by Jack Kilborn
“It’s strong,” Lester grunted, “so the ferals can’t get in.”
“Ferals?”
“On the island. They run free and eat people. People like Georgia girl.”
Georgia peered into the unlit room and hesitated. She had the same feeling she did when her parents took her to that haunted house on Halloween, on one of their rare family outings. Georgia knew there scary things inside, and while she liked scaring others she didn’t like being on the receiving end.
But that was the old Georgia. The new Georgia feared nothing. Without waiting for Lester, she marched inside, a hand stretch out in front of her so she didn’t bump into anything in the dark.
The room was cold, damp, and smelled like mildew. Georgia sensed it was large. The floor beneath her was hard, possibly cement. She took a few more tentative steps and then touched something cold. Feeling around, she realized it was a rusty iron bar.
The lights came on, accompanied by a buzzy, electric sound. Even though there were only bare 60 watt bulbs hanging from the ceiling every ten feet, Georgia still squinted against the sudden brightness. It took her a moment for her eyes to adjust, and then she realized what sort of building this was.
A prison. The iron bar she grasped was part of a cell, one of hundreds, stretching out in all directions in a wide open space almost a big as a football field. Except, upon closer examination, she wondered if it was perhaps a kennel instead. Or some sort of barn for livestock. The cells were so small that there wasn’t enough space for even a child to lie down.
“Each cell held four Confederate prisoners,” Lester said. “They shared half a loaf of bread and a single bucket of water each day. The bucket was also their toilet. Many died from scurvy, dysentery, and smallpox. But starvation took the majority. Others murdered to get more of the bread. The dead were stacked in piles and left to rot. Thousands of them. It drove many of the prisoners mad. All that fresh meat, spoiling, just out of reach. They broke out of here just to get to the meat.”
It sounded like Lester was reciting something he memorized.
“This is Plincer’s prison?” Georgia asked.
“Rock Island Prison. Warden Plincer was the Doctor’s great great grandfather.”
Georgia couldn’t believe that Martin’s stupid story was actually true. “So those…ferals…those are civil war cannibals?”
Lester smiled at her, his teeth making him look like a shark. Seeing him in the light brought color to his face. His complexion was pale, teeth yellowish, the whites of his eyes bright pink. “Don’t be silly, Georgia girl. Those Confederate soldiers died a hundred years ago.”
“Their descendants?”
“No descendants. They were men. It takes a man and a woman to have descendants.” He took her hand. “Georgia girl knows that.”
Lester led her through the ranks and files of cages, the footsteps echoing off the iron and stone, making the space seem even emptier. Georgia tried to picture it filled to capacity with starving, desperate men, men who killed each other for a crust of bread or to feast on their flesh.
The image turned her on.
“How did you get here?” Georgia asked. “On this island?”
“Doctor brought Lester here.”
“Why?”
Lester stopped, then looked down at her. “Doctor is Lester’s friend.”
“And Georgia girl is Lester’s girlfriend,” she said, giving his hand an extra squeeze.
They walked out of the cell room, up a barely lit stone staircase. Unlike the first floor, which was all open space except for the bars, there were walls up here. Lester took her down a hallway, passing several closed doors.
“This is where the prisoners were punished. Beaten. Whipped. Branded. This is where Lester’s playroom is.” They stopped before an ancient wooden door. “Is Georgia girl ready to meet Lester’s pet?”
Georgia nodded. He opened the door and they went inside.
The smell hit her first. Like a public bathroom, but worse. On one side of the small room was a long metal table. There were shackles at the head and foot. Next to the table, a workbench, on top of which were various tools and devices, many of them rusty from blood. Near a small dresser, on the far wall, was a box spring with a stained mattress on top. On the other side of the room was a wooden crate, the top off.
“The pet is in the box,” Lester said.
Georgia couldn’t see what was in the crate from where she stood, and she got that same haunted house vibe. On one hand, it might be something harmless in there, like a dog or cat, or maybe some animal indigenous to the island, like a raccoon. On the other hand, Lester was a psychopath, and she could be about to nuzzle a rotting corpse.
Either way, Lester was watching her, judging her. She had to make a good impression.
Besides, what’s the worst thing that could be in there?
She chewed on her lower lip and approached the crate cautiously, the foul smell getting stronger. At first, all she noticed were clumps of hay. And then she saw it.
“Georgia girl can touch the pet,” Lester said. “The pet is tame.”
Georgia clamped both of her hands to her mouth and tried not to throw up.
Sara ran. Not from their pursuers—she didn’t even see their pursuers. Sara ran after Laneesha. But the teen was fast, and it was dark, and after two quick turns Sara lost her among the piles of bones.
Sara stopped, turning in a full circle, looking and listening for any movement.
Laneesha was gone. So was Martin.
Sara tried to backtrack, weaving her way through the bonefield, fighting the urge to yell out either of their names. She didn’t want Laneesha to be alone. Martin either, especially with his injuries.
She ran, frantic, thinking only of them and not her personal neuroses, rounding a particularly large mound of the dead, coming face to face with the forest, the darkness. From the darkness, came a cry.
It wasn’t Meadow. It was a girl, high-pitched, a scream of fright rather than pain.
Laneesha?
If so, she’d gotten pretty far pretty fast. The sound came from deep in the woods. Without thinking, Sara ran into the trees.
When the forest surrounded her, she froze.
Martin had the flashlight.
Sara whirled around. Trees. Shadows. Darkness. Looking up, the dark had even swallowed the sky.
She felt it in her chest first, a tightening that made her pant. Her palms got wet. Her mouth went dry. Sara was eleven years old again, back in the car trunk, waiting for Paulie Gunther Spence to open it up and do to her what he did to poor, dead Louise. Sara tried to get her feet to move, tried to battle the weight of the darkness pressing upon her. But she remained locked in place, a statue, too frightened to even blink.
Sounds, to her left. Someone coming.
No, more than just someone. A lot of people.
Move! Dammit, Sara, move!
But she stayed rooted to the spot, even when they burst through the bushes and rushed at her.
Laneesha startled herself awake, freaked out by a crazy dream she had about running through mountains of human bones.
She didn’t know why her head and chest both hurt, or why she was sitting down rather than lying in her bed, or why she couldn’t move her arms.
Then she saw the old man standing in front of her, and old man she’d never seen before, and it all came back to her in a horrible rush.
“Hello, child. I gave you a little something to help you wake up. I also took the liberty of removing that nasty bone from your shoulder. It was a fibula, if you’re curious. Very old. About a hundred and forty years old, to be more exact. I even stitched you up. No need to thank me. I am a doctor, after all.”
The old man tucked an empty syringe into his coat pocket. It was a white coat, the kind doctor’s wear. But this one was covered with ugly stains.
The man himself was also ugly. He had a bald head, freckled with liver spots, and a long neck with a lot of wrinkled loose skin hanging from it
. He wore glasses, which were coated with a layer of dirt and grease so thick Laneesha wondered how he could see through them, and he stood in a stooped way, his back bending like a question mark.
Laneesha tried to stand, and realized her arms and legs were strapped to a wheelchair. She fought against the bonds, the leather digging into her wrists, and succeeded only in causing abrasions.
“My name is Doctor Plincer. You’re about to become part of a very important scientific study. An epic one, in fact. Unfortunately, you’ll be part of the control group. Sort of. Well, not really, but it sounds better.”
Laneesha looked hard at the doctor, more angry than afraid. “You better let me go, you dirty ol’ man. Or I am gonna kick yo ass.”
Doctor Pincer scratched at his chin and something flaked off his face; dirt, or maybe dried food.
“You see, my dear, there are wolves, and there are sheep. While I admire your spunk, I’m out of sheep at the moment, and I don’t want Subject 33 mad at me. So I’m giving you to him.”
“What the fuck you talkin’ about?”
“Hmm. Yes. Well, no harm in telling you, and truth told, I don’t have many people to talk to these days. The ferals are, well, feral, and they would prefer eating you to good conversation. Lester, dear Lester, he listens, but he’s heard all of my stories before, and I worry I bore him sometimes. And Subject 33, well, frankly, he frightens me. He frightens the piss out of me. Which is why I’ve kept him locked up for seven years.”
Laneesha looked away from the doctor, taking in her surroundings. She was in some sort of hallway. The walls were brick. The only light was a bulb hanging from the ceiling. Her wheelchair was next to a large iron door with a slot in it at waist-level. Laneesha recognized it as a solitary confinement door. The slot was for food, and it was open. She peered through and it seemed to lead to another room, with another identical door and slot.
Through this second slot, a pair of eyes stared at her.
“He’s watching you, I see. I think he likes you. If he doesn’t like what I’m giving him, he doesn’t keep looking. He’s my greatest success, Subject 33. Too much of a success, really. The procedure worked as it was supposed to. Worked perfectly. But afterward he wouldn’t follow orders, couldn’t be trusted. Tried to kill me on several occasions. Once he even dragged me into that horrible room of his. If Lester hadn’t been there to help, I shudder at the things he would have done to me.”
Subject 33 blinked. Then his head moved up and he stuck his nose in the slot and inhaled.
He’s trying to sniff me, Laneesha thought. And that freaked her out even more than his creepy stares.
“I don’t even remember his name,” Doctor Plincer said. “Isn’t that funny? My greatest success. I got him from the government, you know. The military. He was a killer, plucked from prison. Given to me, to, how shall I put it? Enhance. I’ve heard rumors, I can’t confirm this, naturally, but I’ve heard that the military has even put together a group of serial killers to use as some sort of Special Forces unit. I suppose that’s why they gave him to me. But he doesn’t follow orders. Not at all. He hasn’t even spoken a word since the procedure. He writes me notes. That’s how he tells me what he needs. The last few have been, well, rather odd.”
Subject 33’s nose disappeared, and then those bloodshot eyes were back. Wide and staring. Laneesha wanted to turn away, but couldn’t.
“He’s building something in there. I’ll be damned if I know what it is. Here I am, a future candidate for the Nobel Prize, and I can’t figure it out. Besides enhancing his appetites, the procedure also seemed to amplify his intelligence. So he leaves me notes, I order the parts, and give them to him when the supply boat comes. I’m curious to know what he’s building, but I’m too frightened to look. Some sort of pain machine, I suspect. The lambs I bring to him scream like I’ve never heard screams before. And, believe me, I’ve heard screams. Lester is very good at making people scream. I know this firsthand. But Subject 33… well, whatever he’s doing to those people, it’s inhuman.”
The doctor knocked twice on the iron door.
“I’m bringing her to you. Please assume the position.”
The eyes disappeared, and Laneesha watched Subject 33 turn around and stick his hands through the slot, palms up.
Laneesha shrank into her chair. “Old man, please don’ put me in there.”
Doctor Plincer reached into his pocket, removed a dart pistol. He winked at Laneesha. “He’s my greatest triumph, but he’s difficult to control. The second door in the antechamber isn’t locked. He can open it any time. But he stays in there, because he knows if he doesn’t I won’t give him food. Or any parts for his infernal machine. So he behaves, but I still can’t trust him. That makes me proud, in a way. I created an evil so powerful it only answers to itself.”
The doctor lifted the iron bar off the door, then opened it, keeping his pistol aimed at the inner room, at the slot in the second door.
“Keep your hands where I can see them, please. You should enjoy this one. Plenty of fire in her. Maybe she’ll last you two weeks. That’s your record, isn’t it? For keeping one alive? Two weeks, isn’t it?”
Still facing the inner door, the doctor backed up, walking carefully around Laneesha. Then he began to push her wheelchair into the small room, toward that second door. Laneesha’s eyes were locked on Subject 33’s hands. They were filthy, fingernails cracked, blood caked under them.
“No.” Laneesha shook her head. “No no no no no…”
“Please leave the wheelchair in the antechamber. I’ll pick it up when I bring breakfast in the morning. I’ll assume breakfast for two, unless you leave me a note stating otherwise. I know sometimes the lambs don’t have the strength to eat. Especially after the first night. I’m making French toast.” The doctor stared down at Laneesha. “Do you like French toast, dear?”
“You can’t leave me with him. Please. I’ll do anything you want. Anything at all.” Laneesha couldn’t stop the tears. “I have a daughter. Her name is Brianna. Please don’t put me in there with him.”
Doctor Plincer patted her head. “I won’t likely see you again. Or more to the point, you won’t see me. I’ll see you when he discards the remains. But, truth told, there haven’t been very many remains lately. The machine has something to do with it, I suspect. What can he be building in there? I don’t know. But you’ll soon find out, my dear, dear girl.”
The doctor backed away, and Laneesha heard the iron door slam closed behind her, the crossbar falling into place. She strained against her bonds, strained so hard she saw stars.
Subject 33 removed his hands from the slot, then he opened his door.
Laneesha’s scream would be the first of many.
Tom walked along the beach. He was still a little out of breath from his sprint. One moment he was holding a gun—an actual gun—then the next moment Tyrone was on top of him, and the next moment…
What the hell were those things?
Tom knew they were people. No duh. But they looked more like wildmen. All they needed were those leather undies and some spears, and Tom could picture them hunting dinosaurs.
For about a zillionth of a second he felt bad for leaving Cindy and Tyrone there. He wasn’t really gonna shoot either of them. But those frickin’ wildmen looked crazy, and Tom knew when to fight and when to run, so he ran. Through the forest, through the trees, all the way to shore. And now he didn’t know what to do next.
So he began to walk around the island. It wasn’t a big island; Sara said it was only a few miles across. Tom figured he would keep walking until someone found him. It’s not like Sara and Martin were going to leave him here. They were responsible adults. Even if Tyrone told them about the gun, they still had to take him back to Michigan.
Tom tried not to think about the wildmen.
He walked, and walked some more, and then the beach sort of ended and rose up, becoming kind of a cliff with trees on it. Tom climbed up, keeping away from the edge, and ke
pt heading in the same direction. The night was cool, but he was sweating and really thirsty and kind of hungry too. He thought about drinking lake water, but heard that all the water in the great lakes was dirty and could make you sick.
That’s when he smelled it. Barbecue.
He paused, trying to figure out where it was coming from. Obviously, Sara and Martin had come back to camp, and now they were cooking something. And then Tom shook his head, wondering how he could have been so gullible.
The wildmen. They were fake.
Part of Martin’s stupid plan to scare them all. In fact, one of them might have even been Martin, all dressed up to look like a wildman. Tom took it for real, like a dummy.
No, not like a dummy. It wasn’t Tom’s fault he was scared. He was off his meds. He always acted stupid off his meds.
Which was a perfect excuse for why he pointed the gun at Tyrone and Cindy. It wasn’t Tom’s fault. It was Sara’s fault, for not giving him his Risperdol. So that meant they couldn’t punish him for anything.
Tom headed into the woods, toward the barbecue smell. He couldn’t wait to dig in.
Georgia stared at Lester’s pet, her hands over her mouth, the odor so bad it made her stomach roil. At first, she wasn’t sure what she was looking at. It looked like a giant, pale worm. But then she noticed the buttocks, the shoulder blades, the bumps of the spine beneath the dirty flesh.
It was a torso. No arms. No legs. Just a body with a head attached. And it smelled awful.
“Go on, Georgia girl,” Lester said. “Touch the pet.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like touching dead things, Lester.”
“The pet is not dead.”
Lester kicked the crate, and Georgia watched in awe as the head swiveled up and faced them.