face he was looking Sara’s way.

  “orry,” he said around the gag.

  Sara blinked a few times. “We need to get that out of your mouth. I know your hands hurt, but I need you to keep them behind your back for me. I have to put the rope on again.”

  Martin’s red eyes went wide with panic.

  “Not tight,” Sara assured him. “But I don’t want you lashing out and hurting me or Laneesha. Okay?”

  He hesitated, then nodded. Sara located the rope and again tied the slip knot, this time higher up on his arms, near the elbows. Then she ran her palm across Martin’s sweat-soaked hair.

  “This is really going to hurt. But I need you to keep still. If you thrash, it could tear your cheeks off. Understand?”

  Martin squeezed his eyes shut. “urry…oo it.”

  “I…I really don’t want to be here,” Laneesha said.

  “I need to you hold the light for me.”

  “This is awful. Just awful. What if the people that did this to him come back?”